no words yet
really
to grasp what is happening
in front of my very eyes
i am so far
and so near
from and to
anywhere
when i hear your voices
i remember and recall
and want to jump in the red chevy
and listen to some puerto rican reggae
run into the ocean or ride down Marguerita Avenue
with the sun and the wind in my hair
but now it is the thick green
that holds me captive
the quirly swirly sounds of the creeks
the crows in the cloudy skies
the rolling hills dancing with thunder
i've seen it all
and the music remains the same
'i hear the clock tick'
Showing posts with label LA. Show all posts
Showing posts with label LA. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Monday, July 07, 2008
Hey that's no way to say good bye
Serendipity of life.
You in Aby's apartment. The smell just like back then. We used to make good food here you say and good love I add, then there is silence again.
It was good love. Nashville Skyline and you taking the bus and the metro while I was fluttering with excitement and anticipation, peeking out onto the cold grey street to see if you were coming already, with your cloudy hair.
Hey, I say, I have a song for you.
It is 'Hey, that's no way to say good bye'
It is perfect. I feel your heartbeat, I feel the salty waters, I feel, how things come together. There is so much longing and that's what I love. I love, that human beings long. It makes us sing and dance and philosophy and belief. It makes us sad, it makes us glad, it makes us keep on going. It is okay when we can't always back everything up. It is okay as long as are growing a learning.
ah.
You in Aby's apartment. The smell just like back then. We used to make good food here you say and good love I add, then there is silence again.
It was good love. Nashville Skyline and you taking the bus and the metro while I was fluttering with excitement and anticipation, peeking out onto the cold grey street to see if you were coming already, with your cloudy hair.
Hey, I say, I have a song for you.
It is 'Hey, that's no way to say good bye'
It is perfect. I feel your heartbeat, I feel the salty waters, I feel, how things come together. There is so much longing and that's what I love. I love, that human beings long. It makes us sing and dance and philosophy and belief. It makes us sad, it makes us glad, it makes us keep on going. It is okay when we can't always back everything up. It is okay as long as are growing a learning.
ah.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
agony
i can't shake this cosmic blues off, somehow, it holds me captive.
involuntarily i screen impossible images in my mind, the forbidden fruits. that it is true. that i can't grasp what it means, that it puts me into agony.
i writh and twist and try to escape the grip of brute reality. or is it just another illusion? what does this mean? can it set me free? will it continue bringing me down?
late late at night, almost early morning i crawled into her bed and suddenly felt like crying. why did i do this? why did i do anything? come on, now, Emeralda, admit it, admit that you are hurt. Yes, these pictures hurt. Yes, all this hurts. The demeanor, the attitude, the lies, the excuses, the talks, the walks.
So, it hurts. So, you are in agony. So, deal with it. admit it. let it wash through you. let yourself be angry. no, don't engage with the demons, just let it wash through you.
earlier, on the couch outside i observed the whirling stream of joy and exuberance as they all played and I, I just couldn't get all that into it. finally i asked nina to sit down with me and listen to what crazy images i had to fight with in my mind, wanted to ask her to talk it all away for me. she bent down and sat on my lap. leaning into me , still part almost of their dance. her eyes so black and glowing and sweet sweet lips her face like a fairytale. what is it she asked, what is it and i couldn't find any words anymore, just quickly vanishing regrets about how to be or not to be and in the sweetness of her presence i found more comfort than in any other thing i could have found in that night.
see, i reckon it must be all good. but that's beside the point now, is it!? that he is with that girl, what does it say? about me? what does he tell our friends? see, that's when it starts getting whacky. what does it say about all that he told me? about our love? does he lie to me yet again when he confesses his love to me and that he just plays? I mean, what the fuck. it's irresponsible in any case now is it?
awww. aw, aw, aw. i got the blues man, i got the blues.
involuntarily i screen impossible images in my mind, the forbidden fruits. that it is true. that i can't grasp what it means, that it puts me into agony.
i writh and twist and try to escape the grip of brute reality. or is it just another illusion? what does this mean? can it set me free? will it continue bringing me down?
late late at night, almost early morning i crawled into her bed and suddenly felt like crying. why did i do this? why did i do anything? come on, now, Emeralda, admit it, admit that you are hurt. Yes, these pictures hurt. Yes, all this hurts. The demeanor, the attitude, the lies, the excuses, the talks, the walks.
So, it hurts. So, you are in agony. So, deal with it. admit it. let it wash through you. let yourself be angry. no, don't engage with the demons, just let it wash through you.
earlier, on the couch outside i observed the whirling stream of joy and exuberance as they all played and I, I just couldn't get all that into it. finally i asked nina to sit down with me and listen to what crazy images i had to fight with in my mind, wanted to ask her to talk it all away for me. she bent down and sat on my lap. leaning into me , still part almost of their dance. her eyes so black and glowing and sweet sweet lips her face like a fairytale. what is it she asked, what is it and i couldn't find any words anymore, just quickly vanishing regrets about how to be or not to be and in the sweetness of her presence i found more comfort than in any other thing i could have found in that night.
see, i reckon it must be all good. but that's beside the point now, is it!? that he is with that girl, what does it say? about me? what does he tell our friends? see, that's when it starts getting whacky. what does it say about all that he told me? about our love? does he lie to me yet again when he confesses his love to me and that he just plays? I mean, what the fuck. it's irresponsible in any case now is it?
awww. aw, aw, aw. i got the blues man, i got the blues.
Monday, July 02, 2007
the broken glass
it was just a vase.
the flower will fade just like the memories will fade.
one day, it will look wilted, ugly and old.
it will stink.
i will say, look, no wonder the glass broke, this flower was a stinking mess.
in the end, it was just a vase.
the water, in the meantime, trickled down the floor, found a crack, sneaked into the ground, filtered by earth, fed by gnomes and fairies that I believe do not exist. maybe.
the water was in the vase, nourished the plant - but I forgot all about it.
the water was love and it still is somewhere, pure, as it was.
pure, as it is. unconcerned about
flowers
vases
and all that
the flower will fade just like the memories will fade.
one day, it will look wilted, ugly and old.
it will stink.
i will say, look, no wonder the glass broke, this flower was a stinking mess.
in the end, it was just a vase.
the water, in the meantime, trickled down the floor, found a crack, sneaked into the ground, filtered by earth, fed by gnomes and fairies that I believe do not exist. maybe.
the water was in the vase, nourished the plant - but I forgot all about it.
the water was love and it still is somewhere, pure, as it was.
pure, as it is. unconcerned about
flowers
vases
and all that
Saturday, June 30, 2007
beneath the skins
i think we all miss you, secretely, at night, hidden, beneath pillows, beneath our skins.
you were always there, soft and yet coming through strongly. with your voice trembling and your eyes big and like turtles. i know we didn't want to hurt you nor did you want to hurt us. us, the ones that left you behind. us, the ones that you left behind. us, who don't know how to reach out anymore or how to be reached.
some of us think that it is over and we have to move on but i wouldn't let anybody else speak for me nor dare to speak with certainty for them.
you thought of protection. so did i. wonder, what if, what if we had read that book about the Mexicans. shared a bed. continued writing in that book, so long.
first i did and eventually you too, thinking of finally going your own way. of standing up for yourself, just on the wrong leg.
you only hurt yourself.
and who can blame anyone, who can throw the first stone?
it looks like you found a way now, now that you are smiling and your eyes like stones.
skipping down the hallway, life, newfound.
i'm sure i am not the only one who looks at you in secrecy, remembering, wondering, i feel almost more for him and her than for myself.
sometimes you kind of reach out and i feel miserable for missing you so much. for missing you not so much. for simply not knowing what it means to have had enough.
it was a good time. and there was worse times.
somehow, however, i can't believe that life is absolute. so serious. i can't believe that the future could ever outweigh the past. that an earlier past can level out what happened before.
the summer was long and heavy and you held my hand sometimes but mostly we went swimming.
i dont' know what it is, my love, whether it is maybe like a pile of shit that nobody bothers to clean up. after a while the worms and the flies come and everybody else just turns away.
but i remember the soft breeze.
you were always there, soft and yet coming through strongly. with your voice trembling and your eyes big and like turtles. i know we didn't want to hurt you nor did you want to hurt us. us, the ones that left you behind. us, the ones that you left behind. us, who don't know how to reach out anymore or how to be reached.
some of us think that it is over and we have to move on but i wouldn't let anybody else speak for me nor dare to speak with certainty for them.
you thought of protection. so did i. wonder, what if, what if we had read that book about the Mexicans. shared a bed. continued writing in that book, so long.
first i did and eventually you too, thinking of finally going your own way. of standing up for yourself, just on the wrong leg.
you only hurt yourself.
and who can blame anyone, who can throw the first stone?
it looks like you found a way now, now that you are smiling and your eyes like stones.
skipping down the hallway, life, newfound.
i'm sure i am not the only one who looks at you in secrecy, remembering, wondering, i feel almost more for him and her than for myself.
sometimes you kind of reach out and i feel miserable for missing you so much. for missing you not so much. for simply not knowing what it means to have had enough.
it was a good time. and there was worse times.
somehow, however, i can't believe that life is absolute. so serious. i can't believe that the future could ever outweigh the past. that an earlier past can level out what happened before.
the summer was long and heavy and you held my hand sometimes but mostly we went swimming.
i dont' know what it is, my love, whether it is maybe like a pile of shit that nobody bothers to clean up. after a while the worms and the flies come and everybody else just turns away.
but i remember the soft breeze.
everly moving
ahh, I am going to enjoy this!
A night ride through Westwood, ghostly houses with big stale numbers painted on their faces, ending at an obscure golf course and a homeless but clean looking fat bellied man behind a big barred fence telling me where to go...the way leads back to Wilshire, through the UCLA student village up to sunset where I don't know which way to go again. The student houses flicker in delight, it's friday night and music is blaring, all different kinds. Cars are lined up on either side of the street, some even on the sidewalks, students rush through the night and I smile how close those two so different worlds are.
On sunset I take the wrong direction and after I passed the 405 I have to stop and ask for directions. There is a lexus hotel, very luscious and private, soft music in the background.
I park my bike at the entrance, shoulder my red designer bag and ask the receptionist for directions. I look so acceptable that he lets me use their internet. It is funny how clothing does make people. Everything I am wearing is from the actress whose house i will babysit from tonight on for a whole week.
I love and hate that I don't have a car.
I fu king hate that I chose to take the stupid bag instead of a backpack.
I love that I lost my way.
On my way out a valet guy asks me whether I need to check in. I smile, grab my dirty bike and shake my head. No man, thank you, I just needed to ask something. Have a good night.
He smiles, understanding suddenly what's going on, petting my arm for a second.
The hotel does have something about it. So comforting. So luxurious. So not for me.
On the long and winding suicide way to the canyon my red leather bag bangs rhythmically at my front tire. I #$%^&^& and laugh at the same time.
The road up the canyon is wet because of the sprinklers of the rich people's houses.
Rich people have such awesome houses in such awesome areas with wonderful trees.
Too bad, I think, that they don't use it properly.
It's good to be out, breathing trees at night.
A night ride through Westwood, ghostly houses with big stale numbers painted on their faces, ending at an obscure golf course and a homeless but clean looking fat bellied man behind a big barred fence telling me where to go...the way leads back to Wilshire, through the UCLA student village up to sunset where I don't know which way to go again. The student houses flicker in delight, it's friday night and music is blaring, all different kinds. Cars are lined up on either side of the street, some even on the sidewalks, students rush through the night and I smile how close those two so different worlds are.
On sunset I take the wrong direction and after I passed the 405 I have to stop and ask for directions. There is a lexus hotel, very luscious and private, soft music in the background.
I park my bike at the entrance, shoulder my red designer bag and ask the receptionist for directions. I look so acceptable that he lets me use their internet. It is funny how clothing does make people. Everything I am wearing is from the actress whose house i will babysit from tonight on for a whole week.
I love and hate that I don't have a car.
I fu king hate that I chose to take the stupid bag instead of a backpack.
I love that I lost my way.
On my way out a valet guy asks me whether I need to check in. I smile, grab my dirty bike and shake my head. No man, thank you, I just needed to ask something. Have a good night.
He smiles, understanding suddenly what's going on, petting my arm for a second.
The hotel does have something about it. So comforting. So luxurious. So not for me.
On the long and winding suicide way to the canyon my red leather bag bangs rhythmically at my front tire. I #$%^&^& and laugh at the same time.
The road up the canyon is wet because of the sprinklers of the rich people's houses.
Rich people have such awesome houses in such awesome areas with wonderful trees.
Too bad, I think, that they don't use it properly.
It's good to be out, breathing trees at night.
Sunday, April 01, 2007
in the thick of it
sometimes life just gets so thick in my perception, i feel like in a strange jungle, not mine, and bushes everywhere.
nothing helps then, even not you, even not me.
music, long forgotten tunes shake my square mind up, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.
i remember, there was a dad and there was a song and L.Cohen and Macy Gray and a bare room in a culturally rife city in Switzerland. It was Graffiti then and excitement, some sort of, and a new sense of who to be.
Things long gone now. There is a confusion going on, a big one, everyone knows it, it's as if they are talking behind my back, thinking I'm the only one oblivous to the facts, whispering, afraid I would run into them, swirl around to stare into their faces. it's not as if I'd scream out loud 'gotcha buddy!' 'caught in the act!' 'ha!' or even 'boo!'. No, no, I wouldn't do that.
Even he knows, it is seeping through his words and we both lie and pretend, and we want it so desperately. Gosh, children we are, playing in the sand. Until the, the dark comes. Sun gone, Momma is calling but we just don't want to see or hear or abide to the law of gravity. Love was supposed to undo it. Man. It was. It really is.
Now it's confusion, and it seems an easy thing to do to just turn back and look into my own face. It's not as if I wanted to, you know. Write a letter to God and have him undo all these horrible things that can't live up to the horribleness of life elsewhere.
There was a time. ...
And you don't know about it.
It was mine.
Completely. Only. It was the oligarchy of deep emotions.
It was, what was close to my heart, closer than anything now.
I am sorry if I worry any of you. If I come across as akward and adolescent. Or even lost, for heaven's sake.
I just wish you could leave me the fuck alone and not observe every fucking move I make. Comment.
Just comment on my writing and take it for what it is. Writing. Digestion. Fiction. Reality through layers of glass.
nothing helps then, even not you, even not me.
music, long forgotten tunes shake my square mind up, there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in.
i remember, there was a dad and there was a song and L.Cohen and Macy Gray and a bare room in a culturally rife city in Switzerland. It was Graffiti then and excitement, some sort of, and a new sense of who to be.
Things long gone now. There is a confusion going on, a big one, everyone knows it, it's as if they are talking behind my back, thinking I'm the only one oblivous to the facts, whispering, afraid I would run into them, swirl around to stare into their faces. it's not as if I'd scream out loud 'gotcha buddy!' 'caught in the act!' 'ha!' or even 'boo!'. No, no, I wouldn't do that.
Even he knows, it is seeping through his words and we both lie and pretend, and we want it so desperately. Gosh, children we are, playing in the sand. Until the, the dark comes. Sun gone, Momma is calling but we just don't want to see or hear or abide to the law of gravity. Love was supposed to undo it. Man. It was. It really is.
Now it's confusion, and it seems an easy thing to do to just turn back and look into my own face. It's not as if I wanted to, you know. Write a letter to God and have him undo all these horrible things that can't live up to the horribleness of life elsewhere.
There was a time. ...
And you don't know about it.
It was mine.
Completely. Only. It was the oligarchy of deep emotions.
It was, what was close to my heart, closer than anything now.
I am sorry if I worry any of you. If I come across as akward and adolescent. Or even lost, for heaven's sake.
I just wish you could leave me the fuck alone and not observe every fucking move I make. Comment.
Just comment on my writing and take it for what it is. Writing. Digestion. Fiction. Reality through layers of glass.
Saturday, March 31, 2007
schizophrenia
schizophrenia
Sometimes I stopped in the middle of a sentence and felt ashamed of myself. I remembered how I would sometimes talk cynical about my love just to hide how much I really cared. To protect the unnameable. Nothing wrong with that, granted, but still...It's a distinct feeling of being too weak to be true.
It's LA, man, it's something that you can't put in words. All I said, maybe that's true too, maybe that's what I really think when I am not trapped in this gigantic lost-angels-hole. But when I was driving down the black forest A5 to see my friend Silvia and the sun worked her way through the pale clouds, I couldn't help thinking that I would love to drive down the sidewalk at the beach, with the wind in my hair.
LA is for phony money oriented career suckers, sure, of course, but also for outdoor freaks (it's really just an hour and you're in the middle of mountains or the sea or the desert) and people who are content with a small circle of good friends who don't care about the rest in the city. And not necessarily oblivious to the rest of the world.
It's also a place where, as an artist, you can actually do really interesting things. It's the schizophrenia of being inbetween the dirty, gritty world of the streets and fucked up buildings and the glimmer glamour media dominated celebrity world that infiltrates the minds of millions and billions of tabloid readers every day everwhere in this crazy world.
It's a giant tight-rope dance project.
Where illusions are millimeters away from reality and yet universes away... Reality so relative, like clay waiting to be formed. Results to be sold elsewhere. Where you feel more detached from the rest of the world than anywhere else (well, THAT is a very subjective judgement) but where most of the rest of the brainwashed world thinks that it's at. Where it's different from what you think it is. Always. And where you have to confront yourself in a different way than before (DUH, true for everywhere, right?). Where you can hide from yourself just as well. It's up to you, always, in this crazy city. (well I guess...it 's everywhere that way?!)
The schizophrenia for me lies in the fact that i can't tell.
I can't take my words back. It's still the same. I still don't like it. I still almost start crying and get disgusted by my own depressed voice or attitude when people ask me how I am or like it here. I can't stand the good mood or smiles either when they are plastered on my face. It's a fucking caroussel and I am by no means in the position to say anything at all, actually. Which, of course, doesn't stop me from contemplating and rambling like I do now.
I am kind of driven by this feeling of shame that crept in, when I stopped for a second in the middle of a conversation with a ecology/economy student in one of Berlin's fantastically fucked up backhouse stairways. The light was dim and sounds simmering in the air. His hair was in dreads and his smile a beam that glued me to the steps. I couldn't move for half an hour, caught up in the cascade of words flying back and forth, weaving a story about LA and America and my life here that was just not really true. It was as true as it can be in a state of schizophrenia. It was the other side. It was, what made him say, I hope you make the right decisions and when you're back here come by for a coffee or a beer. It sounds like you should move back here.
When I finally left I felt excited and tormented in the same time. Ironically I ran into a girl from San Francisco downstairs who was in search of a place to stay. She was in Berlin and I felt home and she felt out of place.
Literally.
I can't tell. Still. I haven't been writing much about my time in Germany or the time after, here. Digestion is slow. It was hard to swallow.
And I still feel sorry for having painted such a tristesse in the eyes of my friends. LA. You aren't that bad after all. Are you.
Sometimes I stopped in the middle of a sentence and felt ashamed of myself. I remembered how I would sometimes talk cynical about my love just to hide how much I really cared. To protect the unnameable. Nothing wrong with that, granted, but still...It's a distinct feeling of being too weak to be true.
It's LA, man, it's something that you can't put in words. All I said, maybe that's true too, maybe that's what I really think when I am not trapped in this gigantic lost-angels-hole. But when I was driving down the black forest A5 to see my friend Silvia and the sun worked her way through the pale clouds, I couldn't help thinking that I would love to drive down the sidewalk at the beach, with the wind in my hair.
LA is for phony money oriented career suckers, sure, of course, but also for outdoor freaks (it's really just an hour and you're in the middle of mountains or the sea or the desert) and people who are content with a small circle of good friends who don't care about the rest in the city. And not necessarily oblivious to the rest of the world.
It's also a place where, as an artist, you can actually do really interesting things. It's the schizophrenia of being inbetween the dirty, gritty world of the streets and fucked up buildings and the glimmer glamour media dominated celebrity world that infiltrates the minds of millions and billions of tabloid readers every day everwhere in this crazy world.
It's a giant tight-rope dance project.
Where illusions are millimeters away from reality and yet universes away... Reality so relative, like clay waiting to be formed. Results to be sold elsewhere. Where you feel more detached from the rest of the world than anywhere else (well, THAT is a very subjective judgement) but where most of the rest of the brainwashed world thinks that it's at. Where it's different from what you think it is. Always. And where you have to confront yourself in a different way than before (DUH, true for everywhere, right?). Where you can hide from yourself just as well. It's up to you, always, in this crazy city. (well I guess...it 's everywhere that way?!)
The schizophrenia for me lies in the fact that i can't tell.
I can't take my words back. It's still the same. I still don't like it. I still almost start crying and get disgusted by my own depressed voice or attitude when people ask me how I am or like it here. I can't stand the good mood or smiles either when they are plastered on my face. It's a fucking caroussel and I am by no means in the position to say anything at all, actually. Which, of course, doesn't stop me from contemplating and rambling like I do now.
I am kind of driven by this feeling of shame that crept in, when I stopped for a second in the middle of a conversation with a ecology/economy student in one of Berlin's fantastically fucked up backhouse stairways. The light was dim and sounds simmering in the air. His hair was in dreads and his smile a beam that glued me to the steps. I couldn't move for half an hour, caught up in the cascade of words flying back and forth, weaving a story about LA and America and my life here that was just not really true. It was as true as it can be in a state of schizophrenia. It was the other side. It was, what made him say, I hope you make the right decisions and when you're back here come by for a coffee or a beer. It sounds like you should move back here.
When I finally left I felt excited and tormented in the same time. Ironically I ran into a girl from San Francisco downstairs who was in search of a place to stay. She was in Berlin and I felt home and she felt out of place.
Literally.
I can't tell. Still. I haven't been writing much about my time in Germany or the time after, here. Digestion is slow. It was hard to swallow.
And I still feel sorry for having painted such a tristesse in the eyes of my friends. LA. You aren't that bad after all. Are you.
Friday, March 09, 2007
the kiss
I pushed the old worn out cassette into the deck and tried to pull out a cigarette and find a lighter. Somethings are necessary at times withouy being predictable. It just pops up out of the blue and mingles with your moments, infiltrating your soul.
It was exactly one of those things and when a sudden surge of new feelings washed over me I was unsure whether it was a byproduct of music or - well, real. Something I could feel.
I stopped the cassette. The feeling stayed. The door pushed open, laughter trickling in.
The irony, the sweet aftertaste of it on my lips. The irony of me living Californian style on Black Forest Roads. The fucked up car. The hippie beach music. The smoke. The sun. Granted, it was pale, but it kissed the sky.
It was exactly one of those things and when a sudden surge of new feelings washed over me I was unsure whether it was a byproduct of music or - well, real. Something I could feel.
I stopped the cassette. The feeling stayed. The door pushed open, laughter trickling in.
The irony, the sweet aftertaste of it on my lips. The irony of me living Californian style on Black Forest Roads. The fucked up car. The hippie beach music. The smoke. The sun. Granted, it was pale, but it kissed the sky.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Does It Make Me Crazy?
Can anybody tell me why in the hell anybody would write with Capital Letters In A Text Message Like This? What´s the deal with that one???
Friday, February 23, 2007
Backstabbers Do This
"Like Cain and Abel, Caesar and Brutus, Jesus and Judas,
Backstabbers do this
Forgive them father for they know not what they do
Forgive them father for they know not what they do
It took me a little while to discover
Wolves in sheep coats who pretend to be lovers
Men who lack conscience will even lie to themselves, to themselves
A friend once said, and I found to be true
That everyday people, they lie to God too
So what makes you think, that they won't lie to you"
(Lauryn Hill, 'Father Forgive Them')
It's not like anyone is free from that, I suppose.
I lied to myself before.
She must be lying to herself because she is acting as if nothing happened, her fucking beam baam baam smile sticks like glue in my face, smashed into my peace of mind, starteling me like error404 reappearing, more annoying than ever before.
Does she really think that that was okay? It's not about THAT they asked me to ... or lets face it, that they kicked me out of the house, it's about the WAY they did it. Motherfucking pussies.
I'm almost schizophrenic trying to understand and justify the actions of two people who I had considered to be almost my only friends here in LA. No matter how I try to turn it and no matter how much I know that it REALLY is for the better I can't get over the fact that what they did was matter of factly backstabbing me.
It's crazy, really. There is a way to do it and then there is a way how not to do it. And then there are beliefs of all sorts and expectations. But isn't there a fine line that defines a certain moral that applies to all of us, given a certain similar background and living situation???
Am I Fucking Tripping?
I am so naive.
I really. I really shit. Man. I believed them to be my friends. That really hurts. It sucks. But truth hurts, they say.
Backstabbers do this
Forgive them father for they know not what they do
Forgive them father for they know not what they do
It took me a little while to discover
Wolves in sheep coats who pretend to be lovers
Men who lack conscience will even lie to themselves, to themselves
A friend once said, and I found to be true
That everyday people, they lie to God too
So what makes you think, that they won't lie to you"
(Lauryn Hill, 'Father Forgive Them')
It's not like anyone is free from that, I suppose.
I lied to myself before.
She must be lying to herself because she is acting as if nothing happened, her fucking beam baam baam smile sticks like glue in my face, smashed into my peace of mind, starteling me like error404 reappearing, more annoying than ever before.
Does she really think that that was okay? It's not about THAT they asked me to ... or lets face it, that they kicked me out of the house, it's about the WAY they did it. Motherfucking pussies.
I'm almost schizophrenic trying to understand and justify the actions of two people who I had considered to be almost my only friends here in LA. No matter how I try to turn it and no matter how much I know that it REALLY is for the better I can't get over the fact that what they did was matter of factly backstabbing me.
It's crazy, really. There is a way to do it and then there is a way how not to do it. And then there are beliefs of all sorts and expectations. But isn't there a fine line that defines a certain moral that applies to all of us, given a certain similar background and living situation???
Am I Fucking Tripping?
I am so naive.
I really. I really shit. Man. I believed them to be my friends. That really hurts. It sucks. But truth hurts, they say.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Loyality
Never is anyone to live my life.
See, I'm afraid. It's about loyality.
Royality of the heart.
'Take a chance with me. She is going to sing it - You'll find peace with me. You're my remedy. 07.'
Friends, dropping, Never wanted to drop anybody. Hovering above life like a hawk, ready to attack, obsessing, yet just observing though.
Never wanted to be disloyal to you. What are you doing to me.
But it's about finding out the truth about who you are and your friends.
Who they really are.
Who really is your friend.
Who you can really be friend to.
Passing dreams.
Fleeting, fleeting only and always, eternally. Never can anyone be me.
I gotta take it on or else I should fail. Or prosper, due to sheer will.
What you really want, what you really will be.
be, be, be, be. Is it,
is it, is it really me?
Travelling solely. Through and through and through and through.
See, I'm afraid. It's about loyality.
Royality of the heart.
'Take a chance with me. She is going to sing it - You'll find peace with me. You're my remedy. 07.'
Friends, dropping, Never wanted to drop anybody. Hovering above life like a hawk, ready to attack, obsessing, yet just observing though.
Never wanted to be disloyal to you. What are you doing to me.
But it's about finding out the truth about who you are and your friends.
Who they really are.
Who really is your friend.
Who you can really be friend to.
Passing dreams.
Fleeting, fleeting only and always, eternally. Never can anyone be me.
I gotta take it on or else I should fail. Or prosper, due to sheer will.
What you really want, what you really will be.
be, be, be, be. Is it,
is it, is it really me?
Travelling solely. Through and through and through and through.
NOT
At some point I asked myself, whether I could leave this amazing place. I thought, that, which will make it so hard for me to leave, is this place. This living situation with my friends. That we miraculously got the place we envisioned to live in, together. With the amazing neighbours. While my 'wife' Klodi left to Albania and my love eventually left me too all I had was them two. I thought, gosh, I am so lucky, I am so damn lucky that I found at least two really good friends here in this strange city.
Life is treacherous and it always teaches you otherwise.
Hypocritical motherfuckers. The irony is, I'm glad I found out. That you are NOT.
Life is treacherous and it always teaches you otherwise.
Hypocritical motherfuckers. The irony is, I'm glad I found out. That you are NOT.
Sunday, February 11, 2007
Asian Groove Again
There is no other title for this post.
This is the end of the road.
The snake who eats her own tail, gobbeling it up in slow motion.
There we stand again. In the rain. Trickeling slowly down, softly softly, falling on the windshields, creating patterns similar to those of Aboriginal Paintings in Australia.
Do you still feel that way? he asks. Like, you can't be in love, can't have a boyfriend, can't be a girlfriend.
Asian Groove Again. Terian Gulabi Buliyan by A.S. Kang sings. Tags: Bhangra, Punjabi, word, desi, south asian roots. Similar Artists: Bally Jagpal, Bally Sagoo, Baldip Jabble, Jazzy B, RDB
As if I could say something to this. I cringe I flinch I try to hint. Find a way. They say women use 20 000 words a day. I am at my limit. Does love really make that blind? That you can't see. Didn't you know? No. You just stuck around. You were in love with me and you just waited it out. And to my great anger and frustration all those people seemed to be right. It wasn't forever, not that I would have even dared to think that but certainly I feel how my innermost hopes got raped.
He stuck around. There we sit in the car with this amazing rain lulling me into escape, my dear friend, sleep.
It was such an amazing evening. It was perfect and I wish I just could fall in love with him.
Wouldn't it be perfect to fall in love like that?
Gypsy Gypsy gone, next please.
As if it would be that easy.
Something tells me that if I wanted it would be easy.
Quit apparently I don't want it.
And now Bob Dylan sings 'Living the Blues'.
Let's go and live the blues, come one, now, come on, forget the Asian Groove
This is the end of the road.
The snake who eats her own tail, gobbeling it up in slow motion.
There we stand again. In the rain. Trickeling slowly down, softly softly, falling on the windshields, creating patterns similar to those of Aboriginal Paintings in Australia.
Do you still feel that way? he asks. Like, you can't be in love, can't have a boyfriend, can't be a girlfriend.
Asian Groove Again. Terian Gulabi Buliyan by A.S. Kang sings. Tags: Bhangra, Punjabi, word, desi, south asian roots. Similar Artists: Bally Jagpal, Bally Sagoo, Baldip Jabble, Jazzy B, RDB
As if I could say something to this. I cringe I flinch I try to hint. Find a way. They say women use 20 000 words a day. I am at my limit. Does love really make that blind? That you can't see. Didn't you know? No. You just stuck around. You were in love with me and you just waited it out. And to my great anger and frustration all those people seemed to be right. It wasn't forever, not that I would have even dared to think that but certainly I feel how my innermost hopes got raped.
He stuck around. There we sit in the car with this amazing rain lulling me into escape, my dear friend, sleep.
It was such an amazing evening. It was perfect and I wish I just could fall in love with him.
Wouldn't it be perfect to fall in love like that?
Gypsy Gypsy gone, next please.
As if it would be that easy.
Something tells me that if I wanted it would be easy.
Quit apparently I don't want it.
And now Bob Dylan sings 'Living the Blues'.
Let's go and live the blues, come one, now, come on, forget the Asian Groove
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Fly Brown Dragons
'i love los angeles' (Fly Brown Dragons)
I sit, listening, writing, thinking.
Yesterday I let the smoke signs rise into the sky, out of my little room, my ship in the stormy sea of gritty Hollywood life.
In thousand sparks red hot ashes exploded in the night on the cold concrete floor.
Lionnesses came to my mind. How they eat first, and then share the food with the kids. They've got to fucking kill another animal the next day. That's why. Personally, I think that's an important lesson. Of course, we are extremely social as human beings and can afford at times to save a person before ourselves, put the kids before our needs... Some people eat too much before they share. But who am I to judge. Everybody's gotta do what they gotta do, and sure, that's not a blank cheque for doing damage but it's true, to some extend, isn't it.
Well, I guess what I wanted to say is:
LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE WHEN I AM EATING.
DAMNIT.
Ok. So -
Now I am here, somewhere in LA, working on the 'Tard and Feathered' zine Vol. II that Lady Basco is making. Listening to her brother's playlist on his ipod.
Not that any of this would concern you, except for that if you are a true artist you would want to touch as many people as you can, right? If you want to participate in the magazine check it out. See whether you want to move through this medium too. Your blog adress and anything else you want to be known about your writing or yourself will be readily displayed and a nice side effect of course will be that it will increase your outreach radius somewhat. ;)
We'll distribute the zines for 15$ per piece here in LA and I don't know where else.
The money goes straight into making the next zine.
If you are interested write me or check the tard and feathered myspace site out: http://www.myspace.com/tardandfeathered
yeah and yes, I love Los Angeles, as well....
one love to all of you!
I sit, listening, writing, thinking.
Yesterday I let the smoke signs rise into the sky, out of my little room, my ship in the stormy sea of gritty Hollywood life.
In thousand sparks red hot ashes exploded in the night on the cold concrete floor.
Lionnesses came to my mind. How they eat first, and then share the food with the kids. They've got to fucking kill another animal the next day. That's why. Personally, I think that's an important lesson. Of course, we are extremely social as human beings and can afford at times to save a person before ourselves, put the kids before our needs... Some people eat too much before they share. But who am I to judge. Everybody's gotta do what they gotta do, and sure, that's not a blank cheque for doing damage but it's true, to some extend, isn't it.
Well, I guess what I wanted to say is:
LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE WHEN I AM EATING.
DAMNIT.
Ok. So -
Now I am here, somewhere in LA, working on the 'Tard and Feathered' zine Vol. II that Lady Basco is making. Listening to her brother's playlist on his ipod.
Not that any of this would concern you, except for that if you are a true artist you would want to touch as many people as you can, right? If you want to participate in the magazine check it out. See whether you want to move through this medium too. Your blog adress and anything else you want to be known about your writing or yourself will be readily displayed and a nice side effect of course will be that it will increase your outreach radius somewhat. ;)
We'll distribute the zines for 15$ per piece here in LA and I don't know where else.
The money goes straight into making the next zine.
If you are interested write me or check the tard and feathered myspace site out: http://www.myspace.com/tardandfeathered
yeah and yes, I love Los Angeles, as well....
one love to all of you!
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