.the door post.

setting: trickly rainy winter night, melting snow outside, heating fan on.

It was the first predicament you had ever found yourself in. being afraid of the dark didn’t suit you anymore, and sharpening your claws any further would only make tea time a little less enjoyable.

where do you go when the present is absolutely normal?

medicine has a sophisticated link to ignorance, it seems. only in that it’s bliss. no medicine could stem from ignorance, but so much ignorance can derive from medicine.

your electrical impulses may be under control. they might not be firing away at their own will, which is comforting. it is funny to think how multiple we can be. we have so many pulses. so many impulses. so many wills. so many won’ts.

there’s something quite imprisoning in searching to become a free-spirit. it can keep us from the possibility of another. because, you see, there are so many wills, and so many won’ts, and so many opportunities to miss an outreach.

the lights are off and the door is ajar. there will be music.

-

home is who we are, and whomever we allow in.

...who's there?

.the wick post.

setting: near midnight, looming 25th birthday, no water supply for the night.

what makes you pick out a candle?

maybe its color shade on a brightly lit shelf at a department store, or perhaps the thought of a small and constant ember slowly melting it from head to toe.

no matter your reasoning behind the selection, if you’ve picked a candle, it has picked you back.

it’s the age old difference between objects and people: objects have no choice but to pick you back.

lesson one: always carry matches.

if you are lucky, you will have plenty of electric light and that candle will be your quaint charming way of setting up a mood once in a while.

if you are lucky, you will only need one match to assure a spark and that spark and wick will lock onto a sloppy wet kiss which will lick up into a very steady flame.

if you are lucky there will be no wind.

because you see…

-

you can’t blame a windy night.

...it's cold again.

.the criminal post.

setting: lips on cigarette nearing a kiss, door ajar, early fall midnight.

it smells like smoke.

it smells like a frustrated attempt at pretending you don’t exist.

writing as a vice. writing until the next shot of liquor. writing until the next shot at love.

it’s funny to think about evasion. it’s funny to think of dodging bullets.

such a harmless bullet. such a rookie’s marksmanship…

time to join an army perhaps.

a thousand soldiers on the same mission. or lack thereof.

-

a thousand strangers couldn’t take away your scent.

...out of ammo. again.

.the euro post.

setting: Old World withdrawal crisis, on verge of nervous breakdown.

everything starts somewhere, origins are a serious thing.

how far down the rabbit hole are you willing to go?

to call this place the New World is to shout with archaic blind faith that this is some sort of antidote.

…an antidote to civilization.

fight venom with venom?

IV stuck deep in your veins fills you with a fresh new batch of numbing New York addiction.

why here? why here of all places?

should you give up? is it giving up or breaking free?

where do you draw the line between rescue and forfeit?

-

no one can fight a city.

...amicable, please?

.the newyorker post.

setting: 2 days before Stockholm. funny, funny brownies.

the greatest thing about spending days alone is the relief of being in the company of the most influential person you’ll ever meet.

stepping inside someone else is like stepping outside yourself.
stepping outside of New York is like stepping outside of yourself.

New York is a very jealous spouse.
those who find love here must have an adulterous nature.

for romantics, New York is solitude. for the masochists, New York is bliss.

New York is however just a bunch of small rooms and people with too much to want and too little to see.

New York is a place for friends. New York is a great shortcut past bullshit. the ice cold screen filters way too well.

go to Washington, DC, for instance.

they don’t have skyscrapers but they have big hearts.
they don’t have 5th Avenue but cab drivers let you sit in the front seat.
they don’t have Times Square – only a very silly city would have Times Square.

New York is a good place for work. any job in New York is 10 times more valuable than the exact same job somewhere else (when boasting).

looking back on this blog 2 years past, it’s hard to recognize the soul behind those early posts. it was a very hopeful soul.

New York makes you older. faster. it requires skin treatments earlier.

this is a very funny brownie. this is a very funny city.

everything’s here. the city’s complete.
take your piece of the jigsaw puzzle, it doesn’t fit.

or just lay down and lounge.

-

New York is a good place to lounge.

"...you're so rich! so rich!"

.the countdown song.

setting: Manhattan studio at sunset, spick and span, muggy and aseptic.

(clearing throat).

- boasting, out loud, no hurry, with rhythm -

…a 1, a 2, a 1, 2, 3, 4.

- Waiting for a good friend who said he’s coming into town,

you said to give you time and space, lucky me I’ve got someone to get down with

and when I mean I’m counting down the days to new rides along the way,

I know that smile laid on your face might have been for a second mine

and when I say I am not worried I try to make sure that I mean it

for every moment on my own I can think of those sweet lips to obscenity

and I could have paced through pouring rain again towards feeling somehow like this,

manning up the little boy inside who’s not ready for another first kiss

and if anybody tries to get me down I bet a fat paycheck it won’t do a thing

I just wanna take my eyes sight seeing and my raspy voice is more than ready to sing

and I’ve gotta say I’m feeling really glad the good and bad were at least true

and I hope these seven days in silence will bring me a little bit closer to you,

‘cos I am waiting for a friend who said he’s coming into town, you said to give you time and space, at least I’ve got someone to get down with…

-

…everybody!

yee-haw!

.the binary post.

setting: 2 PM, gloomy in, sunny out, intravenously cleared of recent misdeeds.

pardon my logic but it’s time for self assessment.

look into a mirror. look into your own eyes in the pictures of you that you deem the best all around. look into a good friend’s eyes for that concave gleam of your reflection in their pupils.

what do these images have in common?

you’re right, nothing.

if there’s a logical payback for good behavior, it has to be peace and adulation. something along the lines of “let’s not make a scene and enjoy each other’s company”.

well, what happens when you’re awarded both of those for acting out a script that’s been rehashed to exhaustion?

my, you’ll either jump to the conclusion that you’re either not coming off properly, or that your peace and adulation withdrawal symptoms keep you from the truth behind good behavior.

there’s different sources for both, I believe. the show that pleases an audience that in return sends uproars and applause of peace and adulation only in fact deals with the audience’s need and thankfulness for finding a reason to send the very peace and adulation they so desperately crave to plant somewhere outside themselves.

meanwhile the thesps are still backstage after the curtains close collecting this smiling fabric of expunged joy that doesn’t suit them.

but then: you’re always on stage!

what suits you? what is the source of peace and adulation you seek? are you a harmony junkie?

maybe a tailored recluse.

are you capable of finding a reason to send whatever it is you want to plant somewhere else?

you, my friend, might be a cursed binary at heart.

-

or perhaps an agree-ability consumer.

"...run!"

.the eureka post.

setting: rainy burdened Friday evening, with a taste for moral compunction.

it’s April Fools and the joke’s on you.

there’s so much you can put off when it comes to the upkeep of your sanity. when you often put on a rock front, you might not get as far as rock bottom.

Eureka!

have you been paying attention to the whispers of Eureka? they never stop, you know.

or you might be one of those who wait for a flaming car crash in order to hear her begging you not to cross the road.

you see… Eureka’s always there. Eureka never shuts her trap.

she’s so insightful and translucent you want her to piss off. you need her to piss off.

but then you take a good look at yourself and decide to take a stand.

it’s April Fools and the joke’s on you.

where can you shop for dignity?

-

…Eureka!

...red is cheap.

.the spanish post.

setting: rainy morning in NY, no sign of spring, on a Spain-withdrawal.

it has come to that point where maybe your gut instinct is your best friend ever. there’s nothing or no one else that you really admire, rely on and feel dared just that much by other than your ever-expanding-in-fearlessness gut instinct.

so you get a phone, start clicking away and fly yourself to Spain – couple of days here, couple of days there.

just to see what happens.

you tell your friends, you tell your boss, you grab the cash and wander off.

just to see what happens.

the main purpose of your transoceanic flight is not celebration. you’re going there just to see.

just to see what happens.

then the world happens. life happens. people happen!

so you slice all the crusts off and let the soul breathe again. you’re not afraid of oxidation.

them smiling ones come and go, quite a few keepers, and you’re glad they come and go. you wouldn’t wish the staleness of permanence upon any smiling creature. especially not in Barcelona where no one needs reasons to smile.

let go all night, take tours all morning. find a partner in crime and get soaked knees deep in the old land of Catalunya.

before you know it, before you see it, time’s been contracting and expanding and you have to go again. before you know it, it is time to disentangle from the three. shy from the sun you hear caresses you’re not meant to hear, you leave behind two thirds still asleep, fly with grief another hour, drag a backpack through Madrid.

you may no longer feel your body but it no longer feels off, all up-tightness has been torn apart by a disheveled prowess that’s partly yours. the other part is your gut instinct’s, the great companion you’re dusting off. may he take over, this great companion, whenever your self is drained of all, whenever your self has been cut off.

you speak their language, you clap your hands to sunsets and bow to all that’s yellow-red, you take a look at Spanish pillows right before you sink your head in them, you think you should next time bring with you your computer and a bed.

you know that next time you’ll bring with you your computer and a bed.

-

viva España!

...this world is too vast for your doubts, dear.

.the N post.

setting: winter night, third year in this non-compulsory endless journey.

your braincells are playing tag.

they’re like little sugar high kids running around in birthday parties.

so the city ate your friends too, huh?

hoping the Internet slips out of importance…

…still hoping…

(is there an app for that?)

here’s a motto: if you can make (what?) (where?), you’ll make (what?) anywhere… it’s up to (who?), New (?) York, New (!!??) York…

ha.

third year.

here.

sweet mercy.

how about retiring…

and they say there’s borderline. what’s past that? overline? yonderline? border-next-line?

thank you info age, for giving us something unpredictable to live through.

…and reaching for his reflection, he fell in and drowned.

-

swear to God that’s how it ends.

...that's not an iPad, babe.