On midnight or The Quest for Peace

Something like walking with the moving water while the wind massages your scalp, hiding in the tiny spaces between the roots of your hair. Your ears melting with the voice of the sparkling river that sings to the moon, which in turn lights up your way. You hear the hymn of the Elves that live high in the treetops.

All this too easy to visualize sitting in my chair. Pondering on imagination while extinguishing my cigarette that I smoked with such pleasure over the glass of Martini. Extra dry. Paganini in the background. Three minutes to midnight. Alone at home. Saturday night.

One minute to midnight.

It is a paradox I embrace. A paradox of need and not giving up – on what? An idea of what I not so much deserve but figure I can find. Somehow it is experience that points out to the possibility of meeting a soul mate – and now that I find myself searching again – I see I know what I want, but this I cannot get on purpose. It is about welcoming it, trusting that it is out there. And I choose to trust. And wait for the magic. Which makes me sit alone tonight.

The frustration I sometimes, or more often than not, in these times of exhaustion, feel, can break my heart into peaces so small that I loose them in the piles of dust that I can find on the floor of my bedroom nowadays. Still I watch my desires and I push them even further. Until I pains me. At which point I choose to laugh and accept the world for what it is.

And at this point I am disappointed in the world since I see that the potential that is there is only realized in the clouds that fly over my head, in the rivers and trees, and the most majestical Sun. But most of the eyes I see around me are empty eyes. Brains that seek strong food and microwave popcorn relationships. Over and done in 15 seconds, extra butter, extra salt.

It is then, late at night, when in the middle of an alcohol rush, confusion and noise, I receive the tiniest kiss high up on my left cheek, just under the eye, that I witness a glimpse of the original magic that I believe in. The magic that has to be there because, even though so many eyes are empty of passion, we are here, living and fighting day by day, hour after hour.

Sixteen minutes past midnight. Drunken neighbors, raised voices, baby in despair.

On releasing or I wish you to do this to me

An intimate hissing sound, with eyes closed, the pleasure of filling ones lungs with air. With fresh summer evening air. Enhancing ones blood with oxygen. To support thought. To support movement. To support life.

Space is created to welcome the volume of air, ribs spreading apart, skin stretching over the torso. Stretching until the point it hurts; a little. A bit. So the pleasure is not taken for granted. Or, one might add, the passion one feels for the moment makes you desire even more, more. More. Like an orgasm you wish would last forever.

When you feel it coming, the moment you know it’s unavoidable – you hold back, anticipate the rush, the explosion – and then release. You let go so completely. And you fall.

Once you see the ground, you jump on top of your fall, and pull, strain, you ride it from your groin into your head. Until it hits. Your lungs filled with the air you don’t let go of.

And then you see the fireworks.

Hold still for a moment... before... you... breathe out.

And release.

To the oblivion so complete it brings tears to your eyes.

On Freedom or Myself

Inexplicable.
The pressure.

For the sake of the argument I ask that we ignore that there is a debate on what is Individual - let´s just take it for granted - for one reason or the other - we think, I think, I am an individual.
With a sense of freedom.
With a sense of justice.
With a sense of personal space.

And this is actually the point I will use against myself in order to try to figure out, to try to convince myself that there is space for everyone.

Comparing?

Big error.

Which comes precisely from my thinking about myself about an individual person that did this to get that - so how come that one who did that ended up with something else. Or with the same thing I ended up with.

What is justice?
Can I understand it?
Probably just as well as I can understand the sense of my "I".

So there is this storm, smothering me. Cutting all the air for me to inhale. I am dying.

Dry as a dead flower.

Courage is the power to let go of familliar.
as stated by Raymond Lindquist


I just wish someone like God could come down and explane me once and for all - how does it all work - so I can stop wasting time in trying to figure it out and just go on with my life.

Call a person on a date.
Make dinner.
Tape my feet so my skin doesn´t burst open the next time I do a run of repertory.


Let the storm pass.
Let the storm pass.
Let the storm pass.

And then all will be ok.

On singularity or the Wonders of a hot summer breeze

“Julia, you are the butter to my bread and the breath to my life. I love you, darling girl.”

Julie&Julia

I feel alone in the world.

Which is clearly over dramatizing the state I find myself in but here I am, alone at home, it’s me and myself, and loads of fun things to do, yet I can’t stop thinking how delightful it would be to feel fingers caressing my skin. Fingers instead of air. The beautiful warm summer air.

I see a field of wild poppy flowers. I am running through that field, with the Sun following every move I make. The joy I feel is pushing little screams of happiness out of my lungs. I am spreading my arms wide open as if to embrace an invisible soul that is there with me. Here, with me. I welcome the kick of adrenalin as I take my shirt of and throw it away into the unknown. I am running towards the river. I am excited, overwhelmed, captured by the rawness of the emotion. I am down to my underwear, running towards the water. And I jump. For a moment, the brief moment I find myself in the air, so completely free – time comes to a stop. And I endeavor in the sensation of weightlessness as I fall. Falling forever. Before hitting the cool freshness of the river. Ever moving flow of clear water. The water that supports me. The water that loves me. The water that holds me in it’s palm and takes me to the ocean and let’s me dissolve into it’s fullness.

I become the ocean.

I become the sea.

The rivers, lakes, ponds.

I evaporate.

And while cool down I am becoming clouds.

I am flying once again.

So completely free.

And then I fall.

Falling forever I am the rain. I feed the soil. I feed the Earth.

I am consumated by flora and fauna.

I am consumated by human kind.

I am being consumated by you.

I am yours.

So completely lost in your existance. While you love me and care for me. While you touch me and pleasure me. While you tear my world apart and put it back together again – I let you. I let you be my king and my queen, my light and my night. My all, my everything, forever.

Until I change my mind.

On falling in love or Falling - in general

“Pick me. Choose me. Love me.”

Grey's Anatomy

It is precisely this moment, after I had a random glass of wine, that makes me want to go there and scream these words into your face, then surrender to the power of your will and make sweet, sweet love for the rest of the years between us; always the years, always the love, always the hours.

I can imagine that this is nothing new in the world of high rated emotion. It is dangerous, unpredictable and all these different, strong adjectives. But what no one can tell you is that it is the same - every time.

To fall in love - maybe this is why the verb FALL is used to describe the feeling. The moment you see it coming, it is like seeing that there is a hole in the road, a huge, black hole, the size of the Universe (for example). The road is marked with signs, flashing symbols, shining arrows pointing in all the different directions - which you see and ignore because what (?) the hormones make you loose any sense of preservation, survival or self-awareness. You just fucking jump.

And then say - shit.

Because it is only when you start falling (for a person) that you realize that you weren't ready. You also realize that your cell is out of battery, you never even had a parachute, and you're so young, you're not ready to jeopardize your existence.

***

So there are all these things going through the brain that is impossible to write about. I am not talking only about insecurity, this special weakness in the knees - and common sense - and the constant desire, but also the pictures of the ideal relationship, all the possibilities of breakfasts in bed, reading in bed, reading on a couch, reading on the terrace, eating on the terrace, eating and cooking, throwing flour at each other while fighting about who is doing the tempura, sharing a bowl of spaghetti in the ridiculous hope of having a “Lady and the Tramp” moment, singing the favorite song while in the shower, making love in the shower, showering before making love, showering after making love, washing teeth together, supporting one another after a hard day - while standing in the kitchen and cooking together before watching bad movies in bed, watching bad movies on the sofa, sharing a cigarette on the balcony after the spaghetti dinner which finally did end just like “Lady and the Tramp”, waking up next to a person, waking up next to the person; lying in bed and receiving a hug and just staying still, forever, feeling your breath caressing my skin and even when the position becomes slightly uncomfortable - I don't move.

***

And when I want to make all these things happen - I remember I have no control.

I am falling.

And I want to scream when the helplessness starts ripping my chest open.

But I don't.

I remember who I am. And where I am going.

And I take another step.

I let go.

Even though it makes me cry a bit.

Because I trust that if it needs me, it will find me. And I will just need to give a little push at the right moment. A little encouragement is all that will be needed.

So I relax and wait for the moment, ready for it to happen, with the little encouragement ready to be given at any given point, at a precisely given point. In time. And space.