look no further

as she woke
as she passed the minutes
and hours
as she went thru the daily routine
as she gathered the hugs and touches
as she read thru herself
flipping the pages fast
one
afther
the other
one moment she arrived
where she had to
and
as she watched
her own smile
her own movements
on the screen of the computer
she knew she was there
always has been
at the right-place-at-the-right-time
sometimes not as easy as she would have wished
sometimes not as clear
sometimes emotional and rollercoaster
but her alterego was right:

Cruelest

Almost

Always to ourselves

It mustn't get any better

Off

It's in our hands, it always was

It's in our hands, in our hands

It's all there, in our hands

It's all there, in our hands

Well

Aren't we scaring ourselves

Unneccesarliy?

Aren't we trying too hard?

'Cause it's in our hands

It's in our hands

It's all here, it's in our hands

Look no further

Look no further

It's in our hands, it always was

It's in our hands

http://www.lastfm.it/music/Bj%C3%B6rk/+videos/+1-RlHSCpozhKU

AND AS SHE SAT
AS SHE LISTENED
THE MUSIC ENTERED HER
AND IT WASHED HER
IT CLEANSED HER
her hands...

possibly the last

as the nights gone by she became more and more weary

her face grew pale

and applying special refresh-self-tan-lotions

or covering major part of the facial surface with an incredibly balanced array of colors

did not seem to help

she assumed physical exercise would help

and spent hours tiying the garden, cleaning the filthy weekend house, riding her bike

but...none of it seemed to help

as the days gone by she developed a secret-fear of entering her room

or going anywhere near her bed

she would have preferred sleeping on the ground in some other room

but

she assumed fears are often just reflections of our worried imagination

and she entered her bed night after night trying to find an inch of secure spot between the sheets, covers and her army of pillows

as the hours passed the darkness surrounding her body grew thick and sticky

her heartbeat raced around the room trying to identify the source of the dark

and she lay with eyes wide open as various types of spiders crawled across her mind

she could not take it any more

and as she gave way to her sadness

she found herself enclosed in a hug

rocking herself to a deep sleep

entering the world of dreams

where for one night she ciesed to fight herself

she lay in pain

she lay in peace

she lay in hope

in the preassure that builds when one feels lost.

i'mmmm a hundred miles baby dont!!!

I wanted to say something like:

"i'mmmmmm
a hundred miles an hour baby dont slow me down i never
get to my point.."

But then as i opened the poetry book i've read another sequence of words like:

Marriage is not

a house or even a tent

it is before that, and colder:

the edgeof the forest, the edge

of the desert

the unpainted stairs

at the back where we squat

outsude, eating popcorn

the edge of the receding glacier

where painfully and with wonder

at having survived even

this far

we are learning to make fire

And i wonder if the same would or could be true for a relationship, and i wonder how

...pride's an interesting thing

a beautiful thing

a necessary thing

a nearly untouchable thing

a dangerous thing

the last straw taken or given

a match

itching for concern...

I sit and wonder in silence, not in peace, no ocean, no sand, no warmth licking my feet sinking into the depth of my life...

I sit here in time

I sit here in peace

I sit here in pain

in the preassure that builds

when two people

cannot meet.

...

s nincs feloldozás. /=there's no dissuolution./

/Poems and fragments quoted in order:
Heather Hermant: The long distance runner
Margaret Atwood: Habitation
Heather Hermant: Pride (a whispered slam poem)
Jennifer Haberman: The Mediterranean - my favourite poem of all/

Sceraching but not finding-not seaching but finding

She has read the Tao of the Pooh (Hoffamann's supercute and at time hilarious writing on how blind and miserable we are, whereas all is full of Love and all Good..we just...but lets not go into this now.) she has read the Pooh-Tao and right on pp.11 found a though worty of letting the book fall(as it was, damage not considered nor noticed) feeling a huge urge of getting what? paper. yes. and a pen. and lets jot it down...
not where to put? where???? door. re-reading is cool.
no. door is not good. pic. on the wall, exchanged for note? no. not good.
(simple. that's her 'love corner' nicely decorated out of her fatalist belief that as long as that corner is harmonic, alive, green, warm, paired up, and heartshaped...but lets not get into this either).
there was the other pic. the small one. the one she fell in love with in august. the pink kiss from chagall...the painting she has recently put back but now suddenly, or all of a sudden, found very unnerving. she stuck the thought on. stood there and awaited the effect...and effect...(or affect)any...thing...anything.

nothing happened or changed for a long time until one day (having crossed the hills of Buda without swiss guards or a compass /she was great at following her instincts/ and having fixed the wheel of her bike /with the aid of a fixing-set, an old toothbrush and a paintbrush/)she fell to bed with high fever.

when she awoke from her foced-movelessness her feet rushed her throught the rain and into a bookshop...used books' section. first she thought she has to have a scope not to seem silly, but as time passed and her clothes became heavy on her she realized she has to stop searching...and as soon as she did that THE BOOK was in front of her.
the book she has been looking for for weeks before last christmas.
the book that had no title or writer to it in her mind, but which fitted in her pulsing palm as it had always been there.

she laughed loud on the way home caressing and admiring her new miracle.
'that story is in it'-she smiled....but when she flipped thru the pages she could not find the thoughts she was looking for. maybe they disappeared under her seaching eyes. maybe they never existed anywhere but in her heart.

she laughed again.laughed at herself. at her blindness. picturing herself reading the book and forming her own story ...folding it softy and hiding it betweeen the pages of the book. re-placing in on the shelves. forgetting the author. forgetting the title. but never forgetting the stories she read and her heart hidden between the pages of the book now laying in her bed, on her table, all is full of...

calze nere

she goes to bed
with bursk movement she climbs under the covers and pulls the extra blanket over her hear, she hugs her heart and tries to feel safe in the dark

her imagination races back and forwards and she finds herself in the middle of an imaginary situation
in which she confronts her pain
and once her body feels exhausted enough by squeezing out tears she falls fast asleep

deep down
in the reign of her dreams she finds herself on a chair in a big room
the noise around warns her that she is not alone yet she stretches her legs peepeing out of the miniskirt and gazes at her legs following and getting lost in the wonderful patterns of her black stokings. surely to finest, the most beutiful...

all of a sudden she realizes she is being watched, she turns and sees 'his' parents some rows behind her sitting with a proud smile on their faces...but before their eyes could meet she quickly turns back, as if not shoing your face was a possible way of dissolving.

the little large-eyed boy appears from nowhere and seems convinced that the best place to play why the boring ceremony takes place is next to her chair. They exchange looks and as if the little one asked she gives out her heart wrapped in a loud whisper: 'Ma io amo tuo fratello'....

The next day she spends hours trying to remember the sexy stockings...she should buy a pair. black ones. 'tipo molto raffinati'. and when in a bookshop she comes across the book about the tiger she knows she has to buy it....she is not eve surprised the little boy from her dream is on the cover...in bed...keeping her secret.

psychology of blogging(1)

i fear this entry will be the first in a long series of thougths
dealing with the examination of the psycho of blogging.

some view it as some scary phenomenon that above/beside/undelying(-questions of position may be debated on) our 'real'society there is a 'virtual' world (matrix...hihi) growing wider/huger/deeper(again-its dimensions may need further discussion).

Mh...i have thought that the examintation of such a virtual-emotional world might be a rather interesting way of mental masturbation:)

For me it all started with the phenomenon called 'ICQ' and a rather huge need of virtual hugs and caresses from: friends left home, virtual friends, anyone(!!!)while overcoming the first waves of the so.called cultural shock when arriving to the wonderful land of Oz.

Besides this there were the almost daily emails to family members...but of course those lines only connected me and a small circle...it was like a virtual private world:)

And today...8years down the road i check, read, comment on the blogs of friends; spend hours exchaning hugs and ideas on msn and skype....for millions of personal/global motivations.

one of these was hilariously presented at:
http://xkcd.com/406/
(dont forget to stop the cursor placed on the pic to see the 'sopracomment':)

well...i dont know what you, dear reader, may think of 'venting' but i guess other than those hugs and caresses..it may be one of the most valid reasons for spending more and more time in the matrix...

(uffa. now that i think of it i think i really have to further elaborate these ideas...with more caffé circulation in my veins!)

bonefire

walking through the dark garden became one of her obsessions lately.
she liked not to switch on the light
having to feel, rather than see the path she had to take
(like one dark night with a heavy bag on her shoulders and a hand
and another path somewhere far through a garden
leading to the house with red windows)
she liked to experiment in the dark
slow or fast
her heart beating with an everchanging rythm in her chest

she often stopped underneath a pinetree
and laying her back against its trunk she cried or wailed
falling through the darkness

the world around was silent and comforting
the mucis in her ears helped to throw up the
most terrible of her fears


but with time her habits changed and she often rushed past the tree
to stop at the corner of the house
and dance in the dark
her movements radiating
she gave birth to hopes
and passions
her sighs travelled through the night
and climed under a heavy blue blanket
somewhere at the feet of the green hills.