26 September 2010


mote |mōt| noun a tiny piece of a substance : the tiniest mote of dust 
PHRASES a mote in someone's eye a fault in a person that is less serious than one in someone else who is being critical.

21 September 2010

Emerald Gown

Surveillance: it is funny when you concentrate your being into a question and answers start to flow at your way, like drops of rain to be caught in buckets. today, I went through some stuff hidden in bottom drawers of poor writers, in the form of bits of course, and this was one of them which kinda hit home to this 'what is love' shit that your God has promised to go into. enjoy!


The sun is high in the sky, shining right into my open eyes. I still remember the dreams I just saw, dreams that came to me in this soft white bed. I was yet again in a boat, destination unknown, with the powers of the water being overwhelming. I cannot contextualize what actually happened, for dreams are so far from the normal chain of associations, but the emotions produced by the abyss still linger within. Why do I see these dreams of watery travel?

    My eyelids feel heavy of grease. I cannot get up. In the past I was lured up from the bed with thoughts of a breakfast. Nowadays even the shopping for cereals depresses me. Anxiousness appears to be arriving back to the front of my conscious awareness – reasons, words, actions, all the things from past days fill the contextual void of the emotions drawn from the dreams. That's why giving nutrition to this current existence of mine would be insane. I touch the skin above my ribs and feel even more miserable.

    The sun dives into a pack of clouds, but I can see it will re-emerge in minutes. Next to me is a woman sleeping on her stomach with her thick dark hair curled naturally as a crown. I love her, and she loves me. Too bad the happy ending has not arrived yet even though we came together already ten months ago. Instead everything just continues to evolve ever so precariously.

    I stare at her sleeping being, and become annoyed by her sheer ignorance of the emotions I have for the dream. I touch her shoulder and get blinded by the returning sun. My upper lashes form spectrums for my eyes before they force against the lower lashes. Even my eyes closed I can sense her awakening, I can feel the love in the air! Maybe I sense it with my nose, maybe with my skin. Is it as scent, a change in the air pressure? Now it is a stroke of her hand on my cheek. I'm pretty sure she is looking at me, at my face, for her bambi eyes are not blinded by the sun. I wish she would say something. Lately I've come to expect words from her.


I organize the coins in the cash register into nice small lines. The sensation of them intrigues me, thus stealing majority of my concentration to the tips of my fingers. I know cars  are passing by the window without looking, for I surely do hear them. It is almost the end of my shift, this is what I know to interpret from the rising amount of traffic. The day has been flying by even though only four people stopped by.

    I am wrapped with an essence from a bubbling internal source of happiness so strong it scares me. If I would someday shed this fear of mine, I sure would find out more about this source, but for now it is enough that I feel how it makes me feel. Never before the opening up of this source could I view work, cooking, walking with a dog, all commonplace, euphoric. Without a doubt, this source is like a gold mine!

    I know it must be love, what else could it be? I know it from the date of its birth, the day ten months ago when I saw the half of my heart running free, asking me to run to catch it through the night. And I am so happy I did. And oh what a sight my man is, even in the light of the day! His body is just the way the body of a man ought to be, and with that body he touches me with such strength and deliberation I wish I too had those virtues - just for him I will surely some day develop them.

    Too bad the 'things' are not perfect. There's ranting and panting, even tears and violence! Behind the beauty of my man, there must be something sinister. My source never allows these things to happen, yet they do happen. So there must be something wrong with his source.

    A customer enters the boutique, surfs around the first rack, then the second. Her purse looks familiar. I wish I could have red hair like hers, it shines in the light of fluorescent lamps like a jewel. My heart starts to race when my eyes get absorbed into an emerald gown in my left. It shines in the same shade as the red of her hair. I concentrate all my thought to the emerald gown, it becomes the only object in the room for me. Like has in the past, this worked in a minute or two, for now she is touching the shimmering fabric with her left hand and picking up the hanger with her right hand.

    'That gown arrived this monday, beautiful don't you think?'
    'Yes very, but maybe a bit too demanding for me.' Her begging startled me. Maybe it was just due to being humble in front the apparent future significance of that gown. How could a woman with red hair exist in an emerald gown without causing remarkable changes in reality?
    'I would suggest trying it on. From here it looks likely that the shade of your hair and the tone of your skin would be well served by that gown.'

    The woman greets me with a vibrant smile and strolls into the fitting room. My heart feels warm, like it would have a consciousness of its own, blushing for a mission accomplished. I don't know what is the meaning of the emerald gown, but it will have a meaning. Maybe the woman will meet somebody who lights the fire of her internal source while wearing that gown. Maybe she will be seen while wearing that gown by somebody who on that very second understands the nature of beauty and enters a bliss of its own kind. Maybe she will right now see herself wearing the emerald gown in the fitting booth and understand her own beauty.

    Impossibility of my thoughts becomes immediate when the woman with the red hair returns from the fitting room after less than two minutes since her entrance. She puts the emerald dress back to the rack, smiles at me, greets, and descends out of the front door.

    I go and pick the gown up myself, turn the hanger from side to side in my hand a few times, but see nothing which would indicate a reason for her very short fitting. Nothing wrong with the gown. Maybe it was the wrong size. How could it be the wrong size?


A day can easily start with the rays of sun, but still end up being dominated by heavy dark clouds fiercely spitting water. This is now. The narrow streets of a town made to be occupied by horse carriages is haunted by cars. I walk on the smallest side walk possible to a pharmacist, who looks at me with an unexplainable old mans glare while I purchase a pack of condoms. On my way back home the money stored into my pocket without a wallet burns a hole which leads me to walk a bit more in the rain. I go to a shop to buy pesto, olives and white wine. I want to serve my love today.

    Back home she is making coffee as I sort of ordered. There's a momentary hassle due to an old bottle opener breaking into the cork. A new one is found, the bottle opens up nicely, and so the incident remains in the past as meaningless as millions of other things. The TV airs news. I don't understand the language, so I just concentrate on cooking. The result is slightly too oily and salty, and the olives have unanticipated rocks inside of them. I am still waiting for words. There is none worth mentioning, so I grab the bottle of wine and climb upstairs.

    I don't remember how long I have been walking on the edge of this land. It has been so long, that I don't remember anything from the inland. I feel lost and wish somebody would hold my hand and escort me to a valley or maybe even to the proximity of a mountain. I sit down onto a persian carpet which looks chaotic and stimulating, a perfect surface for me to roll a joint on.

    I smoke and sit in silence. The weather outside of big windows of the top floor has evolved into a thunderstorm. Clouds move rapidly while occasionally producing electric discharges across the valleys above which they wander. I count seconds between sensory stimulus to my visual faculty and auditory faculty, out of interest of the distance of the flashes and myself. The storm seems to visit every valley nearby, returning twice to rumble just above me. The joint is long gone now, and I believe I can feel electricity in the air, and even imagine it empowering me. Maybe due to this belief I crawl into a tiny stupor.

    She enters the room. We need to start talking.
    'I have come to an understanding of our problems.' Her so often absent eyes light up into a spark of curiosity. I hate to have to be the one to open up discussions.
    'I am all ears, dear.'
    'At first I thought you were lacking in empathy, you must remember the arguments I put forward on that subject. Then I thought it rose from your family, the religion you were brought up into, the society you grew up in. You must remember these also, and your own reaction into these allegations, for without that reaction of yours, I would have thought of myself being very near to the truth.'
    'I was very angry at you.' Her one sentence answers to my deep analysis never stop to annoy me. I begin to roll another joint.

    'This aggression of yours was an important clue for me. For I don't believe in irrationality, I know you have a firm base for your aggression. It could have of course been my correctness, me finding the very secret reason for your bad behavior, but you seemed too distressed for this to be true. Also I was able to sense truly emanating love from you even in the very moments of your negative demeanor.'
    'You know I love you baby.'
    'Yes, that is the problem.'
    'What is?'
    'Your love.'
    'My love?' I give her the joint, watching her straight into the eye while she places it between her lips, and light it up. Her eyes speak of her being truly a bambi in the headlights.

    'You love me so much that it becomes impossible for you to function rationally. Inside, you perceive your love as such an everlasting burn, that you cannot believe something negative could ever come into being in the warmth of that fire. You rely on your heart only, floating contently on the waters of love.' I began to shake within, like I shake when the electricity leaves the air, like I shake when it is cold, like I shake when I am close to finding a small truth.

    'I still don't understand where the problem lies.'
    'Lies. You still occasionally lie to me. Why you lie to me?'
    'I don't know. You are beginning to distress me.'
    'You have promised me to control your feelings of distress when they arise from just having a conversation. We traveled quite quickly from lies to breaking promises.'
    'Why you do this?' she grouses, and I know I have hit the door of her irrational perception with an axe.

    'For I have the answer. This is all because of your love. Your love is immoral. It is so satisfied with itself it knows no boundaries. You love me so much that you live in an another space. In your space there are no problems, just your infinite love for me. You cannot understand any of these problems, and think of me as their creator, when in reality it is your blindness that is causing them. You insult me severely again and again, and don't learn from your mistakes after I have reasoned them out for you. I feel like everything is just repeating itself on a road to oblivion.' She gives the rest of the joint to me, and I take it as a sign of her wanting to finally speak.

    'Let me get this straight. You say that I love you too much, and that my love is corrupting my rationality. Can you remind me which one of us is happy?'
    'You are.'
    'Yes, I am. Being with you for me is a sheer bliss. I think about you all day, about you being alone at home, how I desire you, how beautiful you are...' She loses her concentration like an invisible late lightning would have struck her, and takes my face into her hands to kiss me.

14 September 2010


God: you know what guys. I just realized, that we are doing this stuff pretty much like how Plato used to do stuff when he was around

Satan: true, except that he was speaking through his contemporaries whereas you and me are kinda eternal

Horace puts it well

omne tulit punctum qui miscuit utile dulci, lectorem delectando pariterque monendo

anyway, why I called you was for while surfing online I found a new term. positive eugenics. really, I am not kidding. saw a dialogue on a social networking site, so don't really know all about this term in regards to how widely spread it is, what types of things does it relate to, you know. so I was just thinking, what was that you said about positive attitude?

God: positive attitude is what you need when looking at the state of humanity and thus not calling for positive eugenics

all life has qualia
all is open for consciousness

ah, what a great day today has been 
nothing makes life more worth living than life
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in the case of confusion: dyslexiaisokhere ät gmail.com