13 April 2011

Ponder pounder


questions pound the insides of my mind in the morning sun. could I jump out from here, escape maybe from the ear? walking down the street as the sun shines from the east I wish to could just switch to someone else and head south.

yet the sun reassures everyone of the presence of spring, while the dust scraped off the streets by studded tires flies through the air, filling ignorant lungs surrounding hearts awoken to the will to find the nearest beer garden. later, as I stand queuing to use my last cash for the cheapest vegetables in the city a girl of thirteen or fourteen walks by wearing the smallest and tightest possible skirt. today ignorance is a bliss.

when I was eleven I met death for the first time. it was april fools' day and what I initially thought was a joke turned out to be the hand of the reaper inside the frontal lobe of a loved one. a mind too young to handle it all took the body out of the situation, and in a back room had its knees hit the marble floor. 

today I remembered that life tried to make up for what happened to my knees some months later, the next summer I guess. I had gotten a pair of rollerblades form a girl whose backbone had grown to form an S, and was trying them out on the street in front of our house when I began falling down. in the second or so before my knees hit the ground a voice inside of me had enough time to say this is going to hurt

but boy was I surprised when all I felt was a soft blow to my knees, thanks to pads I had forgotten I was wearing. 

a body wiser than mind probably tried to teach me something that day, and maybe from there on that something which had died and gone to heaven decided to try to live again. and it all was well again by the time I was thirteen or fourteen, having had just found buddhism and had had my first trip. ignorance was a bliss.

in these past days my knees have dreamed about hitting the streets covered with leftover sand. why? what the fuck do they know?


in a darkened living room two women aged 22 drink whiskey. born on the opposite sides of the planet, these two came together in the most decayed city there is - rome.

“I saw your boyfriend. twice this week.”
“where?”
“in trastevere, begging for money.”
“god.”

sitting on a black futon lost in time, sharing the space with only a squirrel in a cage by the window, the one with the blue eyes feels a sting in her tear ducts and goes on to ask,

“did he see you?”
“one time, yes. I said hello as I was walking past. then he took a few minutes to work it out I guess, because he started calling my name. but I was with a bunch of people and didn't really feel like stopping and having a chat.”
“how did he look?”
“fine.”
“I don't get it why he hasn't just left rome.”

the blue eyed one gets up, walks to the kitchen to split a pink grapefruit in half, and uses a fork to dig out the juice and the meat of the fruit into two tall glasses. back in the living room, she mixes in some poor lauders. 

“he is so weird,” says the woman from sydney and sips the fresh drink in her hand, her eyes burning with the sort of strength one can only imagine stemming from years of hard work and hot sand, “I mean, like just disappearing all the time. days at end. and not coming to meet you and not getting into contact. I don't know how you do it. I need a man I can depend on.”

her pondering blue eyes stare into the empty space between here and nowhere, and from that sphere they appear to derive her ever so quirky remarks.

“I have this one friend from africa who's thirty-eight I guess. we've known each others since last summer and have become really good friends. a week ago I went to see him and we smoked and stuff and I asked him what does he think about this situation of mine, honestly,” she pauses, takes a sip and focuses her eyes on the green pair of her nine eleven born soul mate, “and it took him a while but he admitted that he had done the same with his ex wife like a decade ago, when he had had issues with his visa. he didn't take contact to her or anyone for like ten days because he wanted to sort the shit out himself.”

the squirrel comes out of its small artificial nest and stares at the women on the other side of the room. the small living room in the middle of a big apartment has nothing in it that fits the building itself. instead there's japanese furniture, old playboy magazines from the states, two foreign women and a pet squirrel who knows this is not the place for political correctness.

“it is hard to understand the logic of niggers but well, I respect people for rolling in different ways. I used to think I need a man I can depend on, too, but that's bull. it just makes me dull if I have a wall by my side who provides for me and shit. if I have a douche who loves me I am more proud of myself than when I have a tool who loves me. and are there any other kind of men, really?”

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