Today is my last chance to post December’s hug of the month. Sorry it took so long, but I had to wait for enough snow to fall before I could build this month’s huggable friend. So, bring on the drums, it’s time for you to meet my ultimate hug victim.
This hug of the month was posted on request. I wanted to linger a little longer with it, until the person it is dedicated to could actually get to see it with his own Internet connection, not from an impersonal PC at school. But it seems it was not to be, dear old friend. The show must go on. People want you. You see, there is this thing. Continue reading…
Today was a safe day. I could pursue the dreams and the dinosaurs. There’s only one problem – the world is getting excretophage. I saw a pigeon picking up little bits of dog excrement on the street today. My own dog ate her own poop yesterday, while I was taking a shower and she begged to be taken out. And to make things worse, I had to review Fallout 3. Each time the protagonist was ordered to use the John, he drank fetid water from it and got sick with radiation.
I ask again… is this right? Maybe I’m shamefully young and I keep missing details. But I don’t think recession should take the form of exaggerated recycling.
I sit and I stare. Wide as the monitor is, it seems today it can’t suck me into its deep universe. Blogging isn’t easy.
No, not today. Electric light hits my face, and my pulsating eyes. Sound intertwines with my silence in the far corner of the room. “Today I introduced myself to my own feelings”. Good ol’ Anathema. I twist my head like a rickety contraption. To scratch my thoughts against the sound. Blogging isn’t easy at all. Everybody thinks that squashing some words against bits and bytes solves everything. That with their words and thoughts the world is suddenly better.
And then the pain comes. The doubt that maybe you’re spamming not only the Internet, but the whole universe. The doubt that everything has been said before, and done. A glimpse of the fact that you’re probably just another one to round off the pattern in an array of feelings. That’s why I sometimes find it better to keep silent. Silence is confortable.
What does one year mean? One year means you can share a pillow but not your feelings. It means more make-up and higher heels. Numbness. That formal feeling Emily Dickinson describes:
After great pain a formal feeling comes–
The nerves sit ceremonious like tombs;
The stiff Heart questions–was it He that bore?
And yesterday–or centuries before?
The feet, mechanical, go round
A wooden way
Of ground, or air, or ought,
A quartz contentment, like a stone.
This is the hour of lead
Remembered if outlived,
As freezing persons recollect the snow–
First chill, then stupor, then the letting go.
This is the present: one year more seems to be one year less. One year, and you’re lost in your reflection, tapping your delicate reality to make sure it’s real.
I didn’t know particle accelerators were such a big fuss until I heard of the Large Hadron Collider myself 5 days ago. Can’t say I’m really psyched about it (“Que sera, sera”), but one thing is certain, people are acting much more interesting than they did before the imminent “Apocalypse” had been announced. It’s like they’re all reaching out to grasp for air, like they suddenly become alive and shake off their solid contemporary-specific boredom. I even met a couple who had decided to engage (or that’s what they were joking about) because they didn’t want to die and end it all without taking this step. Continue reading…