symptom zero

we walk on streets with empty lungs

sometimes we’re lonely we eat candy floss cherry yogurt

we cross the buried colours sometimes when we wait for the traffic lights somebody

is screaming behind us you’re the ones who killed the rain and we’re

sometimes lonely.

other times we hold hands that’s when the streets become narrow the sun

is hiding in my backpack near the steyr 40 sw whispering let’s blindfold him

noone will know that you shot me on thursday morning they will all look for you in the dark

no no i say sligning stars one by one let us play

see for every dead planet a little girl will mourn her mother the universe

stuck in an eyeless wrack will get my silence out of tune

and i’m

stuck in a half staccato getting stripped  of cardinal points.

(a dear someone asked me not to waste these. same person asked me not to waste myself. now, what am i doing here?)

a quick fix of melancholy.

So i lied when i said i will never bleed myself dry on paper. I’m doing it time and time again. And again.

For nothing can ever make sense. Not in my world, no way. Here is where i make the rules. Temporarily, on paper, they rule all interior comas, exclamation marks, fullstops. Momentarily, it feels good.

The rule says i shouldn’t make anything, but discover everything. Well, not everything per se, but as much as my intuition allows. I’m not a creator, and i will never be. I might be a master builder, or a circus person, considering the amount of times i stumble. Some say i’m a clown. Who am i to say they’re wrong?

When you say i don’t make sense, see that is when i am trying to discover it. I am not very quiet these days, what is in must come out, one way or another, most of the times not entirely favourable for the ones around.

My name is sara, i am 21, and i need to shout out loud. You make the sense, but i can’t grasp its meanings. That’s why inside here everything is being rebuilt; reconstructed; reinterpreted. I live in a world of words, and smiles, and grimaces, and touches that are felt 1000 times more powerful than intended. There are feather words, that float in my world’s sky for a while, touch the ground and then return to their perpetual wander.

There are soap bubble words, never meant to last. The atmosphere here kills them instantly (see, i’m a murderer, i dismiss uninteresting things with a fierce speed).

And the mountain words; their weight crushes me and all of a sudden this mind of mine stops. It is only then when i realise i am living on Planet Earth, not on some sort of poetic wonderland nobody gets what is about. And it bloody hurts. Every time i have to go out of my own self i hit my head against reality. It is mean, and cruel, and it bloody hurts.

I am still that sara, still backboneless, still stuck at the magic number 7 after all this time. I’ve created a frail self defence mechanism that is letting me down in stupid situations. It hurts and i start hurting. Selfish, i’m well aware.

But it’s either that or more of that. I live at a pace and intensity that slowly demolishes everything i’m trying to consolidate. I feel so much, and every feeling is so strong it annihilates me. It is self destruction alright, but it’s the only way i’ve learned how to be myself. Going on and off, living on slow forward and feeling on repeat.

I don;t want to be 10 years ago, i am not looking forward to the future. I am in the now, and i can only know what is going to happen 5 seconds from now. Maybe you know, i’m gonna start making some sense. Sense? Get real. Get lost, if that’s what you want.

I always get lost in order to get real.

Sometimes i get lost in the traffic of my own dreams. That hurts because it feels so real. It hurts because it is when everything falls into place, without me having to arrange it. It is so easy. Dreams are so easy. Black and white is so easy, i had to live in a world of bold colours. Thanks mum.

Sometimes i wake up and i don’t know if it’s still night or i overslept. That is when i am starting to unravel a new thread of ‘sense’.

I’m always swimming against the consciousness current. Don’t try to understand. I cannot. There’s nothing there.

ambulance

hospital doors open

a great white.

I could use a serial killer for my self destruction.

nothing quite like the taste of your own homemade forest fruit jam on a slice of ryvita early in the morning when you should be out there dealing with lloydstsb not listening to porcupine tree and having brekky. goodbye cruel world.

writing about food as of 16/04/09

A while ago lovely mina asked me to write about my food. I’m in no way a fan of haute couture cuisine or whatever you want to call you know, the pretentious and extravagant dishes. I’d much rather keep it simple and, as of last year, less meaty. You know, cauliflower here, aubergine at all times, broccoli for desert and soy-everything (including ice-cream). So far it’s worked, dropped one stone in one month without dying of starvation, i intend to go back to how much i weighted prior to coming to the land of fish and chips tasty murder.

But i do indulge myself, and i do binge bigtime, especially when i have friends to pamper me. I’ve been home alone for almost a week and one of my Chinese friends agreed to live la vida my style, but as it usually does, i had to comply to her rules. As if all the pork and prawns and sweets we had at home while watching Match Point, Synecdoche New York and Kiss me Deadly weren’t enough, we had to go to this Chinese all you can eat type of restaurant (one has to get used to Swedish buffets).

No sooner i had i sat at the table than i realised i was in some sort of Chinese food mecca. And god did we (read: I) eat. Duck and chicken and pork and prawns and pak choi and whatnot all at the same time, for a minute there i thought i’d explode. That did not happen, nor did i lose my appetite the following days.

However, my friend is now gone and i’m back praying my Montignac god would help me get rid of something that’s not fat, but muscle gained while going to the gym every single effin day (and there i was, thinking i’d lose actual weight). So far so good, back to veggies and fibre for dinner, and as my mum left me with some crushed walnuts that i refused to eat with the traditional mucenici for some reason, i decided to do something out of them.

That i did, and the result would make my grandpa proud. I used to eat this a lot as a kid, and the smell filled my room (yes, i do eat while checking my email thankyouverymuch) and my head with nice memories (not to mention the food filled my stomach rather nicely).

This is simple as one two three, but you can go crazy with it if your heart desires.

I used wholemeal pasta, crushed walnuts, cinnamon, fruit sugar and a ton of vanilla essence.

What you do now is boil the pasta, mix it with the walnuts and cinnamon, add the sugar and vanilla and eat. Sure, there are more ways to do it, but truth be told i was hungry.

This was sweet and healthy, tasty both hot and cold and oh so easy to make. I wouldn’t have left some for tomorrow, but that’s a wholelotta fibre to eat in one go.

ps. My Swedish lessons are going oh so well, tho i have to say people kind of stare when i walk and try to say those weird sounds. Happens to the best of us, so to speak.

This life of mine is killing me. With my heart already split in two, i’m looking for a third piece to add to this confusion puzzle. My mind wonders while my brain is still processing some recently learned Swedish words. 1 more year to go and then i might be gone. Not back home, for i have a twisted notion of the word, but to Stockholm. I’m seriously considering doing my MA there and i’m starting to take these little steps in that direction.

There are things i want to do, places i want to see, and i cannot decide if i want to leave the UK. I am working for a respectable (albeit too big) corporation, they pamper me with discounts for London’s main attractions (not that i’d want to do anything else than stroll along the smallish streets, alas), a good pay rate and what is most important a ton of respect (which is a nice change from my other workplace). I do this and that for a film director, I’ve seen my name credited on the big screen, met Nicholas Roeg and am making my own (crappy, mind) films, so mrs Life is giving me quite the royal treatment this year (if i don’t count the emotional foul play i’m in). and yet and yet.

I miss the excitement of moving, starting over from scratch and so on. On the other hand, i enjoy working hard towards accomplishing this new life i’ve started more than one year ago. The ‘miss’ factor is still there. What’s up with me and my enthusiasm wearing off so quickly? There are the things i know, and the things i have a notion of, but can barely understand. And as of late, it seems i’ve been concentrating on the latter, rather than proofing the others. And by concentrating i don’t mean trying to understand, but desperately hanging on to acceptance.

It seems that the only time i feel comfortable is when i am filming. I don’t mind doing 14 hrs without any break (as long as there is tea that is), i don’t mind the people around me not having a clue about what i am trying to say. It’s so different when you can actually visualise your thoughts and ideas. I don’t know how that goes, but sometimes i think the whole process resembles giving birth. And then there are the jokes, the quarrels, the oh-i-don’t-eat-pizza-let-me have-a-bite, the chinese food cooked by my chinese friends, girly sleep overs in the same house, days spent reading and writing, hours of brainstorming, you know, the works. The good stuff. The things that make one love the life. This is just my bit, to each his own. This is what makes me happy, and i know sometimes i exaggerate asking of everyone else to love it to the same extent i do. To sacrifice their nights, their health, all their braincells (if any) for this.

I’m sure at some point i’ll find people on the same wavelenght, but i don’t know if my duty is to wait or to go out there and look for them and new opportunity. All these thoughts are playing hide and seek inside my mind, it is confusing but at the same time quite nice. It’s more like writing a story without having a plan, you add things as you go along, but you also forget some.

This is just my one, and at this point, i don’t know where to take it. I need new characters new places and less gloomy feelings. As one step at a time does not really work in the world i live in, i’ll somersault through whatever lies ahead (then come back, think again, regret, but move on with another flip). Hejdå.

ps: nevermind my grammar, waking up at 4am, going back to bed at 10 and having a dream about a potential lover high on morphine make this bunny a less coherent one.

i’m still here if you need to know. drowned in a douglas coupland obsession, finding it hard to leave his books for more than a couple of hours. i started a new murakami and i hope i’ll get to finish it before i start another coupland. my bookshelf is stacked with unread books, i’m waiting for the day i’ll have all the time in the world to finish them, but hey, this day may never come.

it’s been a full week, and a full month for that matter and already a full year. i got to sleep 8 hrs in the last 3 days, but i’m feeling relieved i managed to do everything and i did it all by myself (which is pissing me off, but sod group work anyway).

i’m starting a new job on monday and i’m not sure if i’m looking forward to it anymore. i found what they say is true, sometimes you wish for something with all your might and when you get it you just can’t be happy, for it cost too much soul.

but nice things are still to come. and i’m still here giving blood keeping faith 🙂

take these hands

life is funny these days. so funny i’m not even laughing anymore.

250708

I might be Paris sick. I miss the sun and I miss Mona Lisa and I miss Tom Waits and I miss Notre Dame. I miss what could have been and I miss all that really happened. for a minute there I lost myself.

I was waiting for the train today and familiar places came to mind, unreeling from a 35mm Bucharest existent only in my lucid dreams. I am starting to become the living proof of a celluloid homesickness, and this train won’t take me home.

this train won’t take me home.

this train won’t take me.

my new pen’s awesome, but it’s nothing like my old one

So last night i dreamt that i was writing a poem and at 7 in the am when rain managed to wake me up i remember i had this.

funny thing is, i don’t love my pen as much as i loved the former one.

la ultima vez que estuvimos todos juntos

this must be some sort of summer.