Ego Trip to Raspberryland

There are some blogs that I follow -very few, actually- and they definitely have more the character I would like to give to my own blog:  it´s mostly thoughts of people with some brain who discuss over interesting matters in a quite objective or impersonal, almost “universal” way, maybe taking off from something they read in the paper that inspired their gray mass. Or a word whose meaning they investigate. Or the sentence of an author that strikes them and which they use to dive into some complex and deep thoughts. 

  

Sometimes I wish my blog went more in that direction, yet I feel it cannot; and maybe even should not. Yet. I might be too egotistic, self-absorbed, or maybe only just too “teenagerly”, but I don´t manage - don´t want? - to write things in a universal, nearly-objective way. Since what moves me to write is something that hit my personal buttons and tickled my chords, it unavoidably talks about me. Even when it does not. Even if I try to hide myself so much that I write under a fruity pseudonym, I live in Raspberryland and I apparently earn my living by getting ripe. It might have to do with my perpetual ego-stagger, yes, but it´s ok, it´s fine, it´s beautiful this way. 

Sometimes I struggle with my blog not being the self-confident-realname-universal-objective-cool-trendy-gipsy-modern-sexy blog that I could make it be, but eventually you have to go look for the truth within yourself; my truth is this one, and I don´t want it to be any other way. If I can´t separate me, what I am, think and feel, from what I do - being it managing some small talk with a superficial client, playing tennis or writing my new-born-journal-like blog -  it means that I will write my new-born-journal-like blog with the wholeness of myself and truth that lies within. And I think that this is ultimately why I have a devotion (together with three-zillion other people) for Cheryl Strayed and her unabashed, fearless, disarmingly honest way of writing being just herself. Each and every of her fiber in each and every of her word.

If you think about it, there´s nothing more univesal than that. 

So this is how it works

This is how it works / You're young until you're not / You love until you don't
You try until you can't / You laugh until you cry / You cry until you laugh
And everyone must breathe / Until their dyin' breath

No, this is how it works / You peer inside yourself / You take the things you like
Then try to love the things you took

And then you take that love you made / And stick it into some / Someone else's heart
Pumpin' someone else's blood

And walking arm in arm / You hope it don't get harmed
But even if it does / You'll just do it all again

(ReginaSpektor)

So this is how it works. You start breathing again when suddenly you get the feeling that you are not alone with your thoughts, that even if you have the wrong job or maybe the wrong non-friends, the wrong environment and you were starting to believe that after all lots of people live the same ´wrongness´ so maybe you should get used to that, there are other people, hidden behind well-known faces, who are not as unresolved as you thought but just powerfully themselves. People with ideas, and with loads of words and with smiles and an incredible lust for life. It is such an exciting discovery that you start loading up like a rechargeable battery which has finally found the recharging dock. 

You start breathing again when you feel that the somehow hackneyed motto that we all should do more what we love and less what we think we should do is not necessarily a trendy empty slogan because there are people who do that, and they are normal: they have families and responsibilities and apartments to clean and jobs to pay the bills but, still, they unabashedly go their way. This sighting is at the same time thrilling and destabilizing, because, like in Lucio Fontana´s works, it rips the canvass and then you are forced to look beyond the slit. 

That´s when, instead of just blissfully breathing, you start panting a little, because you realize that what you have to do now is learn to just shut your mouth up when all you are capable of saying is how you are sure that you are being screwed and how this is not how you want life to treat you. And, instead of handing out invites to your pity-party, you start to really enjoy the moment. Even the silly, apparently meaningless, surely somehow wrong moments. Above all them. Because maybe, just maybe, these silly, apparently meaningless and surely somehow wrong moments when you are being screwed by life or by a beautiful semi-stranger are the ones which teach you something you finally need to learn. 

Like maybe to be less worried and more alive and enthusiastic.

And thereby relish the greatness of endless possibilities. Or just the greatness of life.

This is ultimately what freedom is, right? 

The day after surprise

oh man, and some people are interesting. 
danger

 

weird is in the air

Strange things are happening lately. 

Though at my perceived worst state of appearance, I assume I am unconsciously (and surely quite unwillingly) spreading misleading messages through the air. Otherwise I have no explanation of why so many men recently seem to believe that they are welcome to join me into my pants or at least to try. Or to address me like a professional hooker.

In 4 weeks I experienced:

- A 27 years old blond shallow yet somehow funny boy with whom I went out for a drink once who sent me at 3:30 am on a Friday night an email reading “Hi, what´s up? Want to come over?”. I presume he wanted to show me his stamps collection, at 3:30 am. *Not answered*.

- A 40-something years old, chain smoker, not particularly attractive but surely not stupid French man who, during an actually quite interesting yet not very original conversation about men/women managed to let me know that for him, an ideal week-end with a woman does not imply leaving the abode. “Oh, interesting. I have to go to the toilet; would you excuse me?”

- A 30ish very handsome Kneanu Reeves type who walks to me while I am leaving the subway station after a dog day at work saying how he noticed me in the train and if I have a boyfriend, no?, oh, then maybe we can hang out, maybe you are like me, an open minded person, someone who likes to have fun, you know what I mean. Yes, I know what you mean, and no, in this case I am not open minded, no. Oh, so you look for a relationship? Yes, I do. Oh, so you are conservative? (wait, wait…since when not screwing the first stranger who hits on you in a subway station equates being conservative?! I mean, I am very progressive but not a slut…please, please tell me that there is still a formal and substantial difference!). “Sorry, ´twas nice meeting you, I have to go”. 

- My 36 years old historic ex boyfriend of so many years who roughly got out of my life after meeting his new girl (fine) and who has not talked to me for exactly 2 years (not quite fine). Mr. Elegance, successful and appreciated attorney, decides to break the silence and get back in contact with me writing an email asking if maybe I could send him some sexy pictures of me, not necessarily nudes, maybe wearing sandals or nice lingerie, it´s ok if my face is covered.  And since I am so into charity projects, he would be happy to donate 50 bucks pro picture to any organization of my choice. “Ih Ih, how funny, oh, yeah and fuck off, ex-boyfriend. There is always a reason for that ex-”.

Now,

seriuously...

WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU GUYS ?!  GET SOBER! 

(just in what direction, please?)

surfing the wave, discover the realm

(thanks to Brother)

suspended in pleasure

Being in delightful company, these days.

How enchanting.

Good Grief!

(recently seen downtown...sigh)

someone´s gotta learn

one for the love, one for the faith

I saw your roommate tonight, I met him at a party where his solitude was looking for a companion. Like all our solitudes are. I saw your roommate, tonight, and my heart started pounding because immediately he dragged me to you, into your small messy room where, right now, you are sleeping in your broken bed, your daughter resting next to you on the mattress on the floor.  

There is no roommate without your shadow sticking on his back. There is no roommate saying that he knows what I am going through without you looking over his shoulder as a sneering ghost. There is only a tall blond German-Brazilian who unintentionally brings me back exactly to where I painfully walked away from, with a burden of sadness I am carrying with me every day. He brings me back to my lake of illusions and fake recollections, my infidel memories of you, where you were sensitive, difficult for sure, but where you cared for me. Yet that lake did not make it. It dried up, became an arid, sterile bed in which water and life have been cruelly burned by a merciless, careless sun.

There was never a you who loved me.

There was never a you who wanted to overcome the issues in your  life.
There was never a you who cared enough.

There was never a you who wanted to be with me, for real.

This is the icy river in which I had to swim, hard, fast, with all my left energy, as not to drown.

My river of delusion, bitter truth, badly put trust.

I wish I could see you again with my indulgent eyes, but you proved me too well how wrong I was.

I saw your roommate tonight and it made me shed two long, heavy tears, not one more.

One for the immense love I had for you which you murdered. 
One for my faith.    

age of aquarius

Ok, I changed my mind. This IS temporary a medical bulletin and hypochondriacs forum. My generally called cold has reached the stage “ear infection”.  I am on antibiotics, drops, pills, drugs and all that stuff.

But the funny thing is that, beside a incessant yet still bearable pain, I feel like my head was stuck in an aquarium. 

Bubble bubble bubble.   

What? Aehh? Bubble bubble bubble.  

I will officially start worrying when I start seeing fish.

gimme the third way

I am working a lot lately, travelling much more than I am used to, flying every week for a few days to a hot and sunny country and coming back to a continental non-predictable weather (mostly not hot and not sunny, though). The result is a mild, yet very much annoying cold which is declinating in every form a cold can possibly assume. Since this is no medical bulletin or hypochondriacs forum, I will skip the details. The fact is that this little health issue made me ask in loop: cui prodest?

I mean, it´s just a cold and it will eventually go away so that I will actually enjoy my meal instead of just gulping down calories without tasting anything at all, but, if I got caught in the plane viruses net within my third flight, how can my boss not be in the hospital with tubes coming out of his nose? 

The poor guy is stress in person also due to some restructuring my company is undergoing. He is doing an incredible job and, on one of our flights, he announced that he has been promoted: clap clap clap!

And then he adds "Yes, this is certainly a great satisfaction but...it means additional responsibilities and...I don´t know how I am going to manage it all". Short pause. Snear "I think I should start using coke". 

Joke aside (the guy is such a picture perfect family man that he wouldn´t even smoke a joint), the pondering question, again is: cui fucking prodest? For whom are we doing this? Why? For whose sake? So that we can show off the expensive car? So that our kids can go to international schools and our wives can have a boob job done after they are done with breast feeding? Yes, I know this is a quite banal and diffused anti-consumerism and lefty theme, returning over and over like Christmas and the World Championship, so no new brilliant sociological manifesto but just the consideration that...it makes me sad. I really do not get the point of this all, so, instead of running along, I am just walking on the side, moderately skeptical, pretending that I understand why they all run and that I am just warming up to join them. In fact, I am looking for the emergency exit. Which I haven´t obviously found yet, but which I truly truly hope doesn´t necessarily mean that I have to become a vegan post-modern hippy wearing organic-cotton ugly and yet ridiculously expensive garments. No no, that please no!

I want the third way. 

I am going to find a third way. Yes, I am. It´s one of the few things I really really want.