Sunday, May 22, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Sunday, May 15, 2011
stream of unconsciousness
Stream of unconsciousness brings me to self.
Accept and embrace, stop and rewind,
Observe: a curious fusion of right and wrong
Tied with delicate strings that are like nerves,
Easy to touch and hard to find.
I leave this unnatural righteous pose behind,
Entangled in veins of remote sanity,
My unconsciousness only sees reflections of shadow and light.
I’ll tingly creep along your skin,
Leaving looks-kisses along the way
You’ll never get ready, you’ll never get better,
Believe it or not, I’m new today.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
part of me
Memory is more that just a mind’s filing system, it molds you all way through, gets reflected in your judgments, reactions, view of the present. How strange it is then to feel someone else’s memory transmitted to you?
… I got 2 ugly plastic bags of old photographs. My grandfather’s photographs in dog-eared partially torn albums, heaps of them in smaller plastic bags, those originally destined for milk. Soon they covered all the floor of the room, hundreds of eyes looking at me, around, at each other, smiling and frowning, filling the room with long-forgotten emotions. So strange it was to recognize the faces even if you've never seen them that way. So strange it was to feel one’s own presence in each of them, so REAL it was, almost as if they evoked my own memories, which just somehow faded in the course of time like images in the straight sunlight. It almost felt like in a second, like in pictures from 'Harry Potter', people will start moving and talking. Some of them showed my family like i’ve never seen them, in others they had the same face expressions I saw with my own eyes an eternity ago. I cried several times out of that overwhelming recognition, out of inability to fathom that these people that look so alive, that are so dear to me are not here anymore.
Throwing old photographs away is a crime. It’s like throwing one’s own memories to trash.
I now think the charm of old photographs is not about the film. It’s in the fact that people back then still didn’t learn how to pose and wear picture-time smiles. Those smiles were real.
… I got 2 ugly plastic bags of old photographs. My grandfather’s photographs in dog-eared partially torn albums, heaps of them in smaller plastic bags, those originally destined for milk. Soon they covered all the floor of the room, hundreds of eyes looking at me, around, at each other, smiling and frowning, filling the room with long-forgotten emotions. So strange it was to recognize the faces even if you've never seen them that way. So strange it was to feel one’s own presence in each of them, so REAL it was, almost as if they evoked my own memories, which just somehow faded in the course of time like images in the straight sunlight. It almost felt like in a second, like in pictures from 'Harry Potter', people will start moving and talking. Some of them showed my family like i’ve never seen them, in others they had the same face expressions I saw with my own eyes an eternity ago. I cried several times out of that overwhelming recognition, out of inability to fathom that these people that look so alive, that are so dear to me are not here anymore.
Throwing old photographs away is a crime. It’s like throwing one’s own memories to trash.
I now think the charm of old photographs is not about the film. It’s in the fact that people back then still didn’t learn how to pose and wear picture-time smiles. Those smiles were real.
Monday, May 2, 2011
Sunday, May 1, 2011
windows
They have always fascinated me. A window is a symbol of silent observation. Windows house worlds.
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