Hug-a-snowman

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. Tha’ 1.80 m snowman. You know I usually post a short bio of my featured friends. I could try and do the same thing for my snowman too. I think he had a short and happy life, this one.Probably about one day, before it melted to smithereens. Why is this snowman better than all the snowmen out there? Nothing special, it just happened to be the one I built for the purpose of hugging. It’s enough to shape an object with a thought in your mind for it to come to life and be unique. It’s what you think when you look at it that makes it special. So this is my frozen, lonely hug of the month. Me hugging an object, me hugging my own thoughts. Me melting myself in a squeeze between my soul and reality.

Happy holidays! And a happy freezing New Year!

Sirius

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. I feel shattered most of the time, but I have people around me to teach me how to go on, how to get back into my senses and get a grip of myself. Surprisingly, Sirius here was one of those people. You might not believe it. I despised him myself once for his slow way of acting, for his sumptuous way of outliving life. Sirius is something of Emily Dickinson probably (and no, I don’t mean he’s gay). He has few friends, but his life is rich with thoughts and senses. He can love an idea till the very end. As I was saying, I despised him for that at the beginning. Because I have a fanatical way of pursuing my dreams and I can’t imagine what waiting can be like. If any of you out there have read “The Perfume” (by Patrick Suskind), then note that Sirius was a kind of Grenouille - quietly waiting for his dreams to lay out for himself, crawling in an indefinite mass of art and good taste. Even his family name reminded somehow of his destiny. Margineanu, which can only be translated like a sort of (Marginal-ickinson or McLeftAside, i guess). He never intruded, although he had the right to. He was too smart for most of this city, and yet, he never burst out with discontent. He only had one dream: to take on playing the guitar. After he graduated high-school, he stayed at home for one year to pursue this dream of his, to my huge surprise. I almost burnt him on a stake at that time, thinking of his ultimate waste. But it was not so. Sirius is studying music in London now. Trying to play out Scar Tissue, by Red Hot Chilli Peppers. He doesn’t have any musical background (he was most into science in high-school), but he seems to be doing a fine job at least. I hope to request an autograph from him once. And yeah, I goddam think he looks Norse.

One hug is worth a thousand words, and a thousand stories.

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.

Dreaming what has already been dreamed

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. 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.

Present

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,
Regardless grown,
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.

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.