thursday, march 7th. 2002
a series: the puppy chronicles

i get a dog.

holy christ.
i see her and my heart explodes. instant love. she is THE BEST DOG EVER!!
niki decides to reject her on sight cause she's a she and not a he.
niki wants a MALE BOXER so this little one must go, apparently..

ha. i'm making her mine this very minute says my heart. and i lie, coerce, cheat and embarrass justto get her to stay the night.
tomorrow we'll exchange her, i promise.

(ha)

this is the brightest, least scared dog i know. she's so brave, unafraid of anything, explores like an intrepid traveller...

she's perfect for me
this is love

her first night in the household is spent peeing thrice on my mums bed, to the LARGESCALE disgust of my mum..

the trick is to submerge yourself completely underwater and try holding your breath for ¼ of a minute. 20 seconds. your ear dums will amplify sound like a released spring and your eyes will bleed into light. the dancing of blood red spots that twist and turn inside your head. and the smell of nothing. nothing.


how late is late?

its too late already.

we have arisen and gone now. gone to innisfree. and have you ever seen purple linnets wings? the evening full of menacing things? i have. yes, i am stoned. yes, i am at work. funny. last night i had another dream. a beetle that crawled huge as my arm along the terrace floor and my aunt jumped on it and squished it except it caved in upon itself like rubber and my ex boyfriend came down from australia looking a corpselike australian white with blood corpuscles in his nose. and my best friend playing coy with him. me watching it all, the feeling of bugs and scratchy things crawling up legs, my arms.

i must not do this again.
i must do this again.
i must not.
i must.
i..
i...


.


focus.
is what is.
required
here.



you should try a mushroom when you're in the middle of a formal place. people with heads on sticks. rats and children following you out of town


*

sleepy ninja. a post-coital chat

the fantasy of life. you know how its bled into? slowly dyed in with your colur, hair plaited, skin creamed, eyes mascara-ed into a shade of fantasy so woven into you that you are indistinguishable from your dream?

weaving strands into daylight beginnings, this is your nightmare, this is your dream, this is your life and this is a mockery.
how does it feel?


the moon sets on unhappiness like a duck on heather, quietly, patiently.
what more can it hatch? in the total animal egg of time there is no period to it all. ceaseless unending rotting with lies, grins. fake smiles and stabbing, laugh a mocking one.

you're so tricky
how did you get so tricky?
how did you get so rotten?

because when you walked away you broke my mind into a thousand pieces and years from now, years from now i'll be duller, less sharply in focus but still, the only jagged piece will be the thought of you.

you might not have planned it because you loved you said
but here we are and this dead animal, time, it sits on my front porch and stares at me with bleak eyes.

am i unaffected apathetic one with not a lot to say and every step a shuffle>
i hate corridors you know, it always feels like someone's watching me behind the corners i pass, someone lying in wait for me ahead. stalkers must lead such a weird existence, always waiting waiting. what patience is thereby developed and that's a funny word, this family of words thereby therefore thereunto hitherto herewith forewith hereafter thereafter father mother sister daughter son is the only oddball that doesn't quite fit into the chant.

obscure chant and what will YOU have sir? a long island iced tea? VERY good sir, one long island iced tea coming up, hold the lemons, we already have a prize leMONHEAd here. would you be needing sugar sir? such a sour countenance would demand some sweetness we'd think...

...all a man needs at the end of a hard day is a little bit of sweetness hahahahahha i read that somewhere, some black hoe-digger in some garden labour chaingang who knows? came home to his fat mama and said:"gimme some of yore sweetness, mama!" hahAHAHahahahahAHa...

this radiohead live show at suffolk really sucks. thom sounds as if the vocals are such a big DRAG and that he'd rather be at home in BED slEEPing. or shagging. or watching bad tv. he sounds DEPRESSING and this music is fucking well depressing ME. i want some godspeed... ethereal violin, don't ever stop your crying. lift me up in a cloud of sadness and show me the sores and sighs of the world, this christmas string of lights, these broken trees and faces in the dark walking, watching, stumbling..

fUCk but i shouldn't have taken this pill.
i can't think right now. the clock's ticking is so LOUD i can hear it above these violins, these goddamn minute hands fucking ticking ON and ON and stop them someone its a scary fucking sight watching time moving forward its so goddamn relentless no bloody surprises ahh but this is a good song. now he sounds like he's finally stirred from his goddamn apathy...

the tinkling in that song always makes me think of christmas, those little remote figures that move in glass globe paperweights, with the snow falling on their pretty little figures, eyelashes. "this is my final statement" and no, no surprises please...

should i sleep now? i must end this thought though i'd like to go and on but my fingers hurt, i've had a long and rambling conversaion with no one in particular and now i must get myself some tea, try to come down, contract my pupils before my mum gets home and shrieks.

~grilledjürgendeus?ta

love letter from a diary"

sigh


have a merry christmas. i love you and hope you always love the world as much as you do now.


i've been sad. and cried all day. i don't know why.


maybe i shouldn't listen to the music i do.


i will sign off now because its all too much effort. have to get to bed so as i can be better and get to work tomorrow..


see you.
much love.

but what about the sleeping silence?



it lies sleeping in the shadowy depths of forever, undisturbed
by random millennia, warm in its central heating.

its back is striped and its arms are furry.

once when the snow set upon the ravines with a blast of artic fury,
it was quite articulate in its disapproval. it awoke and howled like
some crazed beastie, sending shivers down the spine of anything alive
(and possessing a spine) in the area.

but then nothing was.
alive.
then.

now it's sleep has been unbroken for two earth ages,
though it has rolled around twice to find a better position.
the third time might be the last but you never know with sleeping silences.

waiting to be found.
and what will it do once it has been?

dot dot dot


?



~grilledjürgendeus

what are we?


What are we? A child ensconced in warmth inside a misty car gazes out at the dawn. Sleepy-eyed she waits to awake as she stares out her window. Streaks of condensation on the glass. Early morning light. The quiet.

Where have we come from? With the sleep still in her eyes she stares at passing landscape, cows on the ascent, twisting. Watches clouds settling on mountaintops, the occasional peasant, bent and speedily left behind.

Where are we going? Down in the valley, a village blurred and smoky arises out of the shadows with the mist just rising around its gabled roofs. Those little gray houses and their washing. In the sky, birds.

What are we to do? Taking his eyes off the road for a second, he looks at his child. He wants to stroke his hand down her hair but he is unsure. In this moment she is mysterious and beyond his understanding. This child, this moment, it is too private.

Who are we? A gray world of water and light enfolds her round-eyed silence in a bubble of quiet. And this is how she grows. Within this bubble, in this drowsy acceptance. She does not know about villages, she longs only to touch the noses of the cows they pass. They look so soft.

What are you thinking? If it were to rain it would be glorious.

~grilledjürgendeus?tasha.

get your head out of the mud baby...

you know, its almost uncanny how little i can predict my own behaviour. i know how people are always going on about what they are and their inner selves and such a what a therefore yes. but all i know about me can be fit into a particle accelerator and all i can predict about me can squeezed into the dream of total atomic mass. i know what i want that metaphor to mean, so i'll stick with it.

like yesterday for instance. i mean, i come across the freaked out pages of a pie chart lover. *deleted from the estate of marilyn monroe* and what was that? not a silk stocking, not a billet doux... but a dead thrush. does anything make sense anymore? at the market last evening, a catty femme made me bite into a raw green pepper pod... i did it on the unspoken dare of discovery -- i didn't KNOW it was pepper! a blazing inferno in my head! the charred remains of my tongue! man, now i know what it feels like to have the top of one's head shoot up and away, smoking into the sky! just like it ahppens in the cartoons! i thought i was blinded for sure...

so anyway, i end up drinking this vile tasting frogspit type soda juice thing with the eye of newt and tail of bat in it i'm sure, from a stall nearby (if i hadn't drunk something to put uot the fire in my mouth, i would have died of asphixiation - i was too distraught to even breathe) - and consequently i'm down with the heaving forties. i'm doing the dance alone and under my own aria - retches timed at every half hour doctor, she's labouring but they're coming along well.. oh well oh well..

all of which is completely random and has nothing whatsoever to do with my behaviour, predictable or otherwise. so where was i? just about to get to bed . g'nite daddies and mommies, sistah's gotta brand new bag :)

~grilledjürgendeus?tasha.

dreamt of a future -

a future where all tensions leave us
a future where no sparrow gets accidentally chopped by a blade



a circuit you can race on

i'm high
so high


i need a blanket
thank you for reading my mind
i am a voice receding


adios

Cacoëthes Scribendi
(An itch to write)

Thela hun ginjeet...............
(or the deception of the thrush)

"What does anything MEAN basically?

..... And a big hello and salute to the Bunnymen & the Chameleons who helped show me What It Means To Be Free.

Because as I sat in the court of the Crimson King watching peacocks strut around the thrones of solid gold and feeding the perfumed ladies lies (biding my time with the courtiers) ... I noticed Asteroid B612 skulking embarrassedly down the gullet of distant space, trying to disappear.

And then it did.

(*a shrug is called for here* There are more things on heaven and earth Natasha, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.)

-----> Take dust motes for instance; their incessant sunlit dancing. Always dancing! Mad, frenzied reaching out... frantic spirals racing toward incandescent oblivion!
Trying to dance ourselves out of existence are we?
Riddle me THAT!

Amusing.....


But but but I turned off the road HERE, officer, and I found no place to park!!


And shall we go then, you and I...
when the evening is spread out against the sky
like a patient etherised upon the table?
(into the transitive nightfall of diamonds)

Did I get the celebrated tow-truck treatment, do you think, complete with visits to the balding Deputy High Commissioner in Charge of Parking Violations thrice weekly and four times on weekends in the 'burbs? Did he take my pulse too? (For when I was young I wanted to drive a lorry, bright yellow like hardhats in the rain, construction barrels in bloom yellow, swanky as the devil. One twist of a ponytail and Hello! I'm Bill! You're friendly neighbourhood lorry driver! I can build you anything with Mechano sets and Lego! Speak to me - speak to me - speak to me - - - -)

No, he didn't.

I used to be so good at that funny stick game... prising sticks delicately out a jumble under the unblinking gaze of eagle-eyed cousins waiting for as slip of hand. A little heavy breathing made the game more interesting) ...... (And some things never change)

My moments in the sun.
Why are they so important?

This flashback life.



Watch the little girl at play, taking out memories one by one on rainy days and clapping her hands in glee - how they sparkle! Hold them up against a dirty sky (they don't make them like they used to anymore) and - - - - - AND who will point out the difference between cheap imitation and beaten gold if to the uninitiated tongue it tastes the same? Is reality definitive outside us? And - - - - - AND what if - like me - something else preserved its toys well into the age of senile remonstrance, past their usefulness, past everything's prime - what if memory really IS a cold bedfellow when the night could be warmer than all the oven fires in all the oven homes of children's fables in the 70s - what if WHAT IF?



I don't know. I grow too old to play. Inside me something weighs as heavy as lead mi corizon esta triste... And yet my heart is a storehouse, filled nevertheless with many-hued things of brilliance and splendour, objects d'art I will never part with. And so I remain, contemplating the sanctity of the past. De mortuis nil nisi bonum... but that is bunk. History is bunk! said some famous statesman and Nietzsche died believing that there was nothing but this corporeal existence, this saturated form.


I am a visitor in my life on a night like this. I wander down twisting corridors, touching this, dusting that - and a sweet melancholia settles my drugged blood in peaceful waves of blissfulness.


drugs?


drugs!
The five primary types : analgesics, anaesthetics, hallucinogens, stimulants and depressants. The wonderweed, of which I absorb vast quantities now and then, is a hallucinogen... tragic, as I always thought of it as stimulant........ But at least I was right about the food groups. All you need for a life of health and well-being, children, is one representative of each of the major food groups taken DAILY!


Well, I've had my sugar and grease and booze, all I need now is a caffeine and then I'm done, I can go home.



Something to wing its way heavenward (some nights I fantasise):


may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

- e.e.cummings



************************************************

a prune for a PLUM

so well i had a late saturday night. or should i say early sunday morning? sleeping in my car... not. weird dreams that reflected strange fears (are you scared of prunes? do you cringe before that giant prune in the sky that will rain its wrath down upon mankind for our lawlessness and wicked ways?)

(just yesterday i read about a kid who got trampled by a camel in the sands of time.)

(camels feature prominently in my remininsces and i always try and work them into any discussion you see. this is all because of the camel terror of my childhood where once at the zoo i smelt the breath of this ancient bad-tempered beast close up before screaming a blue streak and leaping into the brave arms of my father)

(if that wasn't pure tripe i don't know what is)

(right. and now for end of these parentheses...)

just a note for the day, its been good, hey ma, i'm alive and i don't need your money. what i need is an educayshun so i can make speeches on tv and talk about the end of global warming and the spacetime equation and how leptons are quarks with idenity crisis problems really and how sunil dutt and rajesh khanna the two bengal tigers at the zoo are only ambassadors of mankinds expanding love for its animal brethren, so what if they are sick and listless with brilliant orange coats are dull with neglect. love is compromise and understanding when your partner fails to give you what you need to live.

i must stop now or this vein will be too saturated to cut open tomorrow.

*gag* and a couple of highballs needed for obscurity


OF ALL THE FUCKED UP WAYS TO LOSE A FUCKING FOOTBALL MATCH!!!!



3 : 0 !!!!!

what the fUCk was going on at Old Trafford????



(vomits silently into a roll of toilet paper)


*excuse moi

and dogfish puff bubbles in the deep

its been a long day. i've been working at a pc for the last month almost 24 hours, little food, hardly any sleep, images bombard their way into my head and inside me the voice that would scream LET ME OUT is quiet, tired, my throat fucked from smoke and drink and manic speech, the world has lost its fullstops.

meherjui daryush and kiarostami abbas and yes even makhmalbalf mohsin are great burning lamps in the halogen starred sky of cinematic tears but there is one silenter and more unknown, one who would not reveal the face with many mirrors for the mirrors all lie and this i know and this was told to the ancients for which no self-respecting greek came to the defence of a 72 year old wise man perhaps the only the world has known - when he was executed and slowly the veil of death crept in silence over his prone body, wrinkled wisdom snuffed out with a sip and centuries years of eyes that follow his life and breathe his soul out over beer mugs like opium smoke and the mists of a himalayan mountain peak so cold and did you think numbness could be this invigorating?

i - i wish i were laying me down to sleep for the dawn sits far on the horizon, all is dark and all is silent, a faint memory of music swirls across my lap and slips noiselessly to the floor and i want more you know, i always wanted more, when they came to tell me this was it, this was all there was really, i couldn't scream, i lay there and watched the gulls circling over the sea and through the sun streaming in and onto me, my hair, the bed, i saw it all as i knew it should have been, soaring.

my ceiling is extraordinary for the years i have lived it has lived and absorbed my thoughts it has like waterpaper soaking up the rain and streaked now with wisdom now with memory many many nights do i find my peace just staring, dry eyed in the dark, it is not wise to think i say and retire to my soul's thought chamber alone and chanting obscure quotes whose authors long dead have been buried now under the weight of critical thought but have you ever heard music, music that could make you rise up with no reason for rising straight up from your chair right in the middle of a meeting with twenty faces puzzled looking at you and waiting for a comment you aren't going to make because it was a reflex like the way you react when dirt gets in your eye, blink, sudden and strong, just with the memory of a movement in an orchestral manoeuvring that earned some band lots of money and kept the publicity machine churning and that is the dirty truth and it is the hardest to accept because it is dirty, it is impure but here it is, here it comes, we all make money in the end...

maybe if i knew the secret and i had the answers and i could speak the truth about the universe once and for all, they wouldn't believe me anyway or if they did i would have fan clubs and loyal supporters rallying at my speeches with little flags and placards and maybe someone would hate my guts and form anti-me groups and maybe i would be murdered by a violently unamused person one day and i would have made a lot of money by then and lived all over the world, for richer or poorer conditions, all depending on the convictional pretensions i hold for the time.

maybe i should stop now.