Monday, November 29, 2010

"I Don't Know"

When I think of an English phrase for showing off, or mimicking some accent, there is a phrase that comes to my mind before all others. It's as if the words are just below my forehead, in the folds of my skin. The words "I don't know" ring clear in a few different intonations, with various stressed syllables and intake of breath pauses. And a few times, I end up saying them out loud. And it is then that I realize that I am so stereotypical, so predictable. I am reminded with a sour pinch that I am a sham after all, and probably always have been. How could you know a language and still be stuck on one silly phrase for all your life? How can it be, that you cannot move on to something more mature?

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Happy Mondays

We were sitting in the midst of about three hundred million people, most of them smiling or laughing. All around us, we could see colourful posters advertising products offering happiness in different forms. The air was conditioned and super-cool, the ground beneath us shiny and clean. We were clad in comfortable, completely sweat free, in-fashion clothes, and were holding an ice-cream cone each. My flavor was chocolate, his vanilla.

Tough scenario to get frustrated with. Some would say impossible. But no, I was downright irate. Man, I was all ready to yank my ice cream cone into the face of the toddler walking past us, and have his mommy yell at me. Somebody, please, call an ambulance. They’d have a nice stretcher, which would take my weight and I’d swim past these happy shoppers into oblivious sleep amidst beautiful nurses.

“Why don’t we go to the bookstore again and lie on the ground with our faces down?”

“I don’t wanna. Anyway, they’d throw us out.”

“They wouldn’t. They know we love the place.”

“We do? I don’t even know why we go there.”

A’s face contorted into “What the fuck is up with my brain?” and I landed my head on the table with a thud.


We were now walking in the sunshine, beside a highway carrying about 30 million cars per second. God, I came so close to some of them I could see their seatbelt hooks. Of course. I missed the faces all together.

You know, there are just too many people in this world who are crazy about cars.


Coffee was sending steam into the chilled air between us, adding further haze to an already unclear premise. We were sitting in a café chock full of men in ties and black shoes (and of course, more clothes besides). They were talking (all of them together) in loud voices. They were clicking their laptop mice and tapping on their laptop keyboards. They were chatting with the pretty girl sitting across them in the short white satin skirt. They were munching cookies. They were ordering more lemonade with extra honey. They were calling their drivers up to tell them to bring their cars up the driveway.

They were doing stuff. We were not.

I stirred my coffee with a plastic spoon. “A,” I mumbled, “How about…”

“How about?”

“How about we become writers?”

Friday, November 19, 2010

In the Tall Grasses

I could take Shostakovich's Fifth Symphony
To the grasslands beyond the airstrip
And lie among the grasses
And feel the madness there.

Friday, November 12, 2010

minimalist, utopian hippie, street punk, romantic poet, urban hermit, medieval mystic. What am I? A flit? A bum?

Monday, November 1, 2010

The Convict

Whispering paranoid secrets to the wall
Paranoid utterances under the breath
To the wall
The convict sat up in sleep
He scratched his groin
Inspiring confidence in his balls
He was still man.