SAD NOT YET? Page #2

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(Now, our little story teller mermaid is very angry, because the author get a little bit more ahead of himself, and parade with so many characters, in fact three – laugh, if you want, but it sometimes sounded like a school girl choir on the point of early menses explosion – and presented us the fact. He's single, he is searching, God's know what. He listening awfully exquisite music, niche they called it. As said it above, he doesn't fast, that is, he doesn't seem to be a very really religious man, but he prays. God, how does he pray a lot. Nevertheless, searching for perfect moments, and cleverly bypass the innuendos of the people which he lives with, or that happen to cross his path, he hit almost always the solitary spot. That's it, you got it, it is his story, not mine.)

In the context of him being Glam, and funny, and a bit undertone, he managed to rescue 200 souls, and redeem the conversation over one night.

Maybe he is a Second Life-r.

No, I don't think so. Beside he doesn't comprehend the skills necessary to make “It” going, you know, he is a more wetware type of user...

Uha, with all those midnight vultures ready to attack him, and others, with annoying gadgets and extremely noisy way of making themselves visible...

Right, he veered, somehow abruptly but with good outcomes, I would say, to grounding, bonding and the like.

Cool.

Don't use it, please. It makes me sick and it gives you the scent of one of these Babylomans that crave something that doesn't exist...

Yet.

Yet, and offer something that doesn't resist.

Like all these micro-accelerated work-site-based revolutions for party people...

You're being rude, maybe they've done to you something up there.

It doesn't even matter any more, I love my sun, it loves me back, I got all the friends I could wish for...

But no booze and new books!

Right, see you've already started to know me a bit.

Arctic!

What is that?

A word, funny isn't it? I'm repeating it as soon as Grig the Mig pop-up. And those brownies that I was telling you about... No, honey, the other ones, are from a short shot in adolescence with a lot nose-playing, involving sports and fewer than expected girls. See, i'm already giddy. Anyway, Ilinca, Ioana and Raluca had been disqualified for the reversed 21 Grams-routine, instead of cleaning the toilet sits, after their brothers, got married. Decos, all the way through!

Neighbors are having again, a lot of that sex, or...

Fish!

Yeah, and the missing white cat.

All these nonsensical talks from commuting through town, and marvelous looks with animals walked to the doctor, when not attended by anyone else, seems so futile in the grand scheme of true believers that wait and wait, and successfully bite: forever and ever till the end of movie.

He forgot what he wanted to say about army.

It was most certainly something strongly related with religion.

Shut up and go!

It is cold outside, we cannot go out for smoking, aah, walking.

Yes, but that on four wheels is walking you.

But that's the whole point, they use gas, water, lighting, not toying with them for fun. It follows suit sadness, nausea.

You are not family, nevertheless we can still be friends.

I don't understand how can you manage being a Doctor.

Are you deaf? It is for drinking alone and safeguard a good-night sleep.

What is the difference from sleep tight?

Sleep tight means that you are walking or writing or whatever too fast, and you need only relaxation, not deep deep sleep.

Then deep lucid dream...

It's a story, it is not really an invention, but it's a silly way to bypass the word deja-vu, deja-vecu, deja-ecoute, and of course deja-oublie.

Funny how secrets travel sometimes. We find old acquaintances that nod from behind the wheel, or passerbies that hold strong with their powerful look. Nothings has really changed lately, but a lot of things looks different, almost like we are a mixture of living and dying, alive and dead. The crazy eyes tell it all: I'm with you, you are like me, come on, let's find something to eat, drink something and fly on the road. All Theology, beside not being a real science put us all into trouble, making us believe, or at least feel, that those who believe, or practice in one way or another have to make excuses for not being Gay, or not loving all gays and hide from the agitated rest in the Ruins of Orthodoxy, or over-praying on their home made altars, like in a postbabylonian cave. Here everyone send the mixed signals of not being heard by God, not loved by their neighbors, not properly fed or sheltered and so on.

That fact that me and you are not covering our trees in white with the advent of Spring season, it is not a sign of dementia, but of anorexia, poor rooting, not poor processing.

We cannot talk these things one by one. There is not time for that, although it is the proper time, and beside pharmaceutics, interior design and clever toys or board games, we have no excuses for letting the workers trample our own work, or mending and re-patching the same workings, because mad-cows or amok stricken human fellows can't stop throwing all kind of debris or (un)useful things in the toilet. The waters are sick, and it is not a novelty that Gayans watch with their minds from far, very very far, the behaviours of users like us. The same holds true for the other Elementals, Fire, Earth, and Air, and home facilities, gases and light energy.

Do you still believe someone is ruling the world?

Ours? No.

But then how...

With Imagination. A lot of creative energy holds pieces of World together.

And the Puppeteer?

Gone, never existed.

So the old slogan Do what you please...

Forget that, it is a moral misunderstanding started with the Ancients and put in it's right place with the French Revolution. No one believes in a Moral imperative that can stand a trial for all events. It is called moral relativism and it has nothing to do with the uplifting powers of manifesting the will.

Will is the myth.

Right. The myth is now.

And then.

No, now.

There is no then?

Then is now.

I see. So now and then commingle to form a semblance of an event.

For the abstract quality of life-event. Assemble the real feel of an event is the semblance of the post-truth.

Aha, then Jacques Lacan was scary because he talked with his mother about (his) Mother.

See, now you're like that fellow from Dostoyevsky that can't escape the burden of being self-taught, ready to strangle the argument for the quick conclusion.

Then you are a Post-Lacanian that can't make the difference between a downpour or raining, while sleep-talk on the platform, because all have left the room. It is raining, because it is not raining for someone – Lacanian illumination –, outside it is a downpour, while all or someone, a shaman, has made the proper rituals – Jungian Sado-Masochistic Satori.

It is an old story, some say about it being ancestral knowledge. You know, after people are getting drunk almost all of their life and imbued their bodies with Ganja like substances for the fix, it is quite normal that birds and insects start landing on your your palms.

I love also fried chicken, but I don't quite understand what's all the fuss with beings with blue- green eyes that need to be protected.

That's the way it is.

And the furtive angry looks from the windows: Again you, I saw you already.

Do they communicate otherwise?

No, only the language of machine, cause you know, machine make us dream nicely post-mortem.

So you could say the same, instead of that stupid little tune, We are family, we might say, We are your hallucinations from last night.

Ehm, last night I didn't even use the subway.

I know, she always asks you how did you get to her.

Means, always means of transportation, not one thought about the state I was in.

An the near bridge Inn was as usual full, with the news cluttered screens.

A gem, that's what you and I need.

You mean like.

Yup, I mean like a geomancy and other marvelous...

Stop. You know what you are doing. You bring back Christu in your life, on our table, in this evening, for getting angry and envious in the future, for something which actually never was.

But the Oz of him, ah, when he did the thing with Cosmina.

See, it is ended, you begin to sound like him. Why can't you be happy with all your life-disinhibition, and life threatening-descriptions that randomly fool all of the others. Be as opaque as possible, and play your own, not turn to your own. That is what the old Jew with Jew written on his car plate was telling you. As dirty as you are today, pick your present from where you left it, cause no one else will give it to you, not that way, not in any other way.

When harvested early, it can be quite poisonous, it is ththe rhubarb. Everyone is sour-sweet nowadays with one another. Even Nassim, her Nassim, is drinking it all day long complaining about the Euclidean Boxes: thinking, reading, eating, sleeping, loving, dying, driving: in smooth boxes. Don't make a movie out of yourself, seem to bother less the nomadic pedestrians, than the crazy reincarnated avatars of Advertising which consume what their Mother's tells them, to make the Chaos even more chaotic. Why can they just sleep the Long Sleep together? Why can we all not just die, and end it? All have choose to fight an ambiguous fight, a fight that is not one of light. Someone must teach us to think again, the disciplined thought. Although the old Witches, which deserted the world, but choose the pain-mind (not as opposed to pain-body), to kill softly their believing or practitioners of parents' belief, or both, because the war is not only about money, but on what is felt truer. Truism is the word that comes from mind, now and again. If you are still alive and don't act like one, critics will start to emerge, from the shallow epidermal conscious ones to the deep blurry conscious. That is what the new Generations taught them on the go, speeding things up, you cry or holler what you have to say, single, in groups, on the table (maybe less in front of the Screen...) or in any other public spaces, and then you “are making Net”: that curious interconnected felt state of being on the wheel without actually driving a car, or having the accident that looms from not so far, that could come from engaging with the wrong people. When the man in front of you is not reaching your Face, tagging start creeping in his psyche, and if he's younger he will not buy your face, searching instead for your mental furniture or even your belongings, baggages. This is why the wolfs are hiding, with mental hacking of your possession or evaluating your house habitable area possessions: if he is not please, again, he will not buy, and play emotional darts in other places. Or he would call it a Post-Campaign Analysis, after which he can launch his own campaign on other means, with being mean, nauseating, angry, and nasty even with his Peer-To-Peer interactions, on- and off-line. The budget is not heavy, but the hunger push them to talk and write, and run at the least sign of an attack, or a threat to their masculinity, not always, but often enough to discourage most of the genuine users, consumers as they are called. Personal vacations are placed strategically for the market need to be completely covered. So, when one of these wolfs, that do not necessary work in packs, is down, people are watching “their” products, “their” habits, “their” own shopping spree, “their” awareness, trial, buying and fidelity actions. Socio translated these words mean salute, exchanging words, paying or receiving a bonus, and the promises of future fruitful encounters. Of course we don't meet for the same reason every time, but the Bio-logical, Emo-tional, Cog-nitive and Trans-personal substrates remain as anchors that trigger the alertness and familiarity with a brand of (post)human or a unique trial with a unique person that we may never meet again in this life.

In sands I was putting my shoes, in sands I want to put them off.

Right. It is true. But can you cope with the cowardice from the Subway, and the other subway stations.

I am not quite getting it, I also didn't understand how they close him.

But they didn't.

No, but they fed him into a continuous loop, in which someone's watching, other persons are barring the way, and many many Narcs , both ways implied, annoying him with funny shared memory.

Shared? Maybe from their dreams. Do you know that he lost his ID a couple of times, three-four times maybe. A single one was delivered on his porch, with that shiny eyes telling everyone that was living on the other side, that someone has been busted, and need mental repairs. Even his gorgeous Mulatto lover was invited at least once. Not so with her lover?

Isn't true that he choose the most complicated love constellations?

Maybe he truly crave for the after-life, a simple mind, with curiosity, and much more minimalism than in the present state of affairs.

No Ganja, no Hash, no DMT, no Ecstasy or LSD, not even Skunk, to get near to the final fix?

He has little fears, almost all related to his family and other spiritual related issues, but none whatsoever about suffering, collective thoughts sharing. And a lot of his visions contains adult imagery, violence, sex, or both. So an answer to his stand would finally be a long lasting relationship with a woman, although no one understands why he keeps push the boundary into the other direction.

Anyway, from now on I will try mostly Opera, chamber music makes me angry and anxious.

How come?

You know, when I had my first menses, my brother saw me grinning in that awful common bathroom of ours.

And?

He thought I was having clitorides excision.

Well, he must have been more evolved than us, with all those Rockies on his mind, and funny enough no distinct clothes, like, maybe unpatched jeans, and black T-shirts with musical troops.

Well, his hair was always a treat, black, curly, and no pimples to stick your nails into.

Yeah, it feel so awful, no one is currently looking at your eyelashes, all they want is to invite you to a Cola, hear that, C o l a. As if where in an Afro-American jazzy soap opera where he gets a good night sleep.

Do you like my boots?

Definitely leather, and white seams, translucent soles, medium heels, no iron printing. Where did you get them?

Ah, they are a sort of present from a Macedonian girl, Yves, Yvonne. I am not sure, they were brothers and even have the same look. Came in Romania for study, one Acting, the other Economics. Both smoked pot. They rented a two rooms flat near us. My man didn't get well with them. You know, after he got it back on 15 mg, he started to act weird again, looking above people, things and melancholia, keeping quite most of the time. He whines constantly to go back in the United Stated, to teach.

To preach.

Eh, I think i'm gonna puke, harm. Lately he was so small down.

But he can still, you know.

Hon, I believe some day I am gonna get tired to rub his penis, while he is half-awake, drooling after his beautiful and clever Mom.

C'mon, let's get some lunch.

A moment came when Anna start asking herself what was it that he was paying, when meeting with her. After all the nuisances of having to listen to his whining about family, or about what he thought was family, and all the intricacies of loosing himself in his mother and sister lingerie, with funny critical art outbursts and few out-home experiences, clumsy as they were – nevertheless, he was not dormant –, she started asking herself if he was not also related to Holy Ghost. Never preach what you're not practising became never think what you cannot touch. A materialist rendering of their situation, was that she holds the impression that sex with him would not change anything, at least for her, and the outdoor encounters will do her mostly harm. After all they already saw each other, they can exchange glances, keep quiet when like that..., quickly shoot some questions, settle some old misunderstandings, and then fly. Ah, their flights were so different, with different spectators, voluntary or involuntary, and the thing lingered on: Don't you want to be happy? The answer was swift, What is that?, and if that was clear, For how long?

I don't agree with you.

Well, that's how it goes with conversation, otherwise we would just nod.

I don't agree in thinking a Hybris of Democracy and Neo-Liberal Post-Communism. The European Post-Communists are mad, they really are, with planned deaths and all kind of technocrats pushing the boundaries of servitude, colonialism and settlerism. You can't kill millions, billions over scarce resources without getting noticed.

So what, who can do something about that? Alex Jones, David Icke?

No, that's media hogwash, bent on raising crypto on the markets, over number of visualisations and other kind of platform engagements.

But that's the whole gist. This is how people, in the trails of media anchors, and other kind of VIPs, migrate to Asian and other ancient techniques for development of Ego, boosting self-reliance, self-control, anger management, time management, Disaster Management and so on, with Negarastani's Cyclonpedia being the primer for all kind of “speculative realism” scenarios, in the hope the fear of death will lessen it's grip, and all the mornings of the world could be a continuous treat of coffee and chocolate croissants, while people are dying all over the world.

Have you always been such a nuisance?

What do you mean?

Thinking in place of others.

No. It is self-taught. It is not discipline. It is the outcome of years and years of solitary training in meditation...

Isn't meditation a way of avoiding most of the problems, difficulties?

But so is hiking, shopping, raising kids.

Right. And beside that, she, with her wide experiences with monks and nuns repeatedly told you that she believes in people that are doing good in the world, without being noticed, without being known, almost like the wished for invisibility of children.

And I did bite it, crazy, huh?

I am not sure I'm following John with his idea of Rites of Passage.

Yeah, I know what you mean. Everything we do is a rite of passage. But the wars are not fought over the finality, family, fame, power, but over how gracious we looked when we did it for the first time.

You cannot act as a monk in the secular world with that kind of resources and a monkey-mind frame of mind, without being spotted, and pushed on the brink of wallowing in the suicidal attitudes of those around you.

Well, that's how the things go with the losers, they want it all, and they want it yesteryear.

Did you kiss him?

Yup, bad kisser I would say. Anyway, it was a kind of late evening game, and beside that we, I mean, I was having my eyes closed. They get immediately askew, and kill it with nonsensical talk. Pot is culprit, I believe. They start to hallucinate, and their emotions get haywire, always like sex riding: Don't touch me, touch me not, my head already hurts me from your background, I'm too beautiful for you to mess with body! And there they go, plunging in money and flat renting subjects, that drown the joy, at least for me, not even an occasional weed smoker.

Aha, that's why Klaus asked you why you didn't smoke weed any longer.

If you seen his face when I told him I had a bad trip. Lucky me, with Joanna. She was the second person in my entire life jumping to take my side. I was so small and she cut in immediately: Leave him alone. That is what scares most of them, when someone independent, and more sane then them, is not taking advantage of the emotional up-an-downs of someone from proximity.

Aha, they are immediately ready to fight, bite and fly, with that pale shine of old predators. I know the type, they can't stand too long in a relation, even if it is about years, and many are already in Polyamory relations, that looks like candies for the rainbow generations which are anyway prepared to attack everything that don't comply with Cis-gender norms.

That was awesome, like in a nowadays radio commercial, broadcasted for a retiring anchor or army-man, in the hope he will not end pauper, or killed by a deranged listener, because he didn't like the topics or the style of presentations. See, my mind is still young, I can talk discursively – anyway 90% of them are reading, or have a Q&A prop – about anything you want, please listen to me, we are being watched, we are being listened, together we can change things, we are really doing good into the world!

Enough, I get it.

Ha, ha. Please don't fire me, while the paramedics were tying him on that ambulance bed, grinning behind mask: he may be contaminated, let's call my mum, to tell her I'm alright, after all it may be the last time I see her. Ha,ha,ha.

Ha, right, but John was never a spinster, he is the kind that lead you believe Yo Yo Ma is the latest Yo-yo toy for dyslexic boys, and the Thor curvature is the Pilot episode of the Northern Saga.

If you don't have a boss, you should invent one, to praise, to please.

Yeah, I know, but what if it is a woman. Then you should close your computer, stop reading altogether, and if the DMT, bought from young men, stealing their way into Parliament, best scenario doesn't suit you, if you can't wait for the Visions, then watch a lot of movies. Don't be prude, anyway all is already Porn, or gore, or both.

Geta is her friend, she never respected her, only tolerated her mystic madness.

I heard about that. Carmen didn't love her Mom too much, in fact she and her mystery sisters waited for her death, to enjoy more the reading of Tibetan Book of the Dead.

Christian or not, she received what she hoped for, the shadow of a kiss on her cheek, on the day of her Mom funeral.

But Carmen never called the spiritual doctor.

Did you mean?

Yup, I mean a Priest, at least on Holly Days, to anoint that big house with cats.

State is taking care of them.

No, the Jew upstairs, funny. She even got a refrigerator... Maybe she is a cannibal.

It is called Necrophile, be nice, everyone lost someone.

But that's the whole point. Why is she so chaotic, why is she afraid. Why the thing with the death of others. Didn't she see already sufficient deads?

It got to do with their Dads, and God.

Ah, so that is why George is so clever in speech, and quick on drawing conclusions in the place of others.

Almost like stealing their lines.

Right.

Listen honey, I'm hungry, do you want me to run to Gregory's to snatch some tuna sandwiches?

As usual, I was not so sure to what this would lead.

Yup, but don't be late. It's depressing, single over beer.

Aha. Then call Diana, see if she's coming.

And call he did. No one understand the role of fir trees, Christmas trees as they are called, or better online metamorphed in X-mass trees. See they got all the holidays, and baptize whatever they put their hands or eyes onto with any alcohol beverage they can imagine or have access to. I don't know how it is called, maybe basillicum, the thing in classical holy water, aaaaah, forget it.

Yes, she's coming.

Yeah? How nice. Let's have another round. It's on me, you poor little prince.

What is it with the shiny eyes? Did you see someone ovulating on your way back?

Pig! Go into your Mom.

Ha.

Holy Fathers didn't have a Phone, precisely because they didn't believe.

In it.

In it, of course. But they didn't believe in them also. They, the others.

Do you know that last year, in 2006 I made 2007 calls.

It is getting closer.

Yes it is. I have also another special number, 255, the number of books I gave away from the shelves. I am not used in keeping books that I don't need anymore.

But the other ones, those new, in foreign languages.

Oooh, I don't know about them. I don't believe so much in foreign languages. This seems too close to Sovereign Language, befriending or being swallowed by a foreign language.

It is nice to be swallowed.

Yup, better than being bitten or chewed or plain tore apart.

Like a piece of meat.

Like big, round, rich tree.

Under which she sold you, and I found thee.

Ah, I love you so much when you're like that.

Then come with me and run. We cannot be humans all the time. Besides that, no one would listen to our heavy breathing.

Is that it?

Of course, all these nuisances: I heard you voice, I don't need you anymore. I saw your face, we may be friends some other times, I saw your walking, you like solitary pleasures and you'll end up, ahhh, forget it. No one understand us.

Us.

Us.

You don't like to play games anymore.

No, I need clubbing, like water, I grew up in clubs, with no hook-ups, and no Phone to report to family where I am late at night. I used to come home by foot, with no cab to drive me home. I think I started to scare people long ago with my feet.

Hahaha. Haha.

Look, you're laughing with tears!

Maybe it's your mother that jinx me in 2000, to not laugh, to not cry, to search only for the light, or pray.

Prey, like in...

No, to following someone, pray like saying with your minds beautiful, powerful words.

Like two beers.

Like two beers.

Or a bottle of wine.

Or a bottle of wine.

Or three-four friends.

Something like that.

Do you feel like being dead many years ago?

I felt it. And sometimes I remember it.

But do you not want to recall when it happened.

I feel it happened somewhere in 1997-98, when your mother draged us, you know, John, Diana, Cristina and so on, to have our first adult voluntary confession to an already dead priest.

Ahh, that. I thought so.

How can you be alive, after doing something like that in front of bones?

So, you are waiting what?

Damnation.

And all these special relations, adventures.

I don't call them like that, only when forced by the languages used. But it is like continuous buying tickets to Hell.

And if there is no Hell or Heaven? What if there is only this, and us?

Then all is for nothing, and I clenched my old fists, for others not to follow me, not prey on me, not pray for me, and learn at least to laugh properly, not make disgusting jokes out of them selves any more than they already did.

You live too much in the past.

See, you're not thinking on this. Damnation of the future, follows only chaotic experiences, and funny strings attached here and there.

And anchors.

Do you want to be my anchor?

One more hour. I have to meet someone.

You always on the brink of meeting someone. You, have a beautiful life. That's why, the thing with the future, and no damnation, and no initiations.

Maybe you got it all wrong. You are overthinking. Besides that you truly were protected. Can't you see how beautiful you are.

But why all, almost all disagree with my habit of smoking cigarettes.

Probably it's the thing with the age. At 45-46, people, real people as they are called, start to ask about when you will smoke something different, something that would make of difference, for your kinds, for your kins, why not, for the world at large.

Let others benefit from my impending death. And think some more, and sleep as well, and do what it must, with ill retiring parents, or lost ones, with cats and all.

And all.

No, no.

Don't give me the No, as if we're in Palilula.

Or Pororoca, maybe, for the lack of comprehension in the case of Nicky and Flo...

Hahahahahahahaha.

Don't do like that, it is not funny. People are dying.

But he's just got missing, most certainly a vacation from his Psycho dad.

Now, you don't say something like that. To dads and kids it is happening something with being dad and kid.

Then back to wearing pyjamas in the night, and some times an open book on the head.

No Heavenly Father, though, standing on one leg, with eyes closed.

No Heavenly Father. Although a Holy Mary will do some good.

Hm, I doubt it, cause everyone looks good dancing in clothes.

I danced once naked in my room.

Huh, and the forest?

It forgave me.

That is good.

Howling all the way home, and barking and doing calculus, avoid prolonged exposure to lights and flash lights, all in your mind, huh?

Why are you doing it, for fun?

No, it is not even me that is doing it. You know, from cold, all kind of good thoughts come from mind, only if you not push it in one direction or another. But you, between John and Roxanne things stood differently, it was not a power game, whatever they call it nowadays. They were simply sad, plain sad. Even, at the Blue House, where they used to go, from time to time. People on the near tables were whispering: They want to fill the world with their sadness...

Well, that is an old story, they are not together any more, in fact they each are with somebody else.

And happy?

I don't know about happy. But Cristina evolved beautiful as an attorney.

I have a distant neighbour, retired lawyer. His friends try so hard to make him feel good, explaining all night long, probably near his cheminee, what Liszt wanted to say in...

I will not stay to listen musings about some mummy Judge, explaining me the laws, while he's digesting bits of his amnesiac youth.

You know you, and many many others got the same issue, with memories from youth.

I'm sorry I have to go, I really want to stay longer, but I have to go.

It is not a strategically retreat, I hope.

No, nothing of that sort.

Years upon years of training in meditation, and no water for Man? That is how they called him in his hay day of, of the thing. The thing they lost him on the side of formal Studies and local Politics. No one really understand why he is not more gentle with him, what push him this way or that, and those intense experiences, aaah. All those tropes, Don't ask a man what he cannot do. And that coming from one man that ended his required military service. But what about, He who's doing like me, to him happen like to me. Queer laughs. Well, he started to place the phone on top of things. Maybe that way, the voice from the phone, no matter who was on it, will give the right command. Of course, it was not only water, it was also the manipulative parents, or so it seems. Everyone knows now the message from the tobacco packs, The children of smokers are more inclined to start smoking. And the peg, right. Use one peg to bring out another peg. And when they hear the typewriter, everyone drools, and listen, like it is the End of delusion, and beginning of the New Era. But era is a word. And happiness, listening, words, smoking, are but just another words. No one, beside the one using them knows what they are about. Of course, that is why we're also writing, or doing something else, to translate some, not all, of our inner worlds, into something more clear for others. This does mean we renounce, completely or even the significant part of ourselves, when we translate the It as we would like it, as we understand the It, as we find suit to develop and cast outside our version of reality. That is true, only if we want to return to the shared world. If not, we work only for the passage – ritefull or riteless.

All are getting together for their cave. It is someone's cave, it is theirs, respecting their privacy as in not known by other humans. Reading stories, poetry, almost like a Dead Poet's Society, they felt and dreamt. Ears later, Mona was getting near to her end, and warn Anna not to dream with her eyes open. But what can she do, when everyone around was playing with white paper napkin, all sorts of funny games, and those with wheels were preparing their homes with year long light installations to signal a never ending Christmas, or that they waited a baby, that their kid was growing in normal condition, unlike the Dead Poets. See, the Narrator seems to complain again about something, and shady characters – but he really want to die –, are bursting in laughs or coughs because for them the answer is not Blowing in the wind, transient as it may be, but money, loads of money and a nauseating lack of respect, that is how the newspaper and older generations are calling it, for anything that stands below sun. Always and always, beside being gay and alone, not lonely, but alone, narrator and friend start losing their faith in the Sun, and begin asking for it, like in a prayer. If no one told them that they should pray for Peace in the world, they invented all kinds of awkward situations – handkerchiefs are always a plus, when getting to the Pub, no one knows when the toilet paper runs out –, in which one was raising his voice, because mother was castrator with machines, usual listening Radio, and the other was raising finger, because mother would feed into Television what both could not comprehend. Nobody knows their sorrow, only itsy-bitsy tiny bits knitted over going out in the night, solitary crying in the garden – ah, the lights, the cold, the coming insects, the smell of it, all –, or sucking a bottle of wine, even after the the advent of new technology, when habilitated ears were being pricked on any late night touching of keyboard for the screen... See, thought the Narrator, you already lose the big picture, you work only for the it, you are not raising anything. Of course he raises that, the nothing. If you psychologically feed him kids, to see how he would react, he will reply, that he's not raising kids, so back off. But if the shady chevaliers, that play unsportsmanlike, only to feel some-thing in their organs, would point to some cat, he will remember accordingly one cat. If it is but least of the truth that animals make our life more interesting – I don't know about beautiful –, the cat, his cat has gone long ago. The vacated place was empty, and all the rest could think of about that was money or sex. Or gifts to forget. Gifts, right. And so a sort of quest has started, although Narrator never felt compelled to dig someone else's grave. Ah, the grave of the mother, immediately threaten by any woman who could compete with her. Don't worry, the dog have sufficient bones to feed both of you. You don't have to shout every year to some Icon that you raise your kids as best as you could. No one will take it from you, if you don't want it, although they will be mostly shadows of themselves. So financial services is funeral services, blare New Media. If money can change you, so is Death. If Politics can change you, so is Art. What the cat is doing is indescribable because a cat, no matter what it's state is, spayed, gestating or plain tom-cat, has it all, it is already inside out. But the question is if this inside out has a reason outside itself, if it is for something outside it, or if the real of the catness played it's trick to bring out a simple, unique form, driven only by this uniqueness. Mothers are always angry when lineage is abruptly stopped, if the progeny don't deliver at least something to quench their thirst for wholeness, for belonging. And so kinds of foes start developing or emerging even over night, when sleep dawn over Narrator, his dream, the visiting cat, and gradually over the entire home. In these days, now, let's face it, most of them, that started to raise kids, at least one, started to chew exactly one leaf, garlic or onion, anyway something edible, for they children to grow little between their legs, tiny genitalia, but high in height. This is the way in which those that choose to follow the old path, of popular religion, or secular wisdom, act to by-bass, sometimes slowly and smooth, and other times abruptly and more painful, the individuals that seemingly don't comply to up-to-date norms. That is not cis-criticality, it is only a warning sign for their kin, in larger and larger alliance circles to push the boundary of death and dying, until some one will stand, or sit, face to face with the proper one, chosen or not. Without the proper epigraphs, short message-like wordings, ready to be repeated, they can wait or comprehend the world around them. Just like these blocks of flats, that are also a pile of junk, no, not junk is the world, maybe piles of autumn tree leaves, i-material but nonetheless apt to seed their lives, monolithic and hardened, only to lend a feeling of habitation, co-habitation, re-habitation. These dream-Season is feeding their story, but not their living.

What could more be added here? Yeah, that's right, more or less, about “lithostasis” – a strange finalist phenomenon! From 1978, humans keep signalling something, the thing almost nothing, that is still something. This lead to questioning matter and spirit, in the form of, Why is there something rather than nothing. Afterwards, in the following decades, with the rise of “psychohistory” and “oceanography”, exact sciences of the future, unlike the shy Tarot and Astrology, that nevertheless gained momentum in and around hoi polloy culture, the great Science clustering against the Old Academia shrifted anyone that didn't bear the mark of the chosen few. Now, for some remains a question of debate what that means, with all these lucky generations flooding the World, Millennials, Crystal, Indigo – in a backward diachrony, the way last Century Jew Scholars chose to present their historical findings, be them religious, philosophical, cultural, political. And the answer came swift: it is Being rising against the Beast of Capital, and his progenies ready to stick their noumenal fangs in those that didn't comply to their rules of endearment. If you don't dress and act according to their procedural verbal and non-verbal imperatives – they start to act like leaders from early on – they start scream with their bodies, that is until they snatch from society the proper guns. And so you can read and write as much as you like, and even become a Professional Narrator, no one will be eager to rescue souls, until you prove you have at least one solution for the pressing world problems: Hunger and starvation, Pollution and destroying the planet and so on and really so forth.

The year 1986, was a special one, let's say for at least three reason: first the Chernobyl misfortune of a Power Plant, in the Eastern Bloc, with all kinds of outcomes on many levels, then, according to lesser Keys of Knowledge like Dark Magic, in the year 1986 happened the greatest number of accidents, and these reflected also in the number of dead horses, but nevertheless in these year emerged the Harmonic Convergence, a less studied and accepted Phenomenon regarding the future for the Planet and World inhabitating it, in which Cosmic forces, really as it were, unlike those in the mysteries of Horoscope readings, got together for raising the vibration frequency for all mankind, and some would say for all sentient beings.

Hear, little brother, the strangers, according to state's Supermen threaten to you too with light?

And Shadows! But that is not the point.

Which is then?

Even Buttoh players had the same issues.

Shaving, minimalism, non-conventional place...

Beside that. As a mechanism of defence, they started to experiment with tiny spots, well, little places, poor illuminated, or in plain dark, to get rid once and for all of the curiosity of...

Non-initiates?

Non-interested in Art, and what It has to say!

Yes, but it is their Art.

Well, that is why they got never invited, at least officially, in this Country, even after the late 1990's, when a little Cabal of odd and askew dancers evolved in what now bear the mark, not a proper tag though, of undisciplined Non-Generating Ones.

Really?

No, I call them like that. In fact they are a brand of Toyotist Dance Movement.

It's insane.

It sure does look like that.

A lot of questions piles up with the Arrival of new technologies, that keep people awake all night, unlearning to dream with their eyes open.

Do you know that her friend, Alex, has returned from the Army or whatever, with a kind of book written by him, and many many others, published directly under the aegis of Army's Publishing House, but fortunately he forgot to drive, and let the aforementioned prize car to her dear Mom and Pop records.

Pity.

Why?

I thought he would never lose his back virginity.

Huh, what's that?

Back virginity is when you look with your face, not with the back...

Ooook, I get it, do you still believe in the Eye of the Spirit?

In Spirit, yes, but I am not sure if the spirits all have eyes.

Or if they use them only for proper watching.

Proper, right. And watching, like in watching at the movies ….

Don't say!

What?

You would say movies and stuff.

Well, stuff is for food.

As in stuffed pig, or deer.

Right. What is with all this Deviant no-nonsense, that we humans have to Stop Eating Animals.

It is not for us, it is for those that keep munching hogs, but not cooked, chipped!

Ah, that craze, eating products with animal origin, in front of animals, or in front of TV Shows with animals, grinning all the way up: We are pure, we eat only News, and Images!

I pictured them already drooling in front of real humans.

Right, poor depraved children, they do believe that can play C*cks snatching into Grown-ups rooms, and even lives, because you know, they arrived later in this Life, and deserve an explanation, to see the Thing, It.

How old is she?

35.

And him?

I don't know 20, maybe 24.

She lives nearby?

No, I don't think so, they have a parked for the bad weather, and a flat somewhere, rented of course. They even don't know, ahhh, forget it. Let them play their game on other street.

A day will come, a Golden Day, when people, people like all over the world, will go out in the soft rays of the Sun, to feel just that. No retribution, no remorse, no guilt, no shame. When this special thing will take place, there will be no sound, no touch, no smell, no movement, no thought, no desire. There will be only seeing this. It does seem a lot like a Leftist TV Flick to gather more public votes for a laissez-faire State, most like Northern Europe has started from 1950-60's for their people. They can't work, they don't want to kill themselves, and are always on the brink of fighting, or quarrelling with men of all ages, to show off their physical muscles just like in that famous and disquieting movie from 1999. Narrator asks for forgiveness for this lapse of memory. As in all things, they must make their own through life. “Exploration”. But not forgiving your parents, anyone else's parents, because you got to a point when you don't know what to do your hands, your mind, is sad, really, really sad. In fact, this is a sorrow beyond dreams... When getting angry as a Woman of the house (in Romania, there is no housewives, and someone would add there is also no middle class), because the salad or the new broth, or soup, was not appreciated, the least you can do is to start questioning your manners: you know, though, this is unpaid labour. I know, if you work in a Restaurant or in a Fast-Food, than that is what you are paid for, but it is very, very illuminating, not necessary for the happiness of the illuminated..., to meander through the intricacies of what these Mothers are still believe they can change the World. Well instead of itsy bitsy of recreational substances, in case you missed the reading hours..., you could, or you must make your way through this, with praying, meditating-prayer or other means. If Eucharist scare you so much, you could still start drinking, have an accidental baby with the woman that seemed to save your manly, turbulent life, stop drinking, raise a kettle, do some gardening, start drinking again, and so on and so forth, come on. But the problems start with comparisons. The moment you see only differences and treat them like foes, you annoy people that believe in good ole life, plain beautiful death, and funky resurrections, just like in the year 2000. Or in 21st Century, you already started to play a bit on the strings of these new eventful situation, containing a lot of pharmaceutical girls ready to watch red blood bubbles somewhere from the 25th floor if you're in Capital, or maybe even more, if they were shy enough to quick visit some Arab Country, where they proudly flushed the toilet water over all their memories, Country and all. But let's be clear, all with great care and love, and also appreciation. Some men, and few women, you just can't reach, and don't know when to stop, like little brother Dimitri, when calling names I P C, which really was in fact Ion P. Culianu. See, they already learn to accept the existence of the secret-, not sect-medicine after the administration of which other substances like Heroine, or what not, or even, ah forget about it, get annihilated, wondered if this the right word, anyone? His Mom is guilty of him not wanting the Nobel, in this day. I know, they thought they could win that for Peace. The other fellow in arms, Cosmin was never been invited to a proper TEDx, and never gave up tubing. Statistically speaking, he is officially dead from 2012, 2008, 2001. But these young men, really knowing how to listen, keep their interest in Indianistics all for themselves, renouncing the conquering of Hindukush (as an X-treme sport, nothing else) and playing along Decuble's “Înd” (that is, if some of the Highschool or College Teachers, not yet retired, were to catch them from behind, when loosing time in the Pub). Narrator being stone-dead of hunger and fear, from 1989 onward, decided to quit smoking for a few years. After all, strange technologies and black Sedans with black windows started to creep in those years, and mind trailed-off after them, as if in a dream.

My neighbors are sending their kids to logoped.

Logoped or Logotherapist?

I thought they are the same.

No, they are not.

Do they want to teach something extra...

Extraordinary, yes. It is about conserving the beautiful Family atmosphere, as long as we, the kidless, or not yet kid-ding are doing out our homeworks, alms for dead and so on and so forth.

I know, the Safety Net effect.

What's that?

Her therapist told us, that if we get angry on rituals we don't understand, or may not ever understand, we have nothing to worry about, as long we respect them.

Narrator is compelled to ask for forgiveness, because in his youth he didn't want a machine-car, like many of his followers, fellows, budies and so on, but sticked to his family, and a lot of beautiful experiences to talk about, to muse about when mending the garden, or in the yard, after retiring from work (unlike the solitary Derek Jarman, without a proper family to turn to, in the final years of his career, life, with disturbing love affairs – Blue, until the end).

From 1997, he started to hear strange, undetectable sounds, mini-sounds, in his room. He suspected they've got something to do with her then unmarried sister.

Were they twins?

He was younger than her with 3 years, and younger than me with 1 year. Anyway, he bought, or received from his only true special friends, a bunch of Yoga books, trying so hard to be perfect, even a saint.

Like you, scorning Homosexuals.

Yes, but not like Guattari, from Anti-Oedipus Papers, in which he's succinctly explaining why he didn't want “to do” a blow-job. Get it? To do, not to have.

Scarry, with all those quick vacantions after 2000, with soft horror stories: someone wanted to stole my bag, on the Paris' Subaway Station's automated stairaway. Someone wanted to give me a blow in a public restroom. Back in Capital, someone stole my phone (hear, phone!), in the Troley.

Maybe he loved being raped, just like you with the funny clowns from Advertising. While you're playing Darts, on whatever Championship, you're family was dying, your friend were Grind-ing their teeth, and annoying Gay tourists were having the fun of their lives, spoiled with attentions from local Gayish fauna.

Why gayish?

Well, that is only and only because, some one has written, and entirely some one else's read the following mistaken proposition: Not all men having sex with other men are Homosexuals. They are doing it for money, fame, protection. That is how it evolved the Escort Services. And that is how the real verbal Bullying migrated into written area.

Aha, designated area.

Hahahahahahahaha.

Do you remember the special 2006?

Yeah, I was in Brazil, then in Spain. Why?

Not in Portugal?

That was later. Even John started to wander what kind of stories I was feeding to people around me. The closer ones thought I was dead, somewhere in Netherlands.

Yes, it could be true story, with cats traveled from here to there, from there to here, just not to hear All These New Years That Can't Stop An Inch Of The Bloody Wars.

Speak more quiet, I can hear you.

Oh, sorry. What about 2006?

It's was a day when he befriended the world at large.

Thank you. I appreciate you don't use so often the military word, in general, generally speaking. Hear, world at large...

A lot of working in the garden, physical exercises and pedaling on bicycle preceded an outburst of thinking, many a time aimless, also threatening to those around him.

Is it true that he tried to jump from the 4th floor of his living room?

I don't know when he threatened his mother with that x-treme act, only meant to redirect the attention his sister was getting only in his head, or his misdirect attention on a girlfriend that wanted only the Meteorite!

And, of course, people leaving rushing out of their houses, out of the town...

In order for her...

And others...

To go in the empty homes...

To see...

To see...

But only to see...

I don't know about that.

Ha. Ha. Ha. Hahahaha.

Jon never wanted to play guitar.

Yup, he was so fond of Drumming...

But he did do something on Block-flute, when his friends were selling toys down-town.

And he loved the rain against their window.

Ah, and the thing covering the windows in midday.

Aha, they are getting near to him, after Disenteria, or weak stomach...

That was when he renounce fruits for sea-fruits.

For her.

For him.

But they knew each other.

Only transitory.

Ann said about this “kind” of relations, that she started them with the left foot, and so...

And so, she never closed them.

Properly. And called them “special” relations.

Many special relations, with the never-ending sure hope for the imminent coming of the Meteorite.

Right. But do you know...

Again?

Oook. No more Questionaire!

Mhmm.

I knew a man friend with “the” shadow. I don't have something serious about that, his shadow, childhood shadow, like in Peter Pan, the Great Shadow, of the Harry Potter kind, his father as a living-dead shadow....

Ahaaaaaa.

That was like me entertaining with shadows of myself, with sex-related discussions on a table, in Autumn, over Cokes, in 1999. Dianne was saying about them that they are Asexual, similar, with no comprehension whatsoever about the fuss around the “Subject”, the act in itself and other mysterious topics for raising brows and forcing smiles out.

Sometimes we watch movies for hours. When not having someone around to hold, we hold to a pillow, a book, a dear object. In the same time, we want some one, and we don't. The dog don't like this kind of amnesia of ours. He saw this scene millions of time. A bidimensional image, like a Ad Cartoon flood the mind's screen. I, as a dog, lower my head on my front legs. Behind my back are outdoor tables of a Pub. In front of me is painted a route for bicycles. Nothing real is happening. I am like that little crazy thing called Haiku:

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