Sex & high tech era

Classical literature treats sex with eroticism. Eros (the Greek god of love, mythological character). Myth, magic, fantasy. Art is the poetic way of expressing aspects of life. Through it, we communicate the cruel, ugly and charming. Sex, if treated without poetry and art, as well as crude, turns us off. The issue is the lack of interest in each other; we live the failure of alterity, of shared pleasure. The sex lives of Internet users, robotics, lonely and operational; it is a semblance of pleasure gained by lovers. Orgasm in the digital age is the imperfect copy of the orgasms … Continue reading Sex & high tech era

Fiery heart…

This is love. It is delicate. But it also cuts you wide open till it forces you to feel. Love is safe. You can free fall into, and straight through, love. Though real love comes with pain. Satisfying pain. If you open up to it, unravel and peel away the layers you will feel each gentle caring stroke and every excruciatingly bittersweet blow. Love helps you to see, to open your eyes and asks you not to be afraid of the beauty and beast inside. You are not scared of this pain, but there are others who are. So no, … Continue reading Fiery heart…

Janelas …

Todas as vezes que tenho a triste notícia da passagem de alguém conhecido para o lócus divino, este, no qual, passamos a vida tentando entender a sua forma descritiva de espaço, fico a pensar na fragilidade do tempo que nos dispuseram nesse plano terreno e nas suas advertências. Somos constantemente advertidos por situações que nos propiciam consequências antagônicas de convivência. Estamos a todo tempo a nos aproximar, tanto quanto nos distanciar das pessoas por situações diversas. Por atropelos de interpretações, por divergências de opiniões, por falta de silêncio, pela demasia das palavras, por traição, por desrespeito ao próximo, por falta … Continue reading Janelas …

If I had …

If I had to open my heart, I would tell all the secrets therein, those that I confess myself, and those that I try to deny myself… I would speak about my hope, the struggles, and toils for a happiness that I do not even know if it exists, but I insist on wanting to get from my refusal to accept being arrested, unless this prison is my own choice… I would say, probably, that this weakness is only apparent or even the strongest hours my heart asks for shelter and understanding… I know there are things I never learned … Continue reading If I had …

Pour yourself on the paper…

Pour yourself on the paper… Drag a pen across paper, cutting into the pages and staining the corners with tear marks. Breathe hot, alcohol-scented, breaths into the pages as you internalize your screams. Handle it as though it were poison. Slide it between the leaves of an old dusty book when you wake up, don’t read it again. Feel it in the swell of your chest on good days when the Sun shines and you can hear children laughing. Recognize it in the sounds of the birds singing when you wake early in the mornings and see it curled in … Continue reading Pour yourself on the paper…

She calls herself a catastrophic anomaly…

Catastrophic (noun : involving or causing sudden great damage or suffering. Anomaly (noun): something that deviates from what is standard, normal, or expected. She says this about her mind; she has her own thought process, splitting the Red Sea of cliches in half making her own intellectual path yet in her case not many others wish to follow, and she is not exactly okay with this. She sees her thoughts as detrimental, (adjective: tending to cause harm) to society, even if the only danger she truly poses is not sticking to the status quo. Anxiety and depression tag along behind … Continue reading She calls herself a catastrophic anomaly…

Take this snow and feed me …

Take this snow and feed me sun glazed mountains… … take this boredom and bless me with magical mayhem full of meaning (whatever that means)and dress my body in ancient garments woven with wonder, because I am tired, not too tired to sleep, but tired of the way I wake up and everything feels cold and how I just want to return to my dreams (even if they’re nightmares) because the real world doesn’t feel as alive as the realm that I fly through while I sleep. I want to wake up and stop sleep walking through life and I … Continue reading Take this snow and feed me …

I do hope…

I do hope… I hope that the force of everything that hurts me not make me blind to all that caresses my soul. May whenever life runs fast, so fiercely, I can find reasons to breathe with calm that I need. When the darkness of some phases cover the brightness of what I believe, I allow myself to see some light gap in the smallest corners of my convictions. I hope the old frustrations do not make me skeptical for retries. The most sweeping fears do not deprive me of courage I have achieved. May the wounds in my feet … Continue reading I do hope…

I do not bleed anymore…

My voice does not sing along with Billie Holiday in the shower. It does not paint the bathroom ceiling in the delicious murder of high notes. I do not repeatedly talk myself along city sidewalks as if words hold the ability to propel my body faster. I do not read unbelievable pieces of literature, each line 3 or 4 times, terrified everyone gets it but me. I do not then make reference to how the story captured me ,how it has forever influenced my further artistic movements. I am not the white woman of your loose tongue – the impersonal, … Continue reading I do not bleed anymore…

Hartsdale November 03th, 2016

This morning I woke up to the scent of fresh rain on the earth. I opened my windows to the autumn that waited for me outside. I’ve taken up running without music. Contemplating the heaviness of my own breathing with the birdsong that surrounds me. I’ve immersed my feet in the living, and my heart feels better these days. My arms and legs are sore when I wake. But at the end of the day, I take an hour to myself to just let it all peel away. I’m reading a lot more these days. Staying up a lot longer … Continue reading Hartsdale November 03th, 2016