This is it

Not that I've been a huge fan past my teens..BUT, as I happened to go to a matinee WHILE THE POWERLESS CRUISE SHIP I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ON WAS SLOWLY SINKING NEAR PUERTO RICO..I was stunned by the makings of all this, by the scale and perfection of what would have been, undeniably, the best show in the history of pop. He was AMAZING. So awkward and grotesque everywhere else and so natural on stage, super-natural, rather. When he danced -- he was beautiful, powerfull, in complete control of that body, so fragile, vulnerable, and so impossibly expressive..his hands alone were unbelievable. There's no fucking way one can create an image of such magnitude and at the end of the day just go home and be something else, something LESS. That's what ultimately killed him, I think. There's not enough Propofol to contain, calm THAT sort of energy. Perfection equals death in a sense. And he was a perfect act. I just can't imaging him "aging gracefully", can't imagine him aging at all. Weird, misplaced, grotesque, UNREAL -- yes, but not old. This cartoonish world he created sustained him till there was no room to grow. He died ridiculed by many but surpassed by none..

city, rain, reflections

The simple things..

"Родительские поучения могут и не спасти от гибели вашу пуританскую совесть; но если вы выпрямитесь на стуле, не касаясь спинки, и сорок раз повторите слова «призмы, пилигримы», сатана отыдет от вас.."

Its Tuesday night and a rainy one, an endless late November downpour I so welcome, finally free to just be... My mind wonders as my feet get wet. I juggle Nika, Nika's rag doll, an umbrella and a stuffed purse as I get us in the door. Finally. I'm in a dimly lit church, all the way in the back. The choir practice picks up.. Five little angels by the altar, mine -- the littlest. Their voices echo high above me in this vast space and instantly I'm at peace, calmed by the subtle scent of cedar and wax and honey.. The church is airy and by most standards austear. Lone crucifix in a burst of light against a plane brick wall -- sharp contrast of black and flesh, reminiscent of a painting I once saw. The rest is all wood and stone and clay, monochromatic and heavy-textured -- yet somehow so light, ethereal, almost translucent..like a vision of a tall ship, with its creaky floors and flickering lights, as it floats in a storm to a tune of Tchaikovsky. I smile and wave to Nika and pull out an old lost-and-found fave -- O'Henry's short stories. And for the rest of the hour I melt..Blessed is a perfect moment when you happen to be in a right place at the right time with the right book. Amen.

Carribean Cruise !!!

prev post -- ok, I'm over it :)
VACATION COMING !!!
Plan A:
get up at dawn to see the sun rising over the Carribean, jogg, have lite breakfast, swim laps, snorkle, hike upheel on Cayman Islands, read, get plenty of sleep..
Plan B:
get drunk, get tied to bed, pass out, sleep till noon, have sex again, pig out at lunch, lay face down on the beach for an hour, dip a toe in the water, go back for a Mai Tai..get braids, get dark, get drunk, sex and sleep till noon..
Plan B it is :)

love me to death

Perspective. Put things in perspective, letting go of what can't be changed. Others can't be changed. Enabled, disabled, temporarily insane, but people don't change because of something you do or don't, so..so WHY DOES PARANOID PETTY EGO-MANIACAL SHIT LIKE THAT KEEPS GETTING TO ME ???? Served with love and guilt, this slow poison of negativity and cynisism, this suffocating pressing demand..Run,Lola,run. Nothing's ever good enough. In the last two weeks I have pushed myself to the max and made a career jump unreal for this economy..Excited and exhausted I booked a mini vacation to get a breather before this new job gets the best of me..ALL ruined and for such unexplicable nonsense..literally, some delusional gripes aimed at whatever's left of my spirit. No more jitters, thrills, hopes -- I'm drained, resentful, and terribly hurt. And it just repeats itself, my whole life's this crisis hotline, no adult, kind, mature shoulders for me to cry on, instead, this sick and twisted role reversal, illusions of content, buying time in between all sorts of catastrophies, and no blunder's too small to wage a war if God forbid I happen to be at peace at the moment. I'm not allowed blunders, or dignity, or peace. I obviously exist for the mere purpose of perpetuating this enourmous Victim complex, striken by love, and fear, and grief and utter hopelessness of the whole situation..Fuck, I need a drink.

Blue Lagoon..Cyprus