Art Assassins

The Art Assassins.

You can't cut me down with a blunt axe. Especially if you don't even know how to wield him. You make it easy. For me to write. It's funny how narrow. Minds and streets and rivers as they run dry.

Being artistic by no means makes a person superior but I find the plague of people attempting to bring creative souls down is both comical and ignorant. Writing is a cathartic experience, an experiment of sorts. It feels like an acknowledgement of the good things in life and an exorcism of the bad ones. Logging it all down. Purpose.

I was made to counter your lack of illusion. I was born to do it. To colour in your drab black and white image. If you used your heart with your words they would often be different. Other shapes they would take. That would involve a modicum of thought. That would mean caring. It's easier not to. For some. For some.

I could paint a beautiful picture or sing a gorgeous song. You could slash the picture apart, you could rip the voice from my throat, but you could never change nor deny what had existed, that it was real. That it provoked your reaction. Impact. Your words affect me too. I cannot lose this battle. I can write you into a corner, shine a spotlight on you, underline your errors, show the world your thoughtless pose. Tear you apart far worse. With thought. With imagination. With intelligence and soul. The soldiers are on my side. The words.

The world needs love and positive energy. If you wasted a second trying to communicate a negative point you are throwing away your days. Waste. Garbage. Futile.

An assassin who can't even make a kill. Now that's no good, is it?

The Weather Flawcast

They never get it right. We should just wait and see. We cannot combat what is often wrong. Or at times. The weather at the weekend here in Budapest almost felt like a start to Spring. Yet this is some kind of winter fight back. I read that today expects 'light snow' and being met by a considerably heavy and thick snowfall I contemplate the madness of predicting the weather. Even with the technology we have at our disposal these days. Computer, I trust you not. I trust in man. Yet man put his trust in you. So I am failed on both scores. I turn to nature. Once it was supreme. It reigned above all. It has been taken over. By machines. Robots. By rapidly evolving technology. Nobody wins. Technology has removed the soul. The weather perhaps rages and displays its temper with mankind. Mankind deems it is simply weather at its most strange. Who knows, perhaps the weather wants revenge.

I believe if we concentrated as much on the soul, of the earth, of our own selves and those around us, we might be able to use technology in a more constructive and generous manner, in a somewhat reduced capacity. We might understand it better and have more respect. We are all too reliant on things that did not exist only a recent number of years before, and we put less trust in ourselves. Is it the technology that is flawed then, or our own selves? I think the answer is obvious.

We should revert to following our instincts more. After all, our ancestors survived and they are who brought us all here today. When it comes down to it. If you look at it with any sense of clarity of perspective. The weather is not flawed, never. Everything that defines how we predict it and what we do with our machines would seem to be though.

I rely on the wind. It carries me to beautiful places. The wind is my friend.

This is imaginary. All imaginary. Welcome to my world.

Day Off Blues

I am not writing today. I decided against it. I am taking a day off. I felt it was too much. Draining me of my energies, sapping my gentle soul. It sucks the energy levels clean out of me. Every word is an ocean of hope, every sentiment heavily weighted. I planned to put my feet up, watch a film, soak up the freedom of allowing myself little, if nothing to do. The reality was different.

Snow falls again. Outside my window, all day long. I went to school. I came back home. I took this day off from writing. I had a long siesta and fell into a deep job hunt for which I hope to see the fruits of success within a short window from now. It would be good to have the future planned, just a tad.

I didn't write today. Use your imagination. Are you imagining it? Welcome to madness. I assure you. I did not write today.

Architects

We are the architects of our disasters, of our own deaths. We build ourselves colossal walls and feel the force when they fall upon us. We lay the foundations of many things. Relationships. Love. Work. Buildings. We make mistakes. We succumb to human weakness. We rue our errors and watch what we have worked for crumble down all around. We break hearts and seem to never learn, for we commit the same crimes over and again.

Think of the dictators who could poison entire nations and beyond. To walk as disciples. For their cause. Their endlessly blind and brutal causes. Showing death to the masses. Wiping out a plague, a non existent plague. Think of those who cheat and hurt those beside them who have shown trust and love. Like life is just a game of Jenga. Think of how you want to protect the people and things you hold dear. Did you ever needlessly hurt them? Did you remove one block too many? Did you tap at the building's base, or even take a hammer to it and expect it to never fall? Think of the real architects in the technical sense. They create designs of buildings. The places we work in, the places we live in, the ones we find grotesque or stunning as we walk past or below them in the streets. The architects who created many of Budapest's buildings clearly injected much love and creativity and passion into these designs and they give such a life and grace to the city. Unlike anywhere I have seen. Think of those who want to undo the beautiful construction of other's hands. Life is architecture. Architecture is in everything.

I think of it all. It is never enough. One blog, a million thoughts and emotions, and scarcely a tenth even come to mind when I sit here and type. It is so vast. Any topic could be spoken about for years, so to be relevant and precise and valuable with my words seems unlikely. I can only attempt, and some days I come closer to the truth than others, I expect. I feel like an architect working on a castle, with intricate design and some kind of majesty akin to the Houses of Parliament in this city, Budapest, my home. I never want to stop building. I want to move from one achievement to the next and never take long to look upon them , for to attempt to improve and make something of increasing beauty each time. I want to know the best things are built with love, patience, thought, and passion. With care, warmth and kindness. I want to allow the world to influence every detail, as I absorb its wonder, soak up its offerings.

We can build something that will last. It could be spectacular, in a good or bad light. We can make a difference. You have the chance to build the greatest thing on earth. Maybe you know, maybe you don't, maybe you will, maybe you will not. The seed is the hope, you must nurture it and allow it to breath, to let it grow and blossom and flower. Today I didn't feel like I had the seed even. I sit here tired and weary from a long day. I didn't believe I could grow anything. I couldn't see the seed. I didn't believe I could build a sentence, let alone a few paragraphs. I hope my architecture was reasonable. Something to admire. If only a little. If only a little.

The Woman Here / Night Owl Blues (2)

Her eyes were part kind, part sexy. It was the perfect combination. She wore sophisticated glasses and had long chocolate hair. She had a coat that fell to her thighs, pulled in tightly at the waist. She wore amazing black leather boots lifting her a few inches closer to the heavens, and she looked gorgeous, wholly edible. I was experiencing a rarity, suffering a hangover. She could have pulled me from it. She almost did, but I wanted to go with her, dive into her pool and hope she reciprocated. I'd had too much Hungarian palinka and an assortment of other alcoholic drinks. I really did cut loose last night, both to my joy and subsequent dismay.

Going back to the woman on the tram, the one with the glasses, the beautiful one, she had made her impact. She was classy, I thought. Who knows though. I would have surrendered, and taken her with me, got to know her and kissed her like it was the final kiss the world would ever see, love her like nothing could ever be loved. She looked so good, fresh, inviting. Another woman I'd never see again, never kiss, never make laugh, never get to uncover.

Last night. The night owls, the bodies, the pulsating music. Sex in the air, crawling along the walls, dripping from the ceiling, still permitted smoke filling the room, some folk staying caged unable to release the music that pounded through them, knowing not how to kick start the release mechanism, some let it all spill out of their bodies. It oozed right back out of them. Some were making mating calls in their dancing, shapes were busy on the walls, some folk cared only about riding the groove. I cared about it all. Maybe it was too much, but I cared about it all. That was all.

There were women I instantly wanted to lick. Upon first sight. There were people with no awareness of their surroundings, of other people. There were people of all different degrees of drunkenness. Some couldn't even get aroused now. Some wouldn't even know what the person they were taking home actually looked like. The night. In all its madness. In all its glory. Soft, brutal, nowhere to hide. Alive, falling into a haze, stumbling. Grasping for something to hold on to. The faces, fuzzy around your eyes, the faces, the bodies, the lights, the noise, the madness, the drink, the romance, the sex, the violence, the adventure, the night owl blues, at every turn, at every turn. At every turn.

Lie down baby, the room is swimming.

Nope

There really is nothing left to say, nothing else to say. Poetry never ends, but to sleep comes only once. Do you know the answer? Nope.

8.30am, Saturday Skyline, Budapest

It's Saturday morning. The sun coming through my curtains is lighting up the entire room. It's almost 8.30am. I have slept over eight hours too. A rarity these days. My earplugs are keeping most of the sound out. I remove them and all the buzzes and hisses and the clock that never stops ticking, all the sounds dive straight for my ears, into my now wired thoughts. A glorious day awaits me. I woke only moments ago thinking it was Sunday. Saturday is a relief. I need a few days. Long week. I want to hold the city. Take my time with her. Feel her inside me.

I lie here. Golden yellow curtain fire. I hope this day provides. I hope I am enough for her. I rarely lie still in bed when I wake. I normally leap, or do the equivalent movement for a man of my age, from my bed and propel myself toward school and the big unknown.

Today my freedom could take me anywhere. Any kind of magic is possible (always), and a wonderful friend from Vienna is Budapest-bound this very same morning. He may even be making his way across the land between the Austrian and Hungarian capitals as I write. I last saw him only the previous month in his home city, for my first visit there, where the weather was a cocktail of everything across only a day and a half and where we shared playing some great music and passed the hours in the most splendid fashion. Magic awaits us too. I do not doubt it for a second. Still the sun is tapping. Tapping at my window. Violently showing her hand. A morning fit for kings.

Missiles (Warriors)

Lie down or be taken. Life is a never-ending stream of missiles being fired at us, past us, some may even collide with our minds, our bodies, our spirits. To be invincible, afforded to few. The warriors. I count my blessings. Daily. Deeply. I thank my vision of God. Not even loosely defined. As I grow so do the fires, the love, the beliefs. The warriors.

We specialise in loneliness, without even knowing. We raise the bar and who can reach such heights? The void can be filled by anything, or admired from any angle. To fill this space though, we must have super powers. We must be able to see beyond the horizon, feel beyond the boundaries imposed upon us. 

I watched a film today. It reached into me, further than some, than others. I always am pulled towards tales of wars and love and the raging beauty of our earth. It was a missile. It hit me cold. Took my heart from under my head. Filled me with hope, whilst sucking it out at the other end. It also had a stellar cast, conveying the horrors and comradeship of war, it had the most beautiful young girl I had ever set my eyes upon, and it blew me away.

Maybe I could be. Too. A missile into your mind, as you read, as you succumb, to the brutal bullet words. Water washing love over. Legs go from underneath. Knees hit the ground. Broken spirit, hope is hovering. Stand up, proudly, or the ground a pillow. From here there is two roads. Only two. She sings, it keeps me alive. I can't even hear her but I know she is singing. Then she appears and keeps me from the gates. Now I hear the piercing sweetness of her. Then she is mine, and nobody can end that. She collects my hand in her own. She leads me into the forest. At last.

Anaϊs

Dear Anaϊs,

Forgive me the concentrated attention, but you are worthy, a focal point deserved. You sing sweetly, magically, with a direction of your own. It wounds me. Your feet in fresh snow, your body a letter. My words, infused with love, the passionate listener, floored. People don't bleed their love. Often enough. I want to tell you. It is beautiful. You are. You are so much. The voice, the way it moves like a snake, waltzes me off into the night. Your voice, my ears, making love. At moments lovers. Always in love. The glory of your sweetness. I am an adult filled, full of childlike wonder. Something in your voice. Sparkling. Jewels and riches in a sea of gloom.

You sow the seeds. In a garden like I've not seen before. I've never seen the like of this. These plants, these flowers and this life. It looks like nothing else. You grow it out of nothing. It comes from within, from your heart, born from your womb. With grace, with symbols of souls, attached poems to poles. Watch it all grow. All from you. All because of you. You tend to these ghosts with care. I want to sit and watch, every shoot, every growth, every wonder and spell that fills this space. Thanks for taking your time, to build a world in a garden, to fill it with such fruits, to help me know such beauty. For all of it, and what will follow,

With Love,

Dominic

Everybody and Coelho

I saw two people with Coelho books yesterday. I myself am reading 'Aleph' at the moment. One man, in many places. God is omnipresent. Coelho gets around. I am unknown. Learning my craft, sculpting my art, patiently waiting in the wings am I. I don't write about God as much as Coelho and some others, but I recognise that God moves through me and inspires me to write. To make me feel. So God is in my work also. As much as you would like to see. Words are interpreted in a personal way at the best of times. Maybe I don't mean what you think, maybe I do. This aspect would not necessarily seem to be the most important part. I do not wish to make you see things my way. I ask to share them with you. That's all. If you care. If you choose. Joining together in some shade of enlightenment. Partial, defined at different lengths, possibly essential, unavoidable.

Everything you are matters, affects the balance of life and love so much further than you can see. Everything we do. Repercussions. The significance of each man and woman. Of an age. To make a difference. To watch the shadows on the wall, dancing, to watch our feet as they move. The book I am reading, the way it shapes me, the way people shaped the book in the first place. The way I write, affected by what I read, what I hear and see and feel. It never ends, my babies are sent out to you, frequently. I love you, pieces of me, flying out the window, sent out into the world. Whatever we want, forever, whatever it can be. Expand together, absorbing as we go...

Wicked Women

I can't see how your mind works. I can't even pretend. I steal away from here. This field of yours is not mine. There is nothing here. For me. For immaculate daydreamers and loving figures.

I saw a wicked woman. I didn't know at first. I couldn't tell. The games, the subtlety, the barn door broken. Soon with clarity, you transformed. Beckon me and become. I react and form anew, For everyone. I can hear music. Coming from afar I move. Into one another. I can taste music. On this tongue.

You grew from a tree. As did you, and you. And you. Just like us all. Kind of different fruit, wild and tainted, edible, juicy, nevertheless fruit. One tree was kind, one was loving, one was a nightmare, and one was wicked. A woman and a woman and a woman they came. Wicked like the night shadows, shifting, sinister, shifting...

Hedgehog

So, we all see things slightly differently. Then we express ourselves from that standpoint. I draw in a style apart from yours. We live together. We try to live with one another. What choice? A hedgehog, children's laughter, sublime as a sound filling the air ever could be. I take myself where I go. Somebody may appear there, or perhaps it is a lonely spot. Whatever comes will be valued. However bleak or pristine, acid or milky. My hedgehog is prickly, as is yours. The similarities end there, but we share common ground. Meet me in the middle.

I love this light. Dashing, sliding, pounding through the curtains. It highlights our floors, our flaws, our wars. We become something without even knowing. I morph into you, when you are someone else. Vanishing tricks, returns, I never went away. Look harder inside yourself, if truly you wish to find me. Beneath this prickly exterior lies a tender centre. To hurt nobody, over and over. Again.

My Mother and the Invincible Woman (1)

The death of a woman. The death of a mother. The death of it all. Waiting, watching the clock, feeding off the tragedy, trying to remain upbeat. Growing in and out of sadness, like a train comes and goes from the station. The diminishing, the body, broken, overcome. Finally we wait. My mother, sitting there, just sat there. I wonder for her. I break too, ever so silently, slightly at times. Slowly we fade away. Invincible woman, how do you tick?

I can feel your glory, of shadows and truth. Poignant and golden were our moments, my memories, of you. I hold them in my treasure chested heart. Never to be released, never shall I let go of you. A piece of you. Forever with me. Like the places, the other magicians I have known, the others who told me to be different, told me to be honest, true to the sky and the trees and my beating pulse, my unique air. A piano, whispers into the night, speaking to me, from your fingers. You are everything, you are what you are. Beautiful and precisely you. 

Now you are motionless, mind still ticking. My mother watches you. She adores you until your ending. Beyond, and further. Perfect stones. Polished, gliding over the water, the peaceful reflection. When they finally dip and enter the water to drop to the bottom they are but colossal memories. Only the stone is gone, the body, nothing could remove the journey, how you travelled, who you were, the beauty of every second shared. It is infinity. Only infinity. My beautiful women, swimming us home.

Speaketh Not of I

Dear those who need to be the centre of attention, do what you must, bring down the walls if you must, leave hearts and more in ruins but speaketh not of I. I am a private man, who has come near you not, nor have I incurred your wrath, so avoid your usual lack of intelligence and think for a moment, just take your time. Maybe you can find it. An answer, like a light, appearing for your patience. A reward. I laugh, you don't trip, but you cannot see your way regardless. Pity and Tragedy walking hand in hand. Hatred, the magnet, you the iron fillings. Sucked in, lost, another one succumbs, falls into traps, and traps, and more traps.

I approach, from you can never know where. You would have to look, and feel, and care. You would need your eyes to aid your other senses. All the tools in the toolbox. No idea how they work. You can't see them approach. But you talk of them, you think you know, you miss them calling for the sound of your own voice. Some jigsaws are just not destined to be completed.

Obstacles of the Mind

Well, I guess we blame others. I mean who among us like to look in a mirror and see the culpable one? Whether it is true, or not. It's so easy, to look outward for this. We spend most of our lives inwardly thinking, shifting, shaping our own times. Yet the second we need to pass the buck, not take responsibility for actions or words, we seek another, some other soul on whom to heap the blame, the weight of the world even.

The truth is, I see it at times, it comes down to me, appears like some golden beacon of light, of clarity, of peace, that we are our own biggest enemies. We cannot get past our own minds, the greatest hurdles, the only true obstacle of our lives, and while we search for answers, for who is responsible, if we were genuinely thoughtful, if we applied mathematical and logical laws, we would solve most of the woes and problems to ever come our way, ever to cross our paths. We are afforded so much beauty in our days, many of us, some who will never acknowledge or give thanks for these parts of our lives, yet we stumble and fall, we dive in and drown.

The obstacle of the mind. My great nemesis. I love her and hate her all at once. My hatred is love in disguise, for the same mind propels me to write and do things the way I do them, to feel proud of the track my thoughts take, even if sometimes I can barely contain or comprehend why things are as they are. Without obstacles we would be nothing, but the biggest one is so close to home it might never truly be overcome. What a glorious life of confusion we lead.

If You Put 'Sex' In The Title You Get A Load of Views. How Odd!

Well, it is not really odd, but how predictable human nature can be is at times astonishing. If I follow the word 'sex,' I can imagine myself to miss out on many greater things, especially regarding reading. I would be surprised if that blog was really my best and befitting of having the most readers. My tongue in my cheek, my mind able to find it funny. I just wanted to acknowledge it. I just wanted to tell you I can see how your mind works. I just wanted to put it in another blog title, enabling me the maximum audience possible, perhaps 21 people this time. Wow, the blog must be a grower, especially when I throw that word in, but I pulled you in and didn't blow you away with graphic carnal content. What a disappointment, it doesn't say what it promises on the tin. I want my money back. Me too. My time too. The reader, the writer, what a relationship, what a love. I can never do you wrong like I do myself, I can never be enough. Read on, here it comes. Here it all comes. Here come the monsters...

Network of Lunatics

I see it everywhere. The crazies, the people ill-fitted with the logic gene, the selfish ones, the loonies on the hill, hobos in the square, madness is rife, not just swinging, depending on the moon. Who knows what is truly crazy, who is mad and who or what is normal. Nothing really exists and that's why we each apply a set of rules, we each see everything and everyone slightly differently. My eyes don't take me the same way as you and yours. My heart doesn't pull in a similar fashion, my path is mine alone. I can see a network of lunatics, I can see it clear. People hove into view, their behaviour stands out. For all kinds of reasons. To them I am mad, perhaps. To others they are mad, and to me, well who knows, but I can see it going on. Who are we to call it?

Those who ignore and subsequently lose love while heading for other glories, those who are greedy and violent and thoughtless, those who harm others, those who get lost in a haze of drugs and crime. There is so much madness, maybe there is little else. Define words and watch them distorted because everyone sees the world apart from others. If we are all crazy then nobody is, if we are all lost then no-one really can be, if we seek answers then we never shall find them. The real madness, the absolute pinpoint of this, is I reckon I will know, at the final moment, when it is all too late. I can wait, absolutely, but it is quite exciting to consider.

Beautiful Solitude

Nobody knows me better than my solitude, and how she cares for me so. She allows my inner strength and passion to echo, around the room first, then out the window or the tiniest of slits in the door and she echoes off into the night. It is a warmth that many will never know. Those who rely on the company of others, who depend on having bodies around them, who fail to see the glory and wonder of loneliness and its help in the development of the self.

Once you can look after yourself, feed yourself, wash, clean your home, organise your days to a relatively effective point, feel the purpose of the meaningless time passing by, move through a room with a smile on your face, whether it is empty or filled with other bodies, corpses, vessels, you can cope with what the world can throw at you. The inner strength can see us through difficult times, fight off the demons, because a shell forms around us and protects and keeps the warmth in. The need to have someone stood at the side, to reassure us be it falsely or not is no solution to the problems life throws us, it seems to me to be a lie.

I am alone again. The silence crashes upon me. Yes, the building and the residents I share it with make sounds and so do the walls and the pipes and the electrical devices, but I can swallow this relative peace whole and write and relax and blow kisses to the heavens that I can cope with it all, that I have a choice about how I accept things, about how they make me feel, about how I think and live and breathe each breath.

Beautiful Solitude, you own me for now.

The Design Flaw

We are merely spectators, watching everything go by. We are the most powerful race on earth, at least we are told, on paper (on paper that we can read, and other creatures cannot), we have everything at our finger tips, we are powerful beyond our wildest dreams, and yet we blow it. We drop the pennies down the well, we lose marginally, but with style. Our alleged superior intelligence leads to greed and arrogance that comes with power. We become lost and blind to what counts, what matters, the gorgeous world around us. We succumb to nothingness, we fall into oblivion, we display a lack of understanding of the soul of things. Everything is beyond our own bodies, yet most look inward. All happiness is in the mirror - the eyes of others, yet we dwell on our own picture, nothing grander and greater in the whole frame of events. If we could see beyond the reach of the eyes we would never suffer as we do.

We search for what doesn't exist, manipulated and directed by the media and people who think money is the key to happiness and possessions to being able to demonstrate knowledge and success. We fall time and again, we forget to breathe with any dignity. We follow the trodden path, we trust not our wonderful human instincts and nature's gloves. It must be a design flaw. It must be the lack of love we have for the soul. We could be so much better looked after. Who of us will take any of our monetary riches with us? Who of us will take anything other than love and peace when we leave this earth and our present bodies? How are we convinced of such shallow waters? Why do we follow? When will we be broken and never return?

We as a race. I hasten to add I have no intention of following, but maybe I shall fall down too. I will meet my end, be stolen from this tragic place, this heaven of sorts. I would like to fight, as a warrior, for what I believe. Fighting by being, by hoping and never losing light, no matter the darkness that consumes, that comes for my bones. I believe there is a design flaw, but I don't see why it has to be a concrete law. I would like to fight until the end, for what I believe in. Whether I am unique in my standpoint, or whether three people or seven billion other people agree, I will carve this path. Fill yourself with hope, it can take you anywhere! Bless the shoes and socks that take you there. The journey never ends.

In The Forest

In the forest, in the woods, I almost want to close my eyes, to release myself unto the wild. I want to trust not my own instincts and let nature have her way with me. She is the fiercest woman. She has a beautiful core, whatever she may be capable of, whatever she may do at times. I forgive her, for all her glory that surrounds us, at every fraction of my days. I am evergreen, you shed your leaves, we live together. In the forest it seems we can never stop reaching out. I grab for you. You stick in this heart, painted here. I am the cold wind. Rustling, breaking free. You are in my sights. Forever. Always and forever.

Kids Surround Me

Take a bite. How else will you know if you like it, if it is for you. Close your eyes, don't be afraid. The rain knows your name. It all makes sense. I sing for you. Nobody else.

She saw snow again. She was a beauty. Then the feeling passed, it might have been over. Nevertheless you, and we found ourselves in a wonderland. Poetry pulls me, in circles, taking me home.

The children were everywhere. The eyes were lights. Moments to be proud of. How did they act, carry themselves? God, I can see so much hope. Real beauty living inside you. You have no idea. Everything is song. Floating upwards, past ears, past buildings, rising past telephone wires and clouds. Everything is you, and I am nothing but dust that never settles. It's so good to be alive, to be free.

Every woman has ripped up a part of me. If you care, you will bear the scars. It is inevitable. I wear scars of many kinds. They leave a mark, proudly showing the heart's way.

Drift, but feel the journey, aim to go nowhere and see everything magical appear as it does. Everything becomes clear when we cease hunting, the bed holds us when we let go, when we succumb to battle not, let ourselves shed the skin that traps us within. Dance, little sister, be fond of the moment, not the gazing eyes. Release yourself into everything, feel not caged, my creature, my darling, my gorgeous baby.

Creature of Love / Creature of Sex

Think about it. I mean, really. Sex. Love. Paradise. Think about it some more. Sex and love are intertwined amongst the vines of your life, know it or not. Whether you accept it or not. Maybe you welcome them, embrace them, or just acknowledge their existence around you, inside you. Maybe you run from them, making them far greater in your life than you know. You are running, hiding, failing to escape, accomplishing nothing. They two are love and sex, different, the same, both part and parcel. Grab hold, absorb both.

We are all animals. We all have basic needs, we all need attention, love too, of course, but we need to see the simple physical attraction to us of others, and it is far from unnatural to act on it. Like all other animals we need this, to procreate, to survive, to pass the time, to tick the carnal boxes, settings of our mentalities. Unlike other animals we have a greater intelligence to understand and play with love, to explore it, though I doubt we will ever own the key of true comprehension of something so endlessly colossal. We are said to be the supreme race on earth, of all creatures, yet quite how this is assessed, given WE proclaimed this of our own self, and I can never truly trust anyone so bent on their own reflection, I will never know. Alas, it is a seemingly endless topic, to discuss in groups, with a couple, alone, in our very own boxes, and how do we act, toward the opposite sex, or the same gender if we are not heterosexual, how do we come across? What do we seek? We all proclaim to seek our own happiness, and many do this at the cost of others, but if nobody really seems to know how to get there and what would realistically generate that emotion - though I believe it doesn't actually exist, it is merely a state that we subscribe to and use as an excuse for actions and thoughts where really we have no idea why we exist or move along the timeline as we do - how can we ever know happiness?

I believe in tenderness but also in the inner animal. I believe in love and sex and communicating what you desire clearly. This way everybody understand what you really want, what you feel, where you are headed in your days, nobody is helpless, lost, unaware of your heart. I wrap you up and take you with me. I abandon you but take you with me. Love is unfathomable. I say it and I say it again, but we hold it and embrace it, at times having no idea, mostly, having no idea.

Hold me, never let me go, but let me go. I am a creature. I search for something, for you, for everything, for an other path. Another path awaits.

I lay you down, uncover you whole. Open up, at doors and windows. Let the light inside. Take me to bed, think not of tomorrow. She doesn't exist. She is a dream.

I am listening to Anais Mitchell. I hold all the love in the world. All the love I have ever known. I never met her, only even wrapped myself up in her a few weeks ago. For the first time. She is in my life. My days, my heart, my head, my thoughts. Swimming there. Just swimming. She knows not. I love her. She is mine. All mine. I own her. She may never know. That is okay. Love, life, what we make it. It is all what we make it. I move, you follow, I go alone, we break, and get lost. We return, find our ways back. Always with love.

There may be several parts to this blog. To the title of today's entry. Several million. How could this theme ever be covered? What have I started? 'Oh' and 'dear!'

Deal That Hand My Way

I don't know, but it could be hard to follow. Best not to try to replicate it, best to do something different each time. I want those cards, to do with them what I can. Deal that hand my way, I am not afraid. The birds keep whispering secrets in my ears, they are only secrets because nobody else cares, nobody knows this to be worth eavesdropping. I find that funny. I even laugh at times at the suckers that pass me by. You can break me. Some of you want to, some of you don't know how, some of you would offer to mend me, some would fear the fall. You cannot break me.

I am in a cage, again. For I know about these things. I seem to be either caged or totally free. There is no in between. There never was, and I can't see the start of one now. No wonder the ride was too hard to fathom.

It was snowing again. Two hours before I had looked outside. The light snow that had been predicted on a website I shall not name had been falling, now after a nod from a friend I looked again. Now thick, heavy snow that had not been predicted had clearly been falling a while. The snow which this morning had almost gone from view had now been replaced by a brand new fresh blanket of beautiful crisp white flakes. It was far from light snow. With the technology they have I don't understand why the forecast is hardly ever right. How strange!

I rifled through the last pages of Bukowski's 'Women,' just like he rifled through them in its pages, just like he worked his way through those bodies as if they were just pages turning. I put the book down, I reached for a new one. A book by Coelho, another of my favourite authors. Our relationship went way back. He didn't know about it, wasn't that the best bit of magic about being a writer/reader? You were exquisitely linked and yet total strangers to one another. How wonderful to ponder the strangeness of this. How would you interpret the words, when everyone's mind walked down a different route, when everyone essentially read things in their own unique mindset? Beauty at its most divine, in my eyes.

The snow was crazy and then it more or less stopped. The clock was ticking. It never left me alone. I could guarantee that. Unlike the weather forecast, hitting that nail on its head. The computer made its constant gentle sound eluding me of any silence. The background noises of the building and its other residents kept creeping in and back out of my attention. Silence, I imagine you for now. The fridge was buzzing sporadically, the radiators made their own tune and hearts were yearning, in a vast multitude of directions. The world was everything it ever was, and nothing more.

Bukowski Blues

Can I ever reach you like that? A kick in the face, a punch to the gut, a love like an arrow through the heart? Can I ever be your dreams, my darling, as I desire, as it sometimes seems? Show me the world outside the windows, show me the ticking of my insides, how they follow the music, how they follow you and sing in tune, and then out of sync, carving their own way.

I want to get down to something profound and show it off. I think those who aren't so well off should be considered all the time. I reckon we should not underestimate the effect of wars and not fail to see how many have been lost to this cause. Growth, branches, trying to follow them all as they spread from the ground, from the roots, from the trunk, from the trees around. I lose my way, it tastes so good though, almost pushing me to get lost, over and over.

Today was sweet at turns. I owe myself great contemplation, to succeed at hard tasks, to correctly step forwards and know I limited the pain of others. I read about the sex and drugs and futility of some people's lives and I feel enormous hope swell inside of me for my own existence and the people most special to me. I ramble, I digress, I lose myself once more, but it almost feels like the best direction to take, the directionless one. It leads me away from the manipulated hand. It satisfies my innocent and natural curiosity for the world, for my own world. I don't even know what I talk about and I know I have never made more sense.

These Two Women

The punishing rain is over. It has finally stopped and been swept away to a land afar. It nearly washed me away in the gutter. I almost folded. My body feels the aftershock. I can't wait to return. Always wanting to return, always coming back from something. The edge of some great drop.

Regarding the weather the snow outside was diminishing. I saw from my window, felt the cold attack my bones, immediately breaking its way through my clothes for the brief moment I had to stray from my flat and I was not in the least bit curious for more. I wanted to stay in and rest, build my strength up again. I needed it.

There is these two women. I love them both. With one I have a great history, both in time elapsed and in experience. The other is brand new, she has just been born to me. I know her less, but she seems to be real, not so much of my dreams. Who can know? I never really can. They are both, quite simply extraordinary women. It isn't hard to feel something for someone, it is much harder to come through for them though, and maybe the journey is everything, the result is nothing. I am meaningless, as are you, until given some form of perspective. To love someone is not hard, or at least some small part of them revealed in a short space of time, even after just a series of minutes, but to conquer love over time is a much greater task.

These creatures live together here in the city I own. Life gets ever more confusing but how hard can it be really? We have feelings, we display them, we support each other, we move forwards, we lose some folk, we find others and we all head towards the final door and it feels like a race and nobody will win. Even just to write that down is completely exhilarating. They share a flat. They both fill me with magic, in different ways, at different times, and if they knew that love can survive and that nobody really leaves if we want them not to, then the whole story would flow like a gentle stream, into the night.

Anyhow, these two women and I have had a few tricky days. These things are sent to try us, to mold us, to build us and make our shells more resistant to the hand the adult world deals us in what is clearly some kind of game of poker. The reason I love kids so much is they haven't been diluted by the floods of evil most adults have succumbed to, been washed away by. These women are both young and beautiful. They both possess great warmth. The road ahead for each is long and exciting. There are so many things to learn and an ocean of life to live, and I can see weaknesses and strengths and reasons for caring for each, an abundance in fact.

If things were easy here then they wouldn't send me the message of containing such value. The women involved are both in my life, at this time, in this place and what more can be done about that now? I wouldn't change anything in my life in recent times, or even at any time in my life. I can see it all, why it happened, how it moved me forward and made me do what I do in the way that I do. I can see the wonder of it all. Like beacons of light, hope raining down on us.

I don't need to pick, both are special. I don't need to hurry, everything can wait. If I die tomorrow I knew I did it right. If I love for the time apart, from all angles, then maybe it can be felt, maybe, just maybe. I wanted to get everything right, but I just didn't quite have the tools, so forgive me my errors and let me grow too, and turn into a flower that might be just what everyone would want to look upon, in the end.

For love, for friendship, for the battles, for the belief and hope in special souls, for everything you hold dear, and for patience, I give myself to you.

Mirror Talk / Enigma

To take a good look at yourself, as I feel we all must at times. To look deep inside ourselves and contemplate whether our actions and behaviour is genuinely good enough. I want to face myself, in the mirror, see my harshest critic and still survive the undressing. Those who question are nothing compared to the face that stares back at me. Can I, can we, ever be enough? I believe it comes down to the goodness inside. I wanted to see myself, accept that I could not possibly do everything, please everyone and satisfy all desires.

I once again took to the crisp and cold streets of the centre of Budapest. Another mini adventure beckoned. I was with another friend, a creature I am fond of. I had not seen her for a while and I was happy to be reunited with her, surrounded by the slowest melting snow I had seen. The ice was still floating down the river, the sky was still moody but lovely, evocative of some classic paintings my eyes have seen, the mood was special, just as yesterday.

I still can't believe how beautiful my friend is. She has this fragile wonder that draws me into immense curiosity toward her. She seems so breakable and yet powerful, and in so many ways. I haven't known many people who suck me in quite so hard. She weaves a spell of sorts. I am fascinated by the way she moves, by the way her mechanics make her think and react and look at things and me and, well, just about everything. I can feel some kindness, some kind of distorted warmth. I always have a good time when I am with her. I want to write about her. I even tell her, she asks what would i want to do that for, and I feel like she has answered the question herself. In not being able to see what is so interesting the enigma is unveiled and I am compelled to write about her. She is striking, odd, and great company.

We walked through Margit Island with snow covering the scene, ice passing by us as the river split either side around the island, the sky was watching us, people were around though it was relatively quiet, and strange folk appeared at certain moments. My friend refused to let me take photos of her. Somehow I manage a few. Such a pretty face and I cannot capture it, not even for the relative injustice of a photo. Of course, the memory bank holds her there, but photos are always nice to have, especially of those we hold dear. We see some animals in a mini zoo and enter, I end up holding an eagle or a falcon or something, on the glove they use to perch on with their keepers. The creature was magnificent, its eyes all over the place, watching, carefully observing, its feathers looked soft and glorious when opened up as the man fed small pieces of meat to the stunning winged figure. I enjoyed this spell until my feet suddenly became frozen and the moment was pushing me toward the next one.

We went to find a place for a hot drink. It is never easy when we meet, she is indecisive like I have never known in a person before and somehow in her company this trait spreads quickly and I have no answers either. When sat down I look at her. We talk, I notice how she always needs to play with something. She normally smokes. She did not today. She threw a bottle in the air the whole walk round Margit island, almost. She now fiddles with a wristband that she snaps off her arm. She always needs a toy I notice. Again, I am fascinated. She is thin, like I said fragile, I hope I don't ever break her, and maybe that I can help her if anyone else ever breaks her.

I don't know a lot of people here, not really, not beyond the confines of my school, but by golly do I know some astonishing people here. Enough to fill my senses with total joy and beauty and many, many magical experiences. I feel lucky, once again. To share these days is to have true wealth, to have such creatures at my side I will never forget. Much as Madrid the decade before I have had the fortune to make friends with special people. This weekend was almost too lovely to take at times, and the man in the mirror, looking back, even talking, like a crazed figure on some kind of mission can take it easy on himself at times. Just let it unfold, let it take its place, let it form and show what it is meat to be. All we have to do is allow these things to be whatever they may be.

Everything Is Moving

I was stood on the Chain bridge (Lanchid) in Budapest, overseeing what can only be discribed as an astonishing scene of large blocks and sheets of ice reasonably swiftly drifting down the Danube. It was like another dream. Just when I considered I may have seen everything that this city had to offer along comes another slice of severe magic. I had simply never seen anything like it. It was beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. The sky was calm yet dramatic. Grey with shards of light seeping in all over the place. It wasn't dark, it wasn't light, it was hopeful. I was crossing the bridge with a fellow possessor of magic and I was entranced, by the whole world around me, by everything, by this city that owns me and sets me free. I suddenly thought to myself 'everything is moving!' The river was more alive than I could have imagined seeing it, the ice was making it easier and better to see how the river shifted than at any other time. The river, the ice, the birds, circling, swooping, playing in the sky, the clouds making the sky seem like it was rolling past, the cars, the trams, the people, the bodies, the endless evolution of hearts turning into something else, growing, developing, making us all.

In the day, and then later in the dark this city was alive, breathing, I could taste its breath on my neck, on my face, on my whole freezing body. The views were simply extraordinary, at every step along the river on either side. I was intoxicated. To know this city means to experience all the seasons, to truly soak it up and to watch it move all around. Everything is moving, everything is perfect, as perfect as our eyes will allow us to deem it. Everything is ours, forever and ever.

Ice River

To watch the ice slowly drifting down the river would be magic. To consider each mini iceberg and where its water has come from and the history of its journey. To watch the fragments of something as they reunite. To allow hearts to breathe and ice to form and love to blossom.

I Couldn't Do It

I couldn't do it. I fingered the truth, like you play with your nails when you are nervous and want desperately to avoid biting them. Sometimes it pains us to make choices and we refrain from making them. We must have conviction. We must sometimes take the path that leads to sorrow or loneliness. I could do it. I did it even.

This time I couldn't find the right answer. I couldn't do it. It wasn't that I didn't try or I didn't want to solve it, it just looked like a chess table when check mate has been reached. No room for movement, nothing would budge. My heart was weary. I could not do it. No matter how hard I desired it. I just could not.

Reaching Out To Nobody

Sometimes your searching arms are met by armies of hands and bodies all awaiting contact and interaction, at other times you are reaching out to nobody. Sometimes the darkness covers us and the blanket feels like it could never be lifted, at other moments the light is so bright the hope almost leaves us incapacitated. Maybe the solitude is enough to feel warm, maybe if you can find its glow and bask inside that you can never be made to feel less than the sum of your parts.

It is not easy to write at times in the aforementioned dark, though try I must to log the emotions I feel. I cannot live in a permanent storm and though there are always multiple solutions I imagine to every problem it seems people throw more at you when you are down, people always fail to see what is staring them in the face.

I must away. The words do not readily sacrifice themselves this eve. The cold in the city continues, though the snow is slowly vanishing. Without doubt the strangest week of my life is almost over, though I imagine it can throw something else my way still. I certainly shall have to see if it takes me down or lifts me up. God bless everyone, especially the invincible one, on her last set of legs.

The Voices of Kids and the Invincible Woman

I love how hard things can be at times. When we are blinded by our own bubble of importance, when we fail to acknowledge the beautiful and fragile earth and its surroundings and the natural sounds and sights that can fill our very souls on a daily basis. Those signs are somewhere around, whether we live in cities and  villages, deserts or jungles.

I could fit all the world's problems in my pocket and imagine them away. Most of them were but solitary and imagined thoughts, growing because we knew not how to control things. We failed every day, we failed so fashionably it would never be given up.

I neared school this morning and suddenly I was lifted. An excited child who I would co-teach later lit up upon seeing me and showed his excitement and then I heard a chorus of children shouting excitedly and suddenly the world was perfect again. I knew some of those voices belonged to children with poor home lives, ones who had to see and experience things I wouldn't wish on anyone, especially not for young people, but the sound was enough to satisfy all the darkness of the world into submission, at least for a moment. I couldn't help being eternally filled with the excitement of a child. I assess that now I know what I like in life, in my life, I am far more excited, far more of the time, than when I was actually a child. I can do what I want really, can take myself to the places I craved, can see the world and meet people who have been waiting for our paths to cross, both them and myself unaware of this, and I can allow myself total freedom in my quest. Moments break the peace and the joy and of course life is never easy, there are too many factors that it consists of for it to truly be a walk in the park, but it almost is what we make of it. It more or less is.

A thought to those who are dying and even my seemingly invincible grandmother, for God and the doctors and what has felt like everyone on earth and Heaven, even conspiring together, have not been successful in wrenching her spirit from its earthly body. I love that woman, let it be known. No more. Nothing more. The rest remains in the spaces between words, and letters, and the eternal endless space.

I knew everything I wanted to say was on the tip of my tongue, on the edge of my fingers, but sometimes being sat here it doesn't quite come, the flow restrains itself. I do know that at some moment it will all pour out, like the water on the banks of a river, overflowing after severe rainfall. I can wait. I can patiently wait. I can even love having to wait for now.

Split Personality Blues

Split me down the middle, two that I am. Then let each of those parts form their own characters too, and split further still, potentially. For I cannot justify fitting all this inside one person, knowing not who writes this, with all certainty. I can read Bukowski, he can leave his mark on me even, he can open up my sexual and dirty mind, without doubt, but it will be a small impact on the overall scale of who I am as a writer. I shift between characters, from light to dark, from music to poetry and to greater arenas of words, from hope to feelings of uselessness. I can write words and send them out to the whole world knowing that they will only meet the eyes of a handful of folks, as the larger numbers await my earthly departure, but I can write nevertheless and that is the spirit with which to continue and the sole reason to do anything, because regardless of the size of the audience it matters, it is nature, it is as necessary as breathing or keeping hydrated.

Which side fills up the blog, which side fills the diaries? Are they one and the same? Do the words spill out and truly have no destination other than the ether, the stars and beyond? Should I stop trying to control what clearly would be the hardest of all roles? It is so easy to question what we do not understand, but to truly trust our surroundings and our instincts at times would probably make more sense. To let time and space and love do what they are designed to do. To repeat oneself, be it on purpose or simply because you think those thoughts, with impact, over and again, and you therefore communicate such a mindset.

Fall in love, over and over, with fear and passion, and endless enthusiasm. Life is love, love is life. If you will dive into a pool of anything in this time on earth, dive in good. Go deep, swim around, see what is in there and believe it could contain anything, no matter how small or large the space may be. The possibilities of everything are endless. Uselessly and gloriously endless.

'Oh' and 'Dear'

My life has changed once again. I don't expect people to understand, and I will not ask them to understand. I will move forwards as alone as necessary. I see things fall by the wayside to be left behind, and it is fragments of life. It is normal, natural, sometimes hurtful. There is so much going on, so many things that interest me and sufficient people, that I simply cannot spread myself, one person that I am, far as I'd like to be able to. Letting people down is not easy nor fun, but I suppose we will always make choices that will be met by both cheers and grumbles from the audience we have at any given moment. When you see things fall behind behind you, you can barely believe it can be managed.

I excel at absorbing life, whether it be beauty and positive happenings or the complete opposite of those. I see the importance of all. I analyse hurting people, whether it is done by me or others. It is unavoidable at times, others are through sheer lack of thought. I do feel we can work things out and solve many problems that are born, if we focus together.

I have much more to say, a million things are on the tip of my tongue, all fighting over the short space on there, to be spoken, into the silence of my solitary flat, or into the ears of all the people who are not here, who are out there beyond these walls. For now, I shall curb the instinct to go further, I shall sit on my words, I shall ponder certain things still more, and the others can form a queue. One thing at a time, my dear, one thing at a time.

Snowy River

The city was lit up in a different way, like a fairy-tale. The six of us took to the streets. This was the group I had missed out on previously, I had rather a good feeling about this time around. No experience was ever the same twice, and i had known that would be the case, but the beginning of this term was so wildly different I felt like I was filled with magic. I must have been glowing, utterly relaxed, allowing the cold to find its way inside gaps in my clothes and the small area of skin showing of my face.

We walked the city for hours, we found some of the beautiful parts- the river opposite the Houses of Parliament, Heroes square, the ice skating rink outside, the giant sand timer and we dived into Hungarian places for food and drink. All the while the snow fell, turning the streets into scenes of wild and wonderful winter.

I can feel the positive and the negative rubbing up against my cheeks trying to find their ways into my body, in order to make battle for my very soul. To see who can take the heart of me. I already know there will only be one winner, but it does not stop the other army attempting to take over. Follow the heart, it is by far the greatest and the winning art. The city, Budapest, was and is absolutely perfect.

Winter's Cold Gloves

Today was one of the coldest days I have ever experienced. The city never looks anything other than stunning, but the cold today reached under any amount of clothes and started squeezing the life and feelings out of the body. It was brutally cold. The temperature showed as being -11 degrees celsius but I felt sure it was still colder, and certainly by the time I got home at 16.30. There is something exquisite about weather so harsh that it almost makes you feel wholly uncomfortable and renders you unable to do any of the normal outside experiences. I can kinda see the beauty in such an extreme state. There was no real way to combat it. Every part of the body that could be was covered and still it found a way underneath and inside to where the body would commence to feel like it was gradually shutting down, until escapism into the warmth was found.

I had had the company of two beautiful young English women, one the most important person I had ever met and one a wonderful young lady I had met only yesterday, and I felt comfortable and warm in their joint presence. Feeling truly at ease with people is not something I genuinely believe comes naturally or easily, not too often at least, though I always try when I first acquaint folk.

We share this fragile and unimaginably pretty earth, we cause much harm to it, we construct such ugliness and also some true wonder on its surface. We share the earth, the least we can do is ponder the art of sharing and imagine ourselves to be kinder and better at coexisting until it becomes reality. It isn't just the weather, there is so much coldness, I can see it in the eyes, the empty eyes of some. Soulless vacuums were strutting up and down the streets everywhere. Dollar signs in the eyes, any method of achieving their goals meant a dirtier world, and it all fell around the feet of everyone. There was only ugliness in the cold paws of thieves and their movements, I could see so much beauty in the cold gloves of winter. This place, the very air here, however tight the cold made it, had utter magic and it never failed to amaze me how in love with it I could be. It had just got even better, even prettier than I had ever known it. God bless this colossal city of my heart, in my heart, blossoming, in the middle of winter.

Morpheus

Morpheus is calling.

The voice of Bon Iver on Anais Mitchell's 'Hadestown.' He plays Orpheus on what can only be considered a completely astonishing work of art. Anais Mitchell is now yet ANOTHER female artist's name on the tip of my tongue. An album so rich with ideas and styles of music and executed to perfection that it has become the latest piece of music to change my life, and it will inevitably now shape a moment in time of my life - the months ahead.

I am weary, sleep is coming. It was a long day, from being at school this morning, to a long episode at the zoo with a group of year 3 kids (9 year olds). It was immense fun. Then I reacquainted myself with my best friend on earth and her new flatmate with whom she will share the next 4 months of her life. It was the best birthday ever to be able to spend some time with her. Everything else slipped into place. Watching some comedy, playing a few songs, having some food and then finding a quiet end to the day, at which point I finally coincided with my extraordinary parents for a nice chat on Skype, in which they sang 'Happy Birthday' to me and I blew out the 2 candles on a small cake my mum had sent me. It was a great end to the day. Music, children, friends, fun and games and just the whole city I love made today the best birthday of my life.

I am rich beyond my wildest dreams, and it has nothing to do with money. Surely that is the right way to live my life, even if others would never agree with me.

Thanks to everyone who played a part today.

Budapest Birthday

Today is my birthday. I live in the beautiful city of Budapest. There is indeed much beauty here, as well as some real horrors. The kind of life that lives in Bukowski's dark American underworld. I am happy, in my life and on my birthday, for the first time ever really. I am filled with a million different kinds of warmth and love and inspiration, and my mind never lets me sleep well these days as it never properly switches off. This city suited me well though, for now, and there were gorgeous women and hobos everywhere. It was a true melange of styles, this place, really it was.
 
I have been long enough on this earth to be comfortable in my shell and to know which things I do well and which things are a struggle for me. I seem to be sucked into some vortex of excitement more and more regarding my life passions - which amount to being quite a substantial number of things these days, though I could reduce the key ones to being my job, my music and my writing.

Today has been a happy start to the day. My best friend is on her way to Budapest to live here too for a while. My school knows little of my celebration of getting another year older, but I didn't expect a trumpet fanfare, and later I am going to the zoo with some of the year 3 kids, which should prove to be an afternoon well spent. At every turn I seem to find magic in this land, if I truly want it. It has never been difficult to go in search of and since I left England at the end of  last summer I have encountered it regularly. It helps my writing, it makes me grow and it helps my happiness balloon as never it has before.

I shall return...