She wants to be more like Lady Gaga, she feels herself slightly crazy, she blows pink bubbles, speech bubbles without content. Pop. Pop pop. She would like to have more to say, most for having a reason to freak out a little, things to write on walls in bold letters and curly initials, large and small truths. Pop. The pigeons just not with Stimorol. (Google Translate)
looking at the distance
between every drop
And when it falls
"Welcome students, welcome, welcome. Don’t bother opening Microsoft Word, if there’s a quote you really must write down, send it to the person next to you on Facebook chat. Today, we’ll be talking a bit about Barthes, Roland Barthes, 1915 to 1980, a man from France. I have one hour, minus the five minutes in the beginning and the end for you to loudly pack your bags and file out of this godforsaken prison of knowledge, so, in reality I have 50 minutes to tell you about this man. It would take me around those 50 minutes (of which, on average, you will be listening 15) to read aloud the wikipedia page about him, which I know a few of you will do in class tomorrow in your presentations, so I shall not waste your time on that today. Actually, I shall not waste your time at all. It’s not worth neither your or my time. This should not be rushed. Go home. Make a cup of coffee. Read good books. Someday you’ll understand. Hopefully.”
Anonymous asked: Either: "in the twinkling of an eye" or "at the last trumpet"
Great theme suggestions, thank you. And keep them coming.
On another note, we are very sorry that Simon (our monday-boy) and Maria (our wednesday-girl) will be unable to post this week.
It’s always about other things than what it really is about, she says. She is dressed in black, a snowflake melts on her shoulder. You’re walking on a dream, he says. He’s losing his hair. Slowly, but he’s losing it. She noticed it first. You are doing it again now, she says. You’re the one dreaming, look at those blank and shiny eyes. How can I, he says. How can I look at my own eyes, how can I be dreaming when you’re walking on it? She runs, he’s not stopping her. She falls. He’s losing his hair.
It’s a party. We’re having a party. We’re pretending to have a party. We’re pretending to be excited about the six 8-packs of beer scattered around the room and the semi-loud semi-recognisable electronic music floating from the semi-okay speakers on the table. It’s a party. And we try to talk, we try to forget whatever pseudo-intellectual themes we come across in our various classes at school, but we realise that’s all we remember how to talk about in a civilised manner. So we talk about bad stuff. Naughty stuff. Because naughty stuff is what you talk about at parties. And at some point, you happen to look her directly in the eyes when one of the lads is making a particularly naughty (nasty) comment, and she looks like she kind of likes it. She looks like she wants you to like it. And suddenly you feel like it’s a real party of some kind.
It’s like putting everything into a box. The walk, the stench of a bourgeois aroma and cowshit penetrating my nostrils and at the same time next to me, the infinite space. The landscape that invites me to fling around. The hills and the trees which seem like furniture of a forgotten time. I’m a friend of a seagull. I could jump if I wanted. As high as the kites on the other side of the bay, tearing clouds apart. ‘Maybe this is too far away,’ she says. ‘From what?’ ‘From everything, reality I guess.’ The entrance embraces me. With nostalgia and a smell of curry chicken. I don’t mind lost connections. Or if the neighbors have skeletons in their backyards. Who hasn’t. Reality is a shovel. They could dig me down here.
Review of growing up in a single-female-parent family with somewhat older sister: My two Mothers pass down clothes to me from different decades. This means I was uncool in primary school but somewhat cool in hippie-school, even though I’m no good at west african danicing. Definite plus. My Mothers have tickled me so much that you to touch me, you must touch me like you’d touch a horse, with a flat, steady hand and no fingertips (the worse will think they’re carrots and eat them, I will find them ticklish and eat you). My Mothers never taught me to walk in high heels. My Mothers let me have a bunny with testicular cancer and a cat on antidepressants. I guess you could say it’s a bit early to learn about life’s tough sides, but they really don’t whine very much.
Overall conclusion: I think I’ll have to give it 4&1/2 stars. Would have liked the weather to be nicer.
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