scrawls.

scrawls

still cheaper than therapy*

31.8.10

one minute

It's stopped raining but the streets are still wet. I wonder how many of the slugs on the sidewalk made it through the day; i wore my winter boots for the second time in a week. It will be cold again soon. I open my window, i can hear the cars on the gurtel. No trucks at this hour. Most of the other windows are dark, as ever, but i can see a few: there is someone playing video games around the corner, flickering blue and red and grey. On the third floor across the way someone is doing laundry by hand; his downstairs neighbors are cooking hamburgers on the stove, i think, with lettuce and tomatoes on assembly in the next room. A galley kitchen, bigger than mine, with a low, shaded chandelier over the table, dim, but enough for me to see in. They'll eat with forks. A girl walking, also in boots. The cigarette sign is constantly revolving. A man with a cigarette, now, in shorts, in this weather, and he looks up at me and i wish i knew who he was. Hanging out the window is so obvious. Directly across from me there is a halogen lamp and a clock, but nobody is moving. I have CSI on the television because it's the only thing i can stand but even that - how many times am i going to use bring mich um in context? Not helpful when i already know they don't think the same things are funny as me. The loud couple seems to have moved away, and the bar across the street is quiet for once, with the chairs and tables all wet from rain. Nobody porch-sits any more, not today, and no other windows are open.

Labels: reflection, writing

scrawled @ 19:57

2 Comments

29.8.10

on the other hand

it's been simply ages. And how do i? but of course, i remember, i remember, i remember ... ow, my head. I'll wait, and stand here, and hold back, and let them go on, and stay in the dark and not think about anything. I step into a doorway and pretend to be a giraffe. Again. Does it matter? The delicacy lingers on my hands, i breathe it in.

Labels: emptor, separation

scrawled @ 10:00

0 Comments

24.8.10

intellectual capacity

Have just finished reading chapter one of Winnie the Pooh. I told you there wouldn't be very many pictures and that you couldn't read it by yourself (and you said, But when i am big like you mommy, i can read it) and you insisted that i buy it there at the english second-hand bookshop (Why, how, why, could an english second-hand bookshop possibly respect itself at all when it has no Joyce and no Faulkner anywhere in it? Certainly it's a guess what you'll have at any given time, but really? None?) and you loved it. You loved it. I cannot believe you are big enough to enjoy Winnie the Pooh proper. Hope i haven't missed the boat entirely on Now We Are Six.

Also, right now we are both covered in glitter, because you were covered in glitter, and then you said Mommy, you need to have some more glitter and smeared it all over my arms and my black shirt, of course it was black, and i don't even know how much glitter is in my hair that i'll be finding for weeks. Thanks, Play Foam. Thanks. Someday i will go through the erstes basteln book and find something that does not involve any glitter ever.

Labels: preschooler

scrawled @ 11:48

1 Comments

15.8.10

the difference between knowing something in my head and knowing it in all the rest of me and the space between those, that rushing chasm, and then i catch up to myself and on the one hand it's great and on the other, well, i already knew that, right? sometimes i think i can almost explain relativity.

what is that? what is that? To calculate, exactly, how much slower i am going if i meditate, if i stay perfectly still. It's all the same.

when i leave the windows open there is always traffic, always something, cars, bikes, trucks, sirens, trains. People shouting. Music, laughing, something. i bought a copy of hemingway in german - i may mention this again. Plastic cover. They don't make books like this any more - i could - oh, i could do. it's a dance, it's all a dance, so perfect, so defined.

Labels: random, writing

scrawled @ 19:54

0 Comments

12.8.10

[img] Dalai Lama There is a common perception that compassion is, if not actually an impediment, at least irrelevant to professional life. Personally, I would argue that not only is it relevant, but that when compassion is lacking, our activities are in danger of becoming destructive. This is because when we ignore the question of the impact our actions have on others' well-being, inevitably we end up hurting them.
about an hour ago · Comment · Like · 2,925 people like this.

Labels: internet

scrawled @ 12:04

0 Comments