just a little song I happened to come up with tonight

some women
are bitches
and still
they want your love

and when they notice
you couldn't care less
they just go bitchy
a little more

some women
are scared of everything
and still
they want your love

and when they notice
that they disgust you
they try to be funny
and fail

some women
mistake mascara
for magic potion
it doesn't work

and when they notice
how unimpressed you are
they start to cry
and now it really looks bad

some women
oh no, three verses are enough.

good night.

too much information

your mum telling you about haemorrhoids.
your bank clerk telling you about this play he did in school.
your ex telling you anything, really.
your superior telling you all about your colleagues, unaskedly.
your little sister telling you what pill she is on.
your doctor's sniffy receptionist telling you how hamlet should've really been.
your neighbour telling you about her hip replacement, vividly.
your fat old colleague telling you you're not a revolutionary.

me, blogging? well...

procrastination deluxe

I have not learned my lines properly. it is quite late. and the big scene is scheduled for tomorrow morning. and what do I do?

I checked my email. 10 times.
I watched tv.
I had dinner. twice.
I redid the layout of the monologue, so it would be easier to learn. four times.
I did not yet print it out. at all.
I read it once. sounded good.
without the book, I didn't even get through the first chapter.
if it wasn't sunday night, I'd go shopping now.
or to the gym. or just out.
for coffee. too late to have coffee now.
maybe I should make some coffee and learn all night.
this post is not very interesting.
yet serving its purpose.
procrastination.
arghh.

I will stop this now.
will take the script and go to bed.
probably.

well ain't that something

it amazes me. imagine conor oberst sitting in his kitchen chair, writing a song. he is writing from personal experience, trying to capture the exact momentum of some past event. months later, I go to the record store and find him talking directly to me. he must have known. I know. and I am by far not the only one who feels like that.

it excites me so much to open a book and find I have been having the exact same ideas and thoughts. someone else must have found himself in a similar condition to mine, must have had similar doubts and problems. it is weirdly and wonderfully comforting and consoling. and I tell you, it happens with ancient greek, or sturm und drang literature, with schiller, and whitman.

someone once told me that as an artist, one should not only spring from personal experience. but what else is there? maybe it is the artist's privilege to do exactly so, in order to create art that has the power to reach people personally and individually. by that, I don't mean artists must only work with what they empirically know, but maybe start from there.

the last night of the holiday

still full of my summer, I am sitting in my surprisingly clean kitchen, waiting for the rice to be done. tomorrow I will start work again. and even though tomorrow night I might be fed up with it again, I am looking forward to it now.

when they will bore me, I shall think of wandering the London streets. when they will anger me, I shall remember driving j.'s scooter through hackney nights, drunk. when they will stress me, I shall recall sitting on finnish rocks, fishing.

and there is more. much more.

time to kill on a sunday afternoon...