Things Left To Say

"I don't like change."

"Neither do I, but they do. I mean, as much as we tend to attach ourselves to the comforts we've surrounded ourselves with, you have to agree that the excitement of change is definitly worth the ackward periods of adjustment."

"Maybe, but I don't want to change. You know how long I've lived."

"Hey, it's a fact of life. I might be gone tomorrow."

"Will you?"

"I was just saying. If I wanted to leave, I could."

"But you won't, right?"

"No, 24 is on tomorrow night."

Fly St.

Even here life can become routine. Not that it's boring or anything, but, well, it's just grown routine. My twelve-day weeks leave little time for me to properly engage any sort of social activity. My three days off are divided in: cleaning, sleeping lost hours and traveling to nearby Akko or, on occasion, watch a movie at a friend's place. Speaking of, my friends all have DVD players. I, myself, am bereft of such technology. We have preferred, for the sake of and in the spirit of service, to accept nothing less than the life of a servant. Books lay strewn across the surfaces of my room, leaving barely enough room for my precious CD player, which, accompanied with a panacea of albums, compose the soundtrack to my routine. Actually, it should be mentioned that a new friend --a valuable one, which will be included in the banquet following my death--, Pandora.com, has provided a very exciting outlet for my melomaniacal needs. Sometimes, it bends me to its will, as I lay helpless to vote for a song I may not like in the hopes of retaining, or rather preserving, like a tender rose petal, the pristine status of my radio station.

Winter falls in Israel reluctantly, the sun still unleashing a sort of hellish fury on whoever is unlucky enough to live here. Thank God for the clouds that go by, or I swear the place would be a desert.

With Love From London

This Month's Craze

I really like what she's wearing on that picture.

Two things I was thinking, about clothing. One: pastel coloured shirts are awesome, and my new, not-yet-acquired wardrobe is full of them, as well as complimentary ties and scarves. Two: if I were to become some sort of political figure with a power sufficient enough to change fashion trends, I would reinstate the fashion tendencies of the 1920s, with a few exceptions.

Also, I think gray, black and white looks awesome with a light, pastel orange as backdrop. Similarily, pastel yellow and pink looks good too. I wish I were a tailor.

Ahem

I wrote a letter to my family, in French, and then forwarded it to my English-speaking friends because I was too lazy to write them an email. I added a footnoot-inspired commentary so they knew the gist of the email, if they had forgotten their French.

This morning I had jellybeans and green tea. I had a wonderful day.

To Say The Least

After writing to my friends and family I have nothing else to say. I think I remember why I had a blog, but now I find it easier to just write directly. My blog is more like a small wastebasket that I keep at hand for weird things I have around. I rarely use it, and when I do I always remember about the fact that I don't use it much, and I should probably put more time into writing. Well I say no. I will let my dubious writing skills rot in my brain, because in any case there are too many damn writers, anyways. Gosh, it would take so long to read all the books every written too. And a lot of those people don't have anything to say. Like me. Like what I'm writing riiiiight now. Nothing. Ab-so-lute-ly NOTHING. Ridiculous waste of bandwidth. But I love it.

Should be going to Tel-Aviv again next week. I also hope to go to Tiberius soon, but God knows when.

Six

I've never been more scared in my life than when the bombs fell on Haifa, on the 7th. It seemed as if they were just behind me. I could hear the not-so-distant clatter of shrapnel, and as the ground shook in succession as the rockets hit home in various spots around us I stood mesmerized at what used to be a four-story building, now a heap of rubble. It is a completely different thing to live it.

I took this picture later, when I felt safer.

Resurfacing

I arrived in Haifa three weeks ago, and so far life is pretty. Just, pretty. Nothing exhuberant or demented, but pretty.

The few words I know in Hebrew have made life a whole lot easier, and me and the few good friends I've made so far have relieved the small, abbreviated episodes of homesickness. Things here are different, yes, but since I can compare it to my other extended stays overseas, I can easily predict an enjoyable, if not completely comfortable, stay in Israel.

In the picture above, you can see the mountain range separating Israel and Lebanon. Other than that, I seem to have oversized cheeks.

I'm moving to Israel very soon. In fact, I'm leaving in exactly two weeks. What wonders may yet behold my eyes remain fastened into the twisting fabric of future devellopments.

Good thing I'm moving, too, since I just quit one of my jobs with an amazing performance of uncaring pseudo-maturity. I can still see myself walking to my boss, triumphant on the wings of self-importance, telling him of my departure from his enterprise...almost like breaking an unimpassionned relationship. The truth, however, is that aside from the money I've set aside for m studies, I'm nearly broke. Also, like a waking, recurring nightmare, the knowledge that my career choices teeter on the edge of a bowl. A great bowl itself leaning into a precipice, which drops thousands of miles into a great running river full of decaying placenta.

Sorry for the distasteful placenta rant.

Erupted the Shadows, Paris

Thin whispers begrudgingly reproach our life spent;
Past arranged, young blue ladies on the banks running.
Relentlessly gathering folds of life's garment
Bitterness on the lips regret the escape, dreading.

Stoic, significance lost as mind changes hand,
Lovelorn and battered from a crashing existence.
Conspiratorial epiphanies clatter and
The shining example of man dies in silence.

A grostesque harmony clings to glories unknown,
The patient watch resonating sounds forgotten.
Car-beetle shine, the wind across the flagstones blown
The faintest image of a true life awoken.

I'm deathly tired of blaming my problems on society, the world, my parents, my teachers, my computer, my toaster, my oven, my fridge, my car and myself. I'm tired of having to blame.

Thespian Seacoast

Se réveiller avec la conscience imprégné, où gronde, décharné, l'insignifiance d'un monde cruellement ordinaire. Where no one else will ever be.

The Tortoise and the Hare

-me : I am sympathetic to your plight
-him: thank the gods of awsomeness and pies turned into cakes!
-me: and Jesus shed a tear... of Love
-him:that fell into the mouths of the thirsty millions and gave them eternal life and millions of airmiles
-me: to go unravel the very fabric of undying faith, ironically
-him: yes, but never without exchange a complicit look

Carlisle Road

Someone, somewhere, is planning the downfall of my righteous regime. Woe betide he and his ilk, should my gaze befall them.

My last session draws to its end, and my impending travels to the Middle-East slither --rather deliciously-- to a pre-determined, furiously organized date. The itinerary is not in any way touristic, but in tauntamount disorder: sorcerous and macabre, with a hint of mint.

I am conscious of the dangers for a North-American, yet I have the unending bounty of loving Mankind and believing in all religions. Erratum: I claim to possess these ephemeral bounties.

My poor mice will have to meet their end this Wednesday. I will comfort them with Tchaikovsky's second symphony, as well as caressing them individually for an equivalent time, lest my guilt follow me through the coming months.

The life of research --especially with the demands of haste that our society warrants necessary to ensure the survival of those not fit (not an elitist)-- began on a road unclear and strewn with whispered, dusty dreams and perverted optimism. Now, I understand the better meaning of optimism; there can never be only one true choice at a moment, as life is far more complicated than any of us seem to grasp. Humility, ironically, is a valour lost to the few lucky enough to forget about its existence.

Lavish

I opened my medicine cabinet. Inside was a piece a paper. On it were the words "He held a gun in his hand."

From Aron to Aton

Knowledge, in French, is "connaissance". Etymologically, it means "to be born with", from the latin root "co-", or "with" and "-natere", meaning born. I really like the idea that every discovery is actually a rebirth with a new, more attuned self, my greatest fear being the undeniable truth that I am horribly average.

Providing Succor To the Needy

I decided one of my life projects should be the determination of the exact location of my death, as well as choosing the coolest final words.

Well Said

I couldn't have formulated it better.

Dream Rock

I dreamt that the sky was constantly pink, and I lived in a small fishing village in Japan. I also rode on arabian horses, wielding a large cutlass and rode for eternity on valleys of silky sand.

Too Bad

With my best intentions, no.

Edit: I've never been more touched than when I saw this lesson from the previously mentionned webcomic while listening to Massive Attack's Everybody's Got a Family.

Idealism and Naiveté Separated

After several years of compressed and sickly cynicism, I regressed --not in a bad way at all-- into an earlier conception of life and hopes.

Being an idealist does not necessarily mean to be an idle dreamer.

A very nice webcomic.

Opaque Pristine

Lifting sun, angry clouds across the noon sky, life unknown. Dry yellow fields contrast with the sharp blue sky; a shining white house sits amongst the rolling grass. The significance of actions become mingled, all recreated into the simplicity of the most meaningful existence -at its purest form. Aside from all that really exists, there is an undefinable shape to the crash colours, a caress removing all conscient thought from reality.

Bred into the most basic level of our conscience, they are unknown, unrecognizable. Sadly, to encouter them is a matter of luck. Timeless, they remain mysterious in their nature to claiming souls and praying hands; congruous to life, exaltation begets the attached.

Integrating Leadership

Figuring a good time as any to clarify conceptions.

Being a good leader is not only being able to make effective decisions tactfully. It is, rather, being humble enough to ask and accept help from others while managing information and considering, integrating possibilities. Finally, a good leader is invested --or learn, in most cases-- with the ability to admit mistakes, while being able to correct them with pose and preciseness.

I choose that picture not because I define leadership as a male-dominant trait, but because I thought the figure simply yelled a congruous pride (arrogance!) not unlike my own.

Waiting for Tide

The Wild Swans at Coole, W.B. Yeats
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty Swans.

The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.

I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.

Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?

Finally Revealed

This is a link to incriminating pictures of myself, as well as my ego.

With What You Have

Goebbels: "We do not talk to simply say something, but to receive a certain reaction."

My conversational topics are spiced with tact to have the greatest effect, to leave the best impression with my audience. Alas, I lose all interest in proper communication, whose purpose is to convey ideas and meaning, not entertainment.

Nightbound Macrophobia

Deadliest , it enthralls and decomposes minds complete. Most fearful mirror, I confess: the walls I've built around and between are fast unraveling, nylon of the day grotesquely grinding the images of youth and of conception alike in brutal velocity. Inconsequential elements of pure inconsciousness, greatness and damnation becoming, one at a time, epic and distinct in their paroxysm of confused perceptions.

To claim indifference, to raise the walls once again, is far more demanding than it once was.

Smiling Catatonic

Ending relationships is a recurrent theme in my life so far. I don't know why. The funny thing is that I don't know why not either. To consider romance a relative term would be to me the most accurate definition, although experiencing it would never incur the previous correlation -far from it. It's much more enjoyable to remain isolated from a during romance, because as we know change is on one hand much in demand, but it is also reviled by the same people. By that, I mean the pleasure of living in misery, of enjoying the pernicious pity that we lather on ourselves; some sort of emotional masturbation.

Le plus grand problème de l'amour c'est d'avoir la certitude de sa faillabilité, de son caractère éphémère et chimèrique, de son temps compté. De la craque qui grandie, sous l'oeil anxieux. Comme pensais Lamartine et ses contemporains, les moments les plus beaux sont aussi les plus douloureux. C'est peut-être la peur du changement, de la perte -pas simplement de l'amour lui-même, mais aussi de ce qui nous rend individuel- qui nous prévient d'apprécier la saveur de l'amour.

Hearts, Spades and Blue Lines

At the risk.

Of all the words of the English language, none are more dooming than "love". More haunting is the knowledge that to keep faith in hope is the fastest catalyst to its' agonizing debacle.

According to an ancient Greek philosopher -I forget which one-, men and women were physically fused together at the back a very long time ago, in an age forgotten by men. Of course, it wasn't always a man and a woman together: the three possible combinations were equal in number. In a spur of anger, the gods separated them, ending their happiness of constant copulation. The separated, dying, inspired the pity of the gods, who realigned the genitalia, which ended the episode. The hypothesis, for an ancient one, is keenly distinctive today.

The man who helped in the creation of the first Oxford English Dictionary by submitting more than ten thousand definitions, an American named Dr. W.C. Minor, surgically removed his own penis.

Harrowing, it is, to have the certitude that the pale reality of love can be empty, bland, uncoloured, fleeting, inconsequential, fragmented, diffused, accelerated or decelerated, unpromising. Yet, nothing is more surprising and hopeful than the promise of uncertainty.

Reclusive Anxiety

A few words, because there are always too many to be kept boiling in our heads.

Having the impression that life's best moments are passing by unknown is increasingly traumatic for a deranged and unstable sciences student.

The experience of watching a woman undressing is not in any way as exciting as seeing two women fighting in a pit of mud.

My Crash Colours series is over, to my greatest displeasure.

Leading Vendor in Awesome

It just came to my attention that no child, or in any case 'me at that age', could ever have thought up the rhyme "X and X, sitting in a tree, K I S S I N G." Which leaves adults and teenagers, who both seem strangely off in this context.

Orchid Sangria, Part Two

It's like life has lost all it's depth: there is no plot anymore, and the story keeps going, pushed by something undefinable yet tireless. I am responsible for my current position, of that I'm sure, but I don't know why, or when, or where it supervised my construction of change. Candid, I presume, is the mixed feelings of confusion and a shade of other emotions. I am the dictator of a large country, limited by the edges of my consciousness. Time isn't a river, it's more like green jello.

Epiphany: Conserving Social Estime

I would be much more respected if everytime I screwed up or made a mistake, instead of claiming ingnorance or inability I would assume responsability and conserve my integrity as an intelligent, able human being.

Same goes for the image you project: the balance between being witty in conversations, being interesting, and eventually being brutally honest about your feelings is unattainable. I usually end up making myself look like someone else, going into a conversation which I have no interest in or just being plainly oblivious to body language, unerringly causing a faux pas on my behalf.

Under a Bridge in Provence

Ressources become so much more valuable when they become rare, and it is during those times that we find ingenious possibilities for their use and preservation. I think the energy crisis that North America is facing will be, ironically, the catalyst for the changes we're looking for.

Orchid Sangria

Everybody likes techno music, find out what subtype.