Notes from Saturdays

This started in the hope of being a weekly thing. It was even named in that hope: Notes from Saturdays". Apparently there have been 3 Saturdays since January 1, 2022. What a truly shit year it's been so far! I don't write. For many reasons; One, my stale mood. Two, not much to say that I think anyone would want to read. Three, does anyone read this? If it's just me writing to myself, well it's already in my head, why take it out to shove it back in?! But then I saw tonight that I had totally forgotten how my last New Year went. I'm glad I had written it here. I'm extremely lonely... and mortal. There's no need to dramatise my mortality like that really. I'm no more mortal than anyone else. We all can equally drop dead any minute. But what I'm trying to say is, if I drop dead now, there will be nothing left of my existence. Nothing will outlive me. Not even a tree. In fact there will even be fewer trees because of me. What I'm saying is, if I...

 If all aspects of one's life should be in harmony I should not be writing this. It doesn't go with the rest of my life, this existence model I've chosen.  I read/heard half of a book about two teenagers who were violently and continuously bullied in school by their psychopathic classmates. They took the beating up and insults silently to a masochistic degree. 3 hours of listening to consistent pathetic silent self defining suffering. I returned the book to the library half way of course. I have no time or energy for stories about pathetic people who do nothing to break a vicious cycle, who take all the suffering and think it makes them special, it defines them. While the world around them moves on, people grow up, grow old, die, and no one learns a life lesson about not bullying the hell out of others. I have no energy, full stop.  The difficulty is, we all think we are doing something to break the cycle. We want to believe we are not passive. I believe that endlessly wh...

There’s this thing S and I do where we post photos on Sunday nights every week to record the year. Every weekend I look at my phone gallery and there are 56 photos of stuff on site, 1 or 2 of food, maybe a page of a book, my legs in front of TV. Not much really. So on Saturday or Sunday I force myself to go for a walk after work, just so I have an image of something other than working and eating. I believe the weekly record has served its purpose. I find it sad on an inspirational level. But so very true.

I messaged and said "Dial me in. I have no Seens this year, hahaha". They said OK. Baba forwarded a message with 7 Seens in poetry, he must have received the message through a chat group or something. It was sweet. I sent a kiss back. I spent the rest of the New Year's Eve dragging my sad ass from room to room, phone in hand, staying at an acceptable proximity to M while not being in the way. He was making a roast -which turned out awful, still digesting it at 11am the next day-, then he was building his new office desk, then was announcing our drill's been stolen -which I found in the mess that's garage. I sat on the floor nearby, watching,  just as we did on these nights back Home, sitting on the kitchen floor, in the hall by the radiator, in maman's workshop past midnight, anywhere that you could hear the house around you, anywhere that life was afloat. I finally went to bed when M was done, stared at the ugly print on the wall for about 5 minutes, hugged M...

  Screenshots of The lost Jockey by René Magritte It's been aaaaages since I signed up for a class other than sports. Even sports take months of self-talk. But then, blaming one for physical disorientation is like blaming them for having a big nose; Easy to maneuver around. This one's painting & obviously I'm not handling it well. You think you know what your favorite paintings are? Wait until someone asks you to send them your top 5 so they can tailor their class to it. If your answer is right away without a pause 5 paintings, well fuck off! You're not the audience of this writing. I'm talking to those judgmental troubled souls who when asked by a stranger to define themselves in 2 words, 5 paintings or a freaking Kahoot quiz, simply dissolve into an unnecessary state of crisis; Who am I? What if I send the wrong image? What was the name of the guy who painted men with bird heads?... I've realized despite my best hopes that I am very ordinary - unspecial. N...

I always knew the type of music one chooses says a lot about one's character and mood. But I think the most expressive & accurate reveal of one's deepest truest desires is the type of ambient music one chooses. The background sound that one plays in the hope that the present mood will be transformed. It's a sunny late Spring morning. Outside birds are chirping furiously on the trees. I am in a vicious mood after a long night of being woken up a hundred time by the sounds of the person next to me in their fucking deep sleep, sore from head to toe from running & being generally an unfit shit. I sit down to work & I choose this as my ambient sound: Oldies playing in another room and it's raining. It makes me laugh inside, a bitter sad although not-giving-a-single-fuck kind of laugh when I realize in a world that couldn't possibly be more connected, modern, intertwined & accessible, someone makes a 3 hour playlist to imagine they are in a house on a rain...

I woke up to the sticky dampness of rainy spring mornings; Not a soaked up greyish blue one or a wild & aggressive storm. I woke up to a soft greyish white air that sits all over you like a second skin and spreads a hazy mist on the distant trees. I spent almost all of my life in a humid strip of land near the sea. I sometimes think my body can't rest at night unless it's heavily saturated by 95% humidity. Maybe that's why I'm restless & flaky.  Sticky rainy morning also means no lunatics out there with their jack hammers & hedge trimmers & tree saws & lawn mowers from hell drilling their way into my brain. Only the dripping sound of water on the timber deck, a distant bird, the humming of the fridge, the creaking floor boards upstairs where M is walking between shower & wardrobe.  I remember in the hous e where I spent my teens & 20s, when it rained in late spring & summer, I would drag the outdoor chair under the eaves and sit with my l...