Liquify

A strangely familiar tone
you hear a strangely familiar shape
it seems you are becoming, a simple
clear vision you have in which
you see everything from this new, beautiful
perspective you have seen before, long ago,
so long ago, that you barely remember it, but it feels
comfortable, familiarly soft, familiarly unclear
and vague, with no promises or plans, no thought
process and no wish to carry on, carry on with something
as insignificant as a touch, a feel or a breath, maybe a sight
or a dream, a dream that I had in which you were
touching me, like then like those times I knew the shape is unreal
and about to disappear.

Cloud Gate

Killing needs

“I want a soul mate who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on. And if you can do that, I will follow you on bloody stumps through the snow. I will nibble your mukluks with my own teeth. I will do your windows. I will care about your feelings. Just have something in there.” 

― Henry Rollins

Independent, desired, admired. Game on.

Reborn

Come all ye lost

Dive into moss
I hope that my sanity covers the cost
To remove the stain of my love
Paper mache
Come all ye reborn
Blow off my horn
I'm driving real hard
This is love, this is porn
God will forgive me
But I, I whip myself with scorn, scorn
I want to hear what you have to say about me
Hear if you're gonna live without me
I want to hear what you want
I remember December
And I want to hear what you have to say about me
Hear if you're gonna live without me
I want to hear what you want
What the hell do you want?

I remember

Liquefied

Water always fascinated me. Think about it, we take for granted this substance that has no shape, but so much essence, substance. Great masses of it. And when you decide to go into a great mass of water, you experience this realization of…. Reversed gravity. Deeper air. Another dimension. It is substance we can penetrate. And there won’t be a hole left to show our action when we leave. The water will momentarily heal itself into the perfection of a state that it was before. Just like we were never there. Just as everyone and anyone else that went into it to experience the other dimension.

Oxymoronism

I'm a modern man, digital and smoke-free; a man for the millennium.
A diversified, multi-cultural, post-modern deconstructionist; politically, anatomically and ecologically incorrect.
I've been uplinked and downloaded, I've been inputted and outsourced. I know the upside of downsizing, I know the downside of upgrading.
I'm a high-tech low-life. A cutting-edge, state-of-the-art, bi-coastal multi-tasker, and I can give you a gigabyte in a nanosecond.
I'm new-wave, but I'm old-school; and my inner child is outward-bound.
I'm a hot-wired, heat-seeking, warm-hearted cool customer; voice-activated and bio-degradable.
I interface with my database; my database is in cyberspace; so I'm interactive, I'm hyperactive, and from time to time I'm radioactive.
Behind the eight ball, ahead of the curve, ridin' the wave, dodgin' the bullet, pushin' the envelope.
I'm on point, on task, on message, and off drugs.
I've got no need for coke and speed; I've got no urge to binge and purge.
I'm in the moment, on the edge, over the top, but under the radar.
A high-concept, low-profile, medium-range ballistic missionary.
A street-wise smart bomb. A top-gun bottom-feeder.
I wear power ties, I tell power lies, I take power naps, I run victory laps.
I'm a totally ongoing, big-foot, slam-dunk rainmaker with a pro-active outreach.
A raging workaholic, a working rageaholic; out of rehab and in denial.
I've got a personal trainer, a personal shopper, a personal assistant, and a personal agenda.
You can't shut me up; you can't dumb me down. 'Cause I'm tireless, and I'm wireless. I'm an alpha-male on beta-blockers.
I'm a non-believer, I'm an over-achiever; Laid-back and fashion-forward. Up-front, down-home; low-rent, high-maintenance.
I'm super-sized, long-lasting, high-definition, fast-acting, oven-ready and built to last.
A hands-on, footloose, knee-jerk head case; prematurely post-traumatic, and I have a love child who sends me hate-mail.
But I'm feeling, I'm caring, I'm healing, I'm sharing. A supportive, bonding, nurturing primary-care giver.
My output is down, but my income is up. I take a short position on the long bond, and my revenue stream has its own cash flow.
I read junk mail, I eat junk food, I buy junk bonds, I watch trash sports.
I'm gender-specific, capital-intensive, user-friendly and lactose-intolerant.
I like rough sex; I like tough love. I use the F-word in my e-mail. And the software on my hard drive is hard-core—no soft porn.
I bought a microwave at a mini-mall. I bought a mini-van at a mega-store. I eat fast food in the slow lane. I'm toll-free, bite-size, ready-to-wear, and I come in all sizes.
A fully equipped, factory-authorized, hospital-tested, clinically-proven, scientifically-formulated medical miracle.
I've been pre-washed, pre-cooked, pre-heated, pre-screened, pre-approved, pre-packaged, post-dated, freeze-dried, double-wrapped and vacuum-packed.
And . . . I have unlimited broadband capacity.
I'm a rude dude, but I'm the real deal. Lean and mean. Cocked, locked and ready to rock; rough, tough and hard to bluff.
I take it slow, I go with the flow; I ride with the tide, I've got glide in my stride.
Drivin' and movin', sailin' and spinnin'; jivin' and groovin', wailin' and winnin'.
I don't snooze, so I don't lose. I keep the pedal to the metal and the rubber on the road. I party hearty, and lunchtime is crunch time.
I'm hangin' in, there ain't no doubt; and I'm hangin' tough.
Over and out.

George Carlin, 2005

Anguish

Josephina

Vito

A third man

A moving train. Closed compartment. Josefina is seating in it, opposite her, a man is sleeping. Some suitcases are laying around. Josefina is looking out the window. Vito soundlessly opens the compartment door and enters. He seats on the side of Josefina.

Josefina: Why wouldn’t you just let my eyes dry away?

Vito: What is the use of that, when you are far away?

Josefina: Even monsters know limits.

Vito: Yes, we do.

(Pause)

Vito: You tried to leave me again.

Josefina: In vain.

Vito: In vain. In vain is all you do to resist what you are, all what we are.

Josefina: We are a metaphor! A flower without a bloom, a sky with no sun. How can you even think that “we” makes sense anymore?

Vito: It makes sense to still fight for you.

Josefina: Who is there more to fight? Didn’t you fight enough? Didn’t you kill enough?

(Pause)

Vito: I did what I had to do.

Josefina: What did you have to do?

Vito: Have you. (Pause) It was absurd to own you, I knew. I knew everything. Everything and nothing mattered. People cannot explain pain to you. You have to live it to understand. I killed. It was so easy to relieve my pain to the ones that caused it. I have no regrets. If I have to do it again, I would. You know it, it was never the power, it was never our differences. It was only pure, joyous pleasure. What you felt for me, what I felt for you. What I did for you. I did everything, anything, just for you. So we can be together. So I can hold you and love you till the end of days. And when you rest, I would stroke your hair and say you are mine. And no one would take you from me. No one would be on our way ever again.

Josefina: You knew my bed was always warm for you.

Vito: I wanted you just for me.

Josefina: You chose the wrong way.

Vito: Stay.

Josefina: Do you smell the olive trees?

Vito: Yes. For the last time.

Josefina sticks a knife just below the Vito’s chest

Josefina: (in his ear) I love you.

Vito falls on the seat, dead. The third man comes up from his sleep and calmly sees the scene, looking as he had heard the whole dialog

Third man: You did the right thing. You are gonna be safe now.

Hugs her. In the next second, a knife goes through her chest as well. She falls on the seat as well. The third man wipes the handle of the knife and puts it into Vito’s palm. He takes his suitcase and leaves the compartment. The train slows down and stops, the man gets out.

25th hour

"...Fuck me? Fuck you! Fuck you and this whole city and everyone in it.
Fuck the panhandlers, grubbing for money, and smiling at me behind my back.
Fuck squeegee men dirtying up the clean windshield of my car. Get a fucking job!
Fuck the Sikhs and the Pakistanis bombing down the avenues in decrepit cabs, curry steaming out their pores and stinking up my day. Terrorists in fucking training. Slow the fuck down!
Fuck the Chelsea boys with their waxed chests and pumped up biceps. Going down on each other in my parks and on my piers, jingling their dicks on my Channel 35.
Fuck the Korean grocers with their pyramids of overpriced fruit and their tulips and roses wrapped in plastic. Ten years in the country, still no speaky English?
Fuck the Russians in Brighton Beach. Mobster thugs sitting in cafés, sipping tea in little glasses, sugar cubes between their teeth. Wheelin' and dealin' and schemin'. Go back where you fucking came from!
Fuck the black-hatted Chassidim, strolling up and down 47th street in their dirty gabardine with their dandruff. Selling South African apartheid diamonds!
Fuck the Wall Street brokers. Self-styled masters of the universe. Michael Douglas, Gordon Gecko wannabe mother fuckers, figuring out new ways to rob hard working people blind. Send those Enron assholes to jail for fucking life! You think Bush and Cheney didn't know about that shit? Give me a fucking break! Tyco! Imclone! Adelphia! Worldcom!
Fuck the Puerto Ricans. 20 to a car, swelling up the welfare rolls, worst fuckin' parade in the city. And don't even get me started on the Dom-in-i-cans, because they make the Puerto Ricans look good.
Fuck the Bensonhurst Italians with their pomaded hair, their nylon warm-up suits, and their St. Anthony medallions. Swinging their, Jason Giambi, Louisville slugger, baseball bats, trying to audition for the Sopranos.
Fuck the Upper East Side wives with their Hermés scarves and their fifty-dollar Balducci artichokes. Overfed faces getting pulled and lifted and stretched, all taut and shiny. You're not fooling anybody, sweetheart!
Fuck the uptown brothers. They never pass the ball, they don't want to play defense, they take fives steps on every lay-up to the hoop. And then they want to turn around and blame everything on the white man. Slavery ended one hundred and thirty seven years ago. Move the fuck on!
Fuck the corrupt cops with their anus violating plungers and their 41 shots, standing behind a blue wall of silence. You betray our trust!
Fuck the priests who put their hands down some innocent child's pants. Fuck the church that protects them, delivering us into evil. And while you're at it, fuck JC! He got off easy! A day on the cross, a weekend in hell, and all the hallelujahs of the legioned angels for eternity! Try seven years in fuckin Otisville, Jay!
Fuck Osama bin Laden, al-Qaeda, and backward-ass, cave-dwelling, fundamentalist assholes everywhere. On the names of innocent thousands murdered, I pray you spend the rest of eternity with your seventy-two whores roasting in a jet-fueled fire in hell. You towel headed camel jockeys can kiss my royal, Irish ass!
Fuck Jacob Elinski, whining malcontent.
Fuck Francis Xavier Slaughtery, my best friend, judging me while he stares at my girlfriend's ass.
Fuck Naturel Rivera. I gave her my trust and she stabbed me in the back. Sold me up the river. Fucking bitch.
Fuck my father with his endless grief, standing behind that bar. Sipping on club soda, selling whiskey to firemen and cheering the Bronx Bombers.
Fuck this whole city and everyone in it. From the row houses of Astoria to the penthouses on Park Avenue. From the projects in the Bronx to the lofts in Soho. From the tenements in Alphabet City to the brownstones in Park slope to the split levels in Staten Island. Let an earthquake crumble it. Let the fires rage. Let it burn to fuckin ash then let the waters rise and submerge this whole, rat-infested place."

25th hour, written by David Benioff

directed by Spike Lee