self-portrait

untitled, sylvian-emmanuel .P


hi new people. friends. thirsty eyes. voyeurs. nosy gossips. the curious. misled, mistaken, misguided. the inspired. people who walk(ed) pass(t) me. prophets. the virgins. dreamers. the hopeless. models. smokers and smilers. the pierced. the underage. unhappy single-fathers and overweight single-mothers. hello. dear friends. brothers. like-minded phantoms. those out to get me. laughaholics and manic-depressives. romantics and drunks and those out for a good time. internet-dating enthusiasts, flower-arrangers, coffee-shop-notebook-scribblers, tight-pant wearers. how i love you all, hello hello. silent readers. faceless confessionaries. masturbators, computer-programmers and mixed-up sexualizers. i do- i swear i do- i do i do. 3am cereal eaters. literary allusion spotters. mismatching socks and pyjama wearers...

i wish i could see you. i wish i could look at your faces as you read me. stare back from the screen the way you stare at me. i wish, even, to stand behind you. look over your shoulders at your faces, and stare at your eyes move left-to-right and try and spot tightening lips or tightening hands or curling toes or excessive blinking. i wish! i wish i could shake your hands, each and everyone and say hello! hellohello! and look you up-and-down and comment on your shoes or your necklace or your baseball cap. and sit with you a moment. and smell you. wow, here you are, my goodness. how surreal right? and you laugh. Val(USA) and mm and ojkewin and T, or K- who is always two hours=manuscripts=leaps behind me. earthfireice and Juliet. whatever other nameless readers. momentary judgers. mental executioners. the offended, the moved. the bored and the confused. hello.

and you could ask me your questions: tell me how my story goes, or: no really, who are you?. and i could ask you my questions. where have you been? what did you learn there? between the two of us, or three, or twelve, have we left any shadow unturned? is there a miracle we have left unappreciated? and someone can say, "yes, has anyone commented on children's voices when they pray?" and here i can say unequivocally that: "this afternoon, driving away from the primary school, i considered it, and decided there is no more pleasant thing in all of life than the sound of children praying. none at all." and Monz will frown a little,
"let me get this right Q, you're saying, the sound of children praying is... more pleasant than women's breasts?" and i will surprise everyone, everyone including myself, when i sternly, and with great gravity say at last:
"... yes." at which point everyone will sit back in their seats. and ponder a moment. Martha will sip her tea and mumble 'about time'. Mona will scratch her forehead and be confused. unidentified reader from Glasgow will tick something of his/her list and nod silently. "... and what about kissing in the rain, has anyone considered that?" and we'll continue.

but here is the thing, here is what i've been thinking... is it... better or worser for me to say things about myself. like... real things. like, tangible things. ages and sexes and geographies and favorite thisses and thats? do people care if i am 19 or 26 or 31 years old? does anyone care if i live in Amsterdam or Minnesota or Brisbane or Jerusalem?

hi. i'm a penny for the old guy. i write this blog. i do this because Martha got sick of listening to me rant to her, and suggested it. i also do it because i like to write. also because i'm scared of not existing. also because i feel compelled to defragment life. words are too full of meaning, i want to unpack them. unpack the million meanings we've managed to cram into the word: please. or sssshhhh. or fine- that could be the anchor of an entire story. maybe a lifetime. a love-affair. a marriage could start.end.be redeemed.doomed because of the word fine. i have historical-personage-crushes on Virginia Woolf. Sapho. Oscar Wilde. Winston Churchill. Nina Simone. i am not famous. and probably never will be. i don't feel ordinary, but i probably am. this concerns me. i have a counsellor who informs me, the reason for this concern is that i have narcissistic personality disorder. i am not too sure about that. i have trouble conceptualizing: god, time, space, infinity, eternity, lust and loneliness (which i can't tell apart), memory and fantasy (which i can't tell apart), love (because it is too big a word to fit into 4 letters). i have no idea what it means to be human. this is something that seems important to work out. i'm working on it. (one word at a time). southpark is the funniest thing to have ever happened to the universe anywhere at anytime.