Forgive me father; I am whore

- yes there’s been a death in my country
and its the tragedy abuzz- “Woman beats man to death-
poor, poor, soldier! A man like himself to die the way he did…”

I haven’t read the news; only emails sent to me by informing family and friends;
therefore i haven’t very much to comment on this death.

This post today however, is about my past writings for the daily newspaper
back in my country… Today I came across this article Defining handsome; god! it would put a whore-house Newsletter out of bizness.
I have no recollection of my ’skill’ to write this kind of stuff

To the wives and girlfriends of these men- sorry

- continued from below

thursday night: I got an attack on the walk back home
right after Babak dropped lawrence, chris and myself off… ( I was worried about getting hit by a car, I was worried about
scaring Chris and Lawrence; I was hyperventilating and I thought my heart would burst out of my chest
I was speaking fast and directing my own first aid.
What I really should have done is relax, suffer the attack and let the boys deal with it.
Chris read me The Red Pony. I shook like a leaf. my eyes were tearing. He read on until I fell off to sleep.

Friday I could swear I was gonna die. on a winter afternoon. alone. and right after I had answered to Chris’s phone
call telling him, am alright. I was alright during the phone call. Valerie too had sent me a text asking if I needed her to come over
I was sure I was alright. Then, as if in a practical joke. The attack came back. a massive one. I was crying. yelling. mourning. disappointed in myself.
Again. sixteen again. Vulnerable and helpless again. Why. Why again.

Friday night I promised to fight it. I cooked. Rice and vegetables. The idea was to impress with my cooking. the end result is that
the rice was too dry, the vegetables over cooked, over peppered, less salted… but at least; I wasn’t lying down flat on my back shivering, shaking, crying, hyperventilating, welcoming my childhood to swarm my little brain—-( At one point i thought I was home in Kakoba. At my grandparents home, and was calling out; Mummy, Mummy, It’s come back again: my head hurts, my chest hurts and I forgotten how to breath)

Saturday morning: it was a good morning. It had been a good night. At midday a woman rang my door bell: she wanted to check
my gas metre. I didnt even know i had a gas metre. I had practically run out of bed to open the door for her: she was speaking fast, moving her hands, checking my trash box, opening my kitchen drawers, speaking in Italian…. I woke my house mate. she’s spanish. at least they two could communicate. it happened. the gas metre was found. she left.
my housemate was crying. She had been for hours she told me.

I made her a big breakfast, I found us the FRIENDS DVD and played the first season; I ate most of the breakfast, she cried all through the funny skits in friends; I asked her to cook something, chop something…. anything that would divert her crying energy as well as feed me… she made us a spanish omelette. Heart breaks aren’t that bad; I told her. she cried some more… they are bad, she answered. they are horrible…
yes they are.

Saturday afternoon. We caught the train to Udine. Udine is become that place for us now: A great break from Fabrica.
We spent the weekend with Ramon; bar hopping; drinking, eating, snacking, eating, laughing, arguing, shooting at bottles, driving bumper cars, getting drunk; worrying less about being ill… popping aspirins every once in three hours. We got back to Ramon’s house in the morning.. so to speak

Sunday afternoon. Rain. cold. rain. cold.
Talk about Zico coming to the village; a coffee and chats with Renzo; a ride to venice to watch Chelsea vs Man. U
where we ate, drank, ate, drank.. and a few aspirins.

And now…

Now I conclude this diary exercise.

I HOPE I GET SOMETHING OUT OF IT
cheers

-”they went to sea in a sieve, they did”

Last night was Poetry Night: themed Disturbingly Gothe, Paulo set the mood with candles and projections of amazingly disturbing images, we played the opening scene of The Antichrist to get in the ‘zone’.

We read from Sylvia Plath, Edgar Allan Poe, Philip Larkin, P.B. Shelley, Horace Smith, Pablo Neruda, Edward Lear, and a brilliant many more.
We read a monologue from a theatre play, a verse from a book, something beautiful in portuguese, something beautiful in Farsi, italian, spanish ….

This was, like many poetry nights I have had here, especially sweet and cosy and nurturing.

This was my very last one. My contract here at Fabrica ends
in about a week and I will be home soon.

I hope the tradition continues.

Van-ity!

small exercise

make own quotes in three minutes for a spot:

I AM I

LovePeaceCulture / Art peace culture

The world is around circle wheeling on her heels

True life is fictitious

______________________________________________________________
WORKING BACKWARDS: make some’ out fav. simple words
- write song lyrics, poetry, or some non-sense
- one minute exercise
__________________________________________________________________

Strangers we do not know
they not knowing of another

noiseless they mumbling
strange sounds escaping
A naïve fool

Men beating up men who beat up they women
loud songs playing
music mutely silent
Strangers we do not know

We not seeing, us not saying
Am I stupid, please help me

___________________________
white teeth-empty jars- little oranges

Strange! she shadows me back home

….

what do i do when am angry:

I play Grace Jones
over and over and over and over and over and over again….
loud, louder really louder

thing is; i have been doing this the last two days and ahalf
—
today being the half

<;
Strange
I’ve seen that face before

Seen him hanging ’round my door.
Like a hawk stealing for the prey

Like the night
waiting for the day.
Strange
he shadows me back home

Footsteps echo on the stone.
Rainy nights and
hustling boulevards

Parisian music
tripping from the
bars.
Tu cherches quoi?
Rencontrer la mort?
Tu te prends pour qui
Toi aussi tu detestes la vie.
Dancing by the restaurants

Home with anyone you want.
Strange
he’s standing there below

Staring eyes thrill
me to the bone.
Dans sa chambre
Joelle et sa valise.
Elle regarde ses fringues
Sur les murs des photos
Sans regret
sans melo.
La porte est claquee

why not

creeping out

To ‘Elsy

She watched him fall
quietly off to sleep
Pure unsaintly voices conjured in her mind

; walk away. in your dream. walk away to me

He’s never to be mine,
rousing herself she chastised
Neither shall I ever be his

White stains black; the dermatologist had once said
As it was in the begining
forever it shall so remain

The fallen Tablets broken
Moses was only man
a mortal in a burning bush

The fire set ablaze
his young impressionable mind

I have seen God; he alarmed
Only I can be followed
off into the wilderness

A place promised on foggy nights
A voice unsaintly conjured
in her eyes

Manna falls atop a tree
A plague afflicts their mountain
Love is bright Orange

For hearts set apiece
Life’s truly about
Boy Meets Girl; Girl Meets Boy

She watched him fall
deeply off to sleep
; walk away. in your dream. walk away from her
-
To me.

- phoebe mutetsi

reaching out-

I feel lethargic

I need a boyfriend; well, its the feeling am carrying right now

I should learn to give away, to let go; spring clean

I guess what i really need is a sleep-in

x

Earth Song II

again, I cried
not just for her
not just for him, no.
not for him

I cried for us
for myself and him and her
the three frail cats in the passageway

how did we become this
dissolved, non-existent, fictional
amongst ourselves
with ourselves, especially

how does a beautiful brick wall consume one- absolutely

Is it the hollowness of the round circles therein
Or is it the wishing pond,
from which nothing survives?
Or and perhaps, it is the cold pillars
on which we’ve accustomed to hold ?

I cried about the pettiness of the fickle loves
which crawls to the margins of preposterous,
beyond imagined controls

I cried about the selfish abandons
the care- less-ness
to which we confess but can never attest

I cried. deeply saddened.
I cried because I was enraged

___________________for us and them
the three frail cats
and the numerous cold pillars

The brick wall stands
So should we; forgingly

this is Earth Song I