A Travellerspoint blog

L.E.M.

Ignis fatuus

As TW puts it (well or W.C. Fields but that sounds awfully out of sync, or maybe just the opposite), so, as TW puts it "And the things you can’t remember tell the things you can’t forget that history puts a saint in every dream."

The problem with this whole thing here is bias. Noise. Noise that hisses and misses every damn word. And maybe, the glitch that made the wheels stuck was a bias too.

We are closing in on D-day when all should fall into place, beautifully and majestically, and it must. And one bit will, it will be the greatest first step of a beautiful journey. But the other journey, as a matter of the bloody fact, the whole thing is getting out of hand and comprehension or maybe it is me again. Get me the brains dept. head. I need to complain.

Who was the idiot who invented that someone should interrogate himself and asking questions that could easily kill a buffalo, about what did I do right and for how long have I fucked up things, while I thought it was on track, cause earthquakes not just happen, fault lines are there waiting to rock a bit, or, to rock to bits, whichever.

The thing is this, what if, I am a pathetic fucking whiner with as much grip of reality as a sloth has of the throttle, Bradypus complex.

Anyways, this whole thingy this world thingy I have is falling into tiny pieces. We have been cruising in this god forsaken dark side for months now. The thing is, as the jews say, if you want your dreams come true, don't sleep and hell my bed and I are like arch enemies now. The thing is, that you cannot shut it down. Imagine this, I have the worst, the baddest most worst memory of any living creature (including the slippers, that primitive little bastard), but all the bits of together are just linked and riveted and glued and taped to each and everything. We have not been together in net terms than like 3 months (and wishful thinking puts this: so far), but as if all was built around it. Well, it is also a logical explanation that I have just bleached my life and world so to accomodate ours, mindheology will have to fathom this one.

By the way, does this, I mean all this writing makes any sense, whatsoever? Am I, cosmically speaking making any sense? I mean from the first entry? God, it is so fucking stupid. So fucking stupid. Could be so bloody simple, could always have been that. Love, darn difficult to hear it from me now, like pulling guts you see, so this crazy-little-thing-called, and so fucking overcomplicated. It must be me. There I have no other explanation and now all evidences against my fucked up ways is before the jury.

I never accepted being limited in any way, or forced for any sort of reporting for my actions and never expected anybody to accept limitations or report to me, yet my residual reflection coming back suggests that. I would not take it, if this is what felt why would anyone take it. Miscommunication to such an extent that is beyond any comprehension. We used to laugh, dared to laugh, dared to tease each others' asses off. No it is like fucking tight rope. Nothing, nothing to do with the real thing. And what if the mere fear of miscommunication leads to an unresolvable communication hell loop, one that bites its own useless end. And this rids, rids talks off any inner meaning whatsoever. Something that would be so needed. And we are fucking off track with missing the points all the bloody time. Simple questions like what are you planning to do, plans, itinerary and stuff, are so charged, that our real selves would just roll with laughter. I mean, inbetween two agonies, I am rolling with painful laughter, that here we go, to intelligent, potentially funny creatures frightening the living shit out of each other, although, deep down, they might just love the hell out of each other. How about this. How about a god awful shitty mess. Locked and loaded on the dark side of the Mood.

And this whole fucking concept of truth is gone in DMZs like this. Why? Simple. Because of the interrogation multiplier. The cosmological constant. When truth ceases to exist in simple sentences and every word must first navigate by Cape Fear before going from heart to heart. Questions retreat, because there is a curfew, anybody out, shot on the scene. Answers alike. Words are chewed, thought over and over and over again, and all of them has a whole, fully equipped medical team walking by them, should anything happen on the way. You see, we used to talk in the deepest deepest realms of the soul. Wandering places even myself would not dare to wander alone and ended up laughing or watching a movie. We could talk without sentences, now, we could not talk even with the Oxford Unabridged Dictionary Anniversary Extended Edition. Things that were merely a company to our baloon flight over the River of Shits, now find themselves paddling on careful makeshift rafts of carefully selected words on the River of Styx, between us existing or not. Never have been an issue. Ever. Not even related. Suspicions so frightful that Shaft would wee his leather pants. Out of this fucking world, out of all context. Like lunatics, taking a fucking trip on a struggling spaceship on the dark side in the Lunatic Excursion Module. Not even daring to take a look at the flight plan. Plan? Drifting apart with such a speed, such a disbelief that it just burns the shields off.

She will be around and we have to deliver, and it will be delivered, because it is a must. Because if all words are lost and all trust is walking with a limp, dreams must wake up and materialise. If hearts fail to communicate and find bale outs in cul de sacs then mind and sense must take the wheel and get back to the road. Because, if this is not yet a spirit, writing shit around after the body is killed only the inner pieces fail to realise the grim reality, then there must be a way back to normal. I have no idea if we shall meet this time or not. The only thing I know, that healing must be trusted, because healing is good. It creates and has connections high up, where drive and love and open worlds are being managed. Just transmutating tense with the in bit into intense, that soothes.

Things will never be what they were. And there is a good side of it. We walk our hells, the hottest purgatories a living creature can negotiate. But one thing is for sure, if what we had endured what it had to endure and it had heights in such distances as high, then after scaling our inner most walls, it must be greatest, most understanding and patient affection and hold on to each other there is. A journey of two weathered and sometimes awfully self righteous and difficult minds over these high fucking seas must take time, must take easy to settle, but one is for sure, if this held on, if this made sense and still stirs inside to the innermost atoms, then it must be the real deal. One that is worth anything to survive and find its way to a kitchen. Just to laugh. Just to take this whole thing, bahhaha easy, with a drive. Still beats inside, firmly and relentlessly, this is it, this crazy-little-thing-called.

The hardest time comes. The most hardest time.

Started with TW, why not close this entry with him, sort of telling us a hing:
"Come down off the cross, we can use the wood."

Posted by Torch42 15:33 Comments (0)

Helion Prime

Sceneology

Aggregated app. 11 hours together out of 6 weeks.
Just fucking hurts. No, it is not that. It is when you hear noises behind the screen but you are the audience and no way to know what is really going on behind. Being an audience in what always wanted to be a starring role, that sucks. We are back, one in the Southern Hemisphere the other in Old Blighty. Conversations that don't resemble anything what I though was just two months ago. Nothing, it was not us, and it is not us, something is fucking flawed. A clean cut talk, straight talk we used to have. This is what kept us afloat. That would be great. I just sense the drag, can't tell. Just sense it. But all questions I would have have grenades attached to it, I feel it, I know. Men don't have sixth fucking senses, but what if I am cursed even with that. Just fucking hurts. No, it's not hurting. Just plain dumb flat shame. But after all, if I think of it, it hurts.

Posted by Torch42 10:30 Comments (0)

Wowbagger

the infinitely prolonged

Arundel. West Sussex. Castle, cathedral, hotel, work, taxi, London, train, train, train and somewhat more train and moving from one hotel to the other, always an eye on whether will have net connection or not. Worldcup final night. Bloody boring game. Unbearable clutch on my chest to be at Budapest now, and just drink a beer in front of the giant screen, just laugh and let it all off me. Just be. Just simply be. Not running rounds, whether to call or not, not even asking myself every bloody minute about wtf's happening. Just be there. An live it. SimFuckingPle
What are chances a relationship has for survival if 95% of the time it is disconnected, detached and filled with fucked up thoughts and even when could be it remains might be. I don't even know when we laughed last time, let alone laugh, smile, this whole thing, is so misscommunicated, so overworded, so off the fucking track and it just keeps rolling, and feeling this just kills. Shit. Whining. Go and have a night out, or a morning out or just have a bloody easy time, half an hour? Deal. Make it 20 mins. Deal again. Meet in 2 days? Deal yet again. Just talk as we used to talk, from inside to inside, not surface to logbooks, that freaks us both out. It is just palpable. Just gain control again, cause this can end up in ending up, damn, don't even want to think about it. Just know that we all talk and soul buffs, and crap is what we don't enjoy the least. We got our doors for each other and something is swerving off.
Anyways, new job, well, ok. FMCG after oil, but hey, in a Ferrari oil is FMCG, right. The place is nice, first week was beautiful, we departed ok. Not the way it should have been, since we could not meet for obvi-fucking-ous obli-fucking-gations and must-be-at-home shit. But the first week was great. We put each other to sleep, we Talked. The Talk Talk bit. What kept it all afloat all along. The one without fucking future commiserations and stuff, just trust. Just love. Just longing.
Gone fast. Ever faster. It is like purgatory, walking on meaningless words, not sharing, just strodding in this dusty small talk - no talk shit. Now, that would blow. But this is off our music, just feel it. So hard, ever harder to walk out of this. Want so much, but without understanding the whole I just cannot. Drifting. Popcorn drama we dance on phones with true blood for the sake of it. So hazardous, so out of grip.
Thinking too much. There is no substitution. If we, by some cosmical chance can make it, and we can have a half a year truly in each other, probably we can heal, and get back to the deeper than deep, more trusting than trust. So off orbit now. And none of us are kids, and this just flips the lid, and can't pass it on, can't shrug off this darn logbook image. Kills the hell out of every bit of me. We used to be cool, and things could be cool, but this is like slowly freezing fucking over, and just can't make what I'm saying go through. We just need to learn to talk again. Like walking, after years of devastating coma, in just darn days. Losing would mean losing the world.
But being here, being away, when she is there is and locked in this encrypted miscommunication repeated words shit is unbearable. So bloody dangerous. All my atoms want to take the next plane. I will be home in a weeks time for a week, they will stay for one week longer. I'd hate to be an agenda item and this is so risky to try to put it in a way, that I just want our talks back and not complaining. Shit. But I fear if this goes on this is what will mean the me. But that is not me. What is left of me there in fears, is not me. We are not kids, it's not time ownership, never been. Kids fidling with live Claymore mines. So dangerous.
So hate to talk my words, they say squat. It is boring whining shit.
Just longing.
everlasting

Posted by Torch42 13:38 Comments (0)

Jynx

Arriving back to my "home" country after a trip that was a dream of a drunk Tim Burton (mind the spelling if wrong), with angels and drunk sex gods in one episode and hellraising soul ripping beasts on the other. Floating barely for four months from week to week. Small assets, big efforts, even bigger dreams and pulling head by the hair to keep above the water line.
Then old blighty thought to give a second chance, to perish or to prevail. But what if you are already struggling to get something up and running. How would you compromise, to be able to earn as much as needed to speed things up, get back to her again, maybe, god forbid, set some path for a common path with assets thus taking what all, each, every and any cell in your body opposes. What everybody in your environment considers as a fuckoff success while you know, that you are just dying because all you are is driven and posessed by the wild winds swirling in this detachment vortex.
Probably I was not really wanted there. They just came back from even downer under. NZ, the other boot, as we used to call it. Our history had a by-chance parallel running for a week in the country of Attila the Hun. More like casual offenders of faith than a match setting waypoints. I feel abundant and a steamroller in words, gestures, acts and care. Nobody would fucking like that. But cramming all I want to pass on in just five days with carefully managed friend-like hours, is tough as hell. Like trying to build a snow castle in an hour, on the beach. Rather have a drink, and go for a fucking easy swim.
I still feel her as being every part of me, but I know that I mean more trouble being there than being anywhere else. You can manage when you log in and drop a mail, can manage what happens and what to share. Me being away is just more manageable and this makes perfect sense when just visiting for short, shit so simple, so fucking difficult to make it understood. Maybe I make myself overimportant anyways. She talks high about me before others, but maybe it is all to please my appetite for self-fucking-admiration. What if. Shit thoughts. This could be so easy and rolling to be so fubar. This way I will be so fake in her honest self. Fake, untrustworthy and even CIA level scary, just a feeling, but gripping as it is hard to breath with it. To know this and not being able to counteract - because due to plausible denials this cannot be addressed, because something is so tuned off in our channels - just kills any bit of living sould in me.
Beautiful, with wierd ways. Loopholes and love confessions for else, tough Hamburger Hills of the evening soul.
I locked myself in a predicament in Brighton. Only I know that I don't give a shit. This is not my goal, but need to have a couple of stands for safety so I roll with it, I can, I always could, nights are there to create. What WE would truly want, together, that would be my Goal. The one to move damn hills for. What if slowly I have turned into a whining fucker, a mercy fucker for whom you would give a fuck to keep pseudo-happy, paloma faith got it right there. So derailed understanding of me, so damn derailed.
But I am hooked. I have split seconds of normal me when I can forget and be with her and forget that that is could just kill all we have. I feel strong, and feel man again. Then I became a loathsome wanker, cause words just don't tell, they just reiterate.
They say, a man's only purgatory is a woman. I am on the barby-grill, damn fucking sure and lovin' it, cause love all the tastes. But want her, beyond comprehension. Just glide, evolutions not revolutions. Can be done. The rest on this world is fucking plastic. Wasted selectively.

Posted by Torch42 14:45 Archived in United Arab Emirates Comments (0)

Forth and Back

No words what it means being there with her.
No words what it is being back without her.
There is a Hungarian poet, if for nothing else, he is someone who is worth learning Hungarian for. He has this poem:

Már megtanultam

Már megtanultam nem beszélni,
egy ágyba hálni a közönnyel,
dermedten, élet nélkül élni,
nevetni két szemembe könnyel.

Tudok köszönni ostobáknak,
bókolni is, őrjöngve dúltan,
hajrázni, ha fejemre hágnak.
Az életet én megtanultam.

Csak oly unott ne volna minden,
a jó, a rossz, amit a sors hoz.
Ennen-sebem is úgy tekintem,
akár egy esetét az orvos.

Mindazt, mi fáj és van, megértem.
Nekem jutalmat hát ki adhat?
Nem zöld kölyök vagyok. Megértem:
Halál, fogadj el a fiadnak.

Probably, what explains best, what it is like, being back. No official translation, but something close:

I have learnt

I have learnt not to talk
sleep together with indifference
live without life and paralised
laugh with tears hidden in my eyes

I can salute the stupid,
even praise them, with rage concealed
cheer those who bust my head
This life, I have learnt well

Wouldn't it all be so dull
the good, the bad and what fate holds
I look at my own self
just as a doctor at his own case

All that hurt and is around, I accept
Who could give me my prize?
I am not a snivelling kid, I understand
Death, take me as your son.

Posted by Torch42 15:39 Comments (0)

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