Grease Upon Life

The weather is always but two months of the year cold. The cost of energy is not entirely suitable to the current financial status, therefore the house requires a light jacket to live in.

Money is not made easily at least at these stages and so we try and keep it as simple as possible. Breakfast and dinner are to be not only the main courses but the meals of each day. To write means, currently, to work where one lives. Going by the direction taken I would safely state it would stay as is. I do hope that day is not far away. That where to live by means of quantity, only as much as necessary, would not be an issue. However, a true human’s entire focus must be to live as fine as one can through the means of quality. That should be the main focus of every day. Not only the main focus, but the entire focus. To live, is to live.

Through a life time, some grow young and some grow cold. There might be others I have not yet come across. Here, rain is quite often the case. The streets get cleaned and the trees and the grass look as fine as ever. Perhaps the equivalent of brushing a layer of grease upon the wood of a table. Or a chair. I keep the curtains away and the unique light and bright of winter where the sun does not burn but all is illuminated enough is a joy to behold in these times.

Each and every letter felt; that is the way to write. The subject is out of importance and there are all the words in one’s vocabulary to be used. Even abused. The sentences create all types of feelings while they are in the process of completion. Joy, pain, boredom, excitement, confusion. An adrenaline rush is at hand every now and then. “Normal” defined by society is not the right word for description. But I think this is normal. After all, life is being lived.

There are times when we require a helping hand. Someone to tell us it will be all right. We know exactly what we want to hear. Yet when heard through the lips of an individual we respect, peace fills the atmosphere. Whether it is due to our lack of understanding or if it is an essential part of our entity or is it due to a lack of confidence I do not know. There is an interesting aspect to it all. The cause. The reason why we feel at peace is that all matters do get to be all right. They might fall apart again but, they all gather around once more. It is the nature of life for it to be all right. Everything is always all right. They might heart or cause salt water out of our eyes but it is all right. As it should be. As it always was and always will be.

We do not have “guests” over as the term might suggest. Whenever a relative spends a certain number of hours along with us in our accommodation, they bring something with themselves. It is particularly interesting since they are in a respectable financial state and very much capable of fine hospitality. They come here for another manner of hospitality. I do not know what is it they seek. They spend gas money and cook their own food. I do not talk of fiction, philosophy, poetry, music or the arts as much as I discuss them with myself or with friends. They are not very much found of my views relating to society. It is, perhaps, not me they come to visit.

The kindest creature I have ever come across is Niels. If you were to know of his true nature, you might no longer believe in your own. It is of no importance how an achievement comes to be. Whether through the disgrace of breaking a natural rule or the loss of breaking a governmental law. If it is the right action then it must be done. Niels believes so very much. He would do everything in his powers to achieve what he feels is a must. He is not capable of it all but, he does his best. He comes from Czechoslovakia but has spent nearly all his life in the Netherlands and Belgium. He likes the culture very much and loves those with whom he currently lives with. He walks naturally, I think.

The past, for most of us, were the days. Thinking we were invulnerable. It is not truly how we differ from the outside. Not how we are now built. It is, however, of our core and innermost existence. “Each day is a little life; every waking and rising a little birth; every fresh morning a little youth; every going to rest and sleep a little death.” The same man who wrote that said somewhere else: “After your death you will be what you were before your birth.” When we come of age, whenever that may be, the innocence of childhood arrives once more. Only because we realize; nothing really matters.

What keeps alive

There is a Bonsai somewhere I am familiar with. The people there care for one another. They live, mostly. They laugh when must and stand to be serious when necessary. They are those who carry respect. However, the Bonsai usually drops a leaf or two every day. The tree is hardly fed. By fed the reference is to water; I do not posses  much knowledge in the subject of green life. I presume the together tree is living off love.

A given day could be, and it usually is, busy. Waking up, working, eating, using the toilet, taking a shower, fucking (not daily), watching television, surfing the web, sleeping and then doing it all de novo the next 24 hours. And the next. And the next. And the next. No time to live. And then, when old and grey; penitence, guilt, regret, remorse, repentance and all their other synonyms become the meals of our day. No time to live, even then.

“A page a day, and you’ll make your way.” Time is always at hand. No matter what the situation may be due to the consequences of our actions. Reading is not of high importance. None is certified to describe an action when the foundation is the creator of the word designed to describe everything else. To be lost, however, in cities around the world with all sorts of men and women, in all types of situations is just part of the offering. There is, much more.

In the 12,000 years the earth has been home to humans, we have garnered knowledge and information vastly. Certainly not enough. Still, one hopes if not all desire to add lines and make new books or thicken the old ones, at least they read some. “Just like a carpenter who works as and apprentice and studies the master,” And a book is always interesting. A true work of literature goes on to be more. They are not meant to teach or strengthen our experiences. Though they do. They are for us to feel. They allow us to feel everything without our bodies in the presence of the plot. Just our minds. Only our hearts.

To be read is, of course, phenomenal. I am in no place to create writers of all. I hardly am one. Readers are needed. No sympathy there. Not all of us travel the world or become heroes in small towns. We might not live long  enough to create a bucket list. We all have the right to feel and understand. All that is necessary, is to read.

A Book And An Arrow

“One True Sentence” is all I need. All I need to write. Arrogance has not garnered enough power to make me believe it was easier in the 1920’s.

When a pencil is the chosen tool for these rambling thoughts, somehow a feeling of satisfaction comes into play regarding the shape of each letter. Only for the first lines, however. Though this is all wrong and my handwriting is as bad as ever, why can I not appreciate a false joy, any longer? It is not in our fundamental intellect to comprehend the value of our possessions as they stand in our immediate access. I persume that is why the dead receive more flowers than the living.

A new item is purchased and for the first days or weeks or, on occasions, months: we treat them as a newly born child. We care for them and keep their looks as fresh as day one. Then, with a helping hand from time, they become what they are: representatives of quantity.

Somewhere in the 20th century, in the midst of advertisement and banks learning how to make money, “buying stuff” became a necessity. So strong, the children of today seem to be born with it.

I read this sentence in the works of artists, entrepreneurs, authors and philosophers. I, myself, dare to write it at times and I know it to be not for any man nor woman: “Solitude Is A Virtue.” To be alone in an apartment with books to read,  records to listen, wine to drink, food to eat and sec to be had. Solitude is not an elemental aspect. Human contact is a necessity. Socializing is the reason for our progress. And day by day, no matter what catastrophical or magnificent accomplishment humankind renders, there seems to be more distance between us.

At times as such, we must either go back to the olden ways or prepare to perish.

Our Musts

Let us bring joy to the awakening of the stars

To the men and women of harvest 

To our mother, nature 

Let us not grieve the dead, for they can not hear us

Let us love the children, for they have nothing but us

Let us cherish these moments, for they are eternal 

Let us not forget who we are

Let us be what we desire, what we deserve 

Let us forget the past and not worry for the future 

Let us be us, for we are the best we can get

a conversation while looking for olives in a Greek salad

Leonard Durso

They heard me speaking English to the waiter while trying to understand what peppersteak “easy” was exactly and even after having eaten it, I am still unsure. But that’s getting ahead of myself, as usual, so I’ll get back to the two young women, one smoking a cigarette and holding it like it might bite and the other one, the one who does most of the talking, keeps playing with her hair and adjusting the shawl the establishment has draped over the chairs in an effort to alleviate the cold. And she asks, as I’m trying to locate the pieces of black olives in my Greek salad, “Where are you from?”

“New York,” I say, as I always say, thinking of myself as a NYer first and an American second, then add, “But I live in Istanbul now,” and don’t add that I’m looking to relocate.

It’s then the one…

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Seeking Inside

The difference between theater and cinema is the glamour. Both possess it. However, in the world of theatre you have everything to yourself. It is live and filled with passion. The energy, the joy and the love is all real. They are not for the brilliance of a sequence or the setting of each plot. But rather, it is about great lines coming to life through every aspect of the human character. 

When I think, writing becomes impossible. Of course, thinking is an incessant action. And I do not dare step into that discussion. From the moment I start to reason my poor writing capabilities, I will require a new EXIT door. Writing is a joyful act. One of the necessities for any work to be productive, is for even a part of it to have an effect. 

I read recently; the reason why levels of testosterone sky rocket while watching sports, especially a win, is due to our Mirror Neurons. The same parts of the spectator’s and the athlete’s brain become active. Our mirror neurons copy those actions and we feel their pleasure, or pain. Even our space awareness grows. Now not all of us make it our life goal to run 100 meters in under 12 seconds, but we all share one thing. It is what makes us different from all the other apes. An eye for perfection. We love it. Thanks to the wonders of the human brain, we feel the athlete and enjoy that short, but beautiful moment of physical genius.

My mind is a mess. Unforgetful and tired. Quite lost, to be honest. I know this though; even if the audience does not applaud, or the book doesn’t sell, or the stadium would be left empty: Perfection is not what we seek. It is what we possess.