Dear Santa,

Would you bring me my life again? The tears, the passions, the doubts, the love, the childbirth, the spring winds, the betrayals, the knives in the back, the worries, the children clothes to wash, the men to love, the unfinished paintings, the finished friendships, the Judas kisses, the clutter in the closets, the cotton lace on the bed sheets, the old tables in the basement, the butterflies in the stomach, the heartaches, the tears?

August 2009

So many words waiting to be written on birthday blues, euphorias, vodka, tomato juice, trusting homeless dogs that follow you home, children, old ex-friends you no longer have anything in common with;

on life, getting shorter and almost unbearably long;

on sweaty August nights, reminding you of nothing at all...

In The Realm of The Senses

няма да ме забравиш,

защото не ме помниш
не съм живяла в тялото ти
като задух,
като пристъп на астма,
като соната
в която битието жадува за себе си

няма да те загубя

защото не съм те имала
не си живял в утробата ми
не си ме убивал всяка нощ
не си гледал хищно

как кръвта ми се стича в твоята

Nothing to Say Today

There are empty days like empty eyes staring at the rainbow.

The Ontology of Evil

Quantum Physics + Voluntarism + Buddhism + Dialectics = Evil Love

Love is Evil! - Zizek on Love and Existence :)))

On Abortion

There is a silent war  going on. It's us, women, against our babies. It's a war atrocious, and it's merciless. The enemy has to be destroyed.

It's a philosophical, existential revolt. We do not want to be a part of nature's design. We refuse to be breeding machines, incubators, a soil, on which life can grow. We want to be individuals. We refuse our woman's fate. We do not want to be women anymore. And we are not. By becoming not women, we are becoming also not human.

We are a society of subhumans.

Milan Kundera, Identity

What a beautiful and depressing book. Remind me not to keep reading it.

Cемиотика

"защото думите не достигат..."

Амелия Личева

B утробата на думите не ни е тясно.
Небето е далечно като мъртва майка.
В утробата на думите сънуваме мъжа,
с когото се завръщаме в мълчанието.

Kindergarten Commencement Day

I broke down and cried today. When did my little girl grow up?
Where do all the years go when they are not here?

Being is this nest of sadness, Time is the first God’s tear...

Semiotics for Beginners: Reading Julia Kristeva

letters!

letters!
here there are letters!
here there are lettters
here there are letters!
letters!
letters!
letters!

Damage

"It takes a remarkably short time to withdraw from the world. I traveled, until I arrived at the life of my own. What really makes us is beyond grasping, it is way beyond knowing. We give in to love, because it gives us some sense of what is unknowable. Nothing else matters. Not at the end.

I saw her once more only. I saw her by accident, at an airport, changing planes. She didn’t see me, she was with Peter. She was holding a child. She was no different from anyone else."


David Hare
Louis Malle


Nothing else matters, not at the end.

Poetry and eroticism

"Poetry leads us to the same place as all forms of eroticism – to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea."

Georges Bataille