***

Memories are corpses of things.

Hostages of Winter

We’ve been craving for you, Spring,
As the forgotten long for the return
Of their long-lost lovers,
As a frozen boy waited,
Once upon a time
For his girlfriend’s tears
To melt the icy dungeons of
Winter.

Goodbye, Snow Queen.
So long, Winter.
“Rulers make bad lovers” –
As Stevie Nicks used to sing.
It’s over between us.
It’s over.

Here and There

Started dreaming again after a long, long dry dream spell. Where do we go at night, in our sleep? It doesn’t matter, as long as it is somewhere else, not here, not here. We need to roam through this dreamscape of ours in order to return to reality, to enter wakefulness as a warm, longed for home.

The idea of “home” can not exist outside the dichotomies “here and there”, “inside and outside”. Outside the notion of  “inside-outside” there is no outside, there is no inside, there is only a place which isn’t there. A paradox. An empty signifier. A signifier without a signified. A “no-where”. A “no-place”. In other words - placelessness, “u-topia”*. A total and unthinkable abstraction, complete abolition of reality. 

Without dreams, confined to this permanent home of a “here” without a “there”, I am homeless - drifting into the unreality of non-existence.

I am, because from the “there” of the dream I can dream that I am not here.

***

Fade to Black

***

Life is a deep sleep of which love is the dream.


Alfred De Musset

Long Nights

‎"Who I was before I cannot recall"

***

And then again: sometimes dreams don't come true. Or we just stop dreaming. Altogether. 

***

There's too much of everything. Too many people, too many cars, too many thoughts, too many dreams, too many shoes, too many books, too many busy days, too many empty nights, too many songs, too many paintings, too many things, too many. 

This world is jammed like an old woman's attic.

***

Happy Valentine's Day

***

Empty rooms, where we learn to live without love. Or we don't. 

Too much love will kill you just as sure as non at all, as Freddy  

used to sing. 

***

 

So tired of looking at my name on statuses and comments. Can't we just go back to the olden Internet days, when we had cool nicknames and we changed them whenever we grew bored with them?

 

 

***

"Home is so long ago and it's so far away ..."

April, "In Treatment"

Where I Lay My Head is Home

Влюбваме се. В мъже, квартали, къщи, улици. За ден, за седмица, за година, за цял живот. После ги забравяме. Понякога завинаги.

Eschatology

Живи сме все още, здрави сме. Не се обичаме. Вървим все по-самотни по тази земя, а от небето падат мъртви птици.

2010

Song of Exile, Niyaz


Inception, Christopher Nolan 

***

Happy New Year

Practical Magic

Днес практикувахме интересни магии: превърнахме тревата в трева, дървото в дърво, къщата в къща. Всички магии проработиха безотказно. Успешен ден за практическата магия.

***

Niyaz

***

Dream On

The Confessional Booth

Уютно е някакси в този блог. Тъмно и тихо, и само от черното на пикселите лекичко повява тъжният вятър на съществуването. От година и половина пиша тук. Свикнах да идвам в тази забравена от бога изповедалня, на завет, където дори Брин и Пейдж рядко се сещат да надникнат. 

Семиотика за начинаещи

 

Мамо, Господ можел ли е да говори преди тези двама братя да измислят азбуката?

 

***

" It's only words and words are all I have to take your heart away "

***

Healing.

Thanksgiving

Thank you, Lord, for springs and summers, falls and winters, for sunsets, for the beauty of those falling autumn leaves, for our children, for the wisdom of their bodies, knowing how to grow up, for the fortresses of blood veins, bones and breathing, in which your soul dwells - a monstrous, beautiful DNA code, spreading like an incurable virus of existence through the desert of nothingness, of non-being.

Thank you for the infection of life, for the growing pains, for this sickness of beauty and wonder and pain, through which we walk, ceaselessly,  in bewilderment and revolt.

***

Hostages of Winter

***

1:17 И предадох сърцето си, за да позная мъдростта, И да позная лудостта и безумието. Познах, че и това е гонене на вятър.

1:18 Защото в многото мъдрост има много досада; И който увеличава знание увеличава и печал.

Еклесиаст, глава първа

***

Seattle's autumn is like a long orgasm. It lasts three months and it's extremely pleasurable.

Replay

Here Without You, 3 Doors Down

***

How many disappointments.

Being-In-Itself

Walked today the long corridors of the streets with their yellow, leafy ceilings, stepped into the warm rooms of this house of autumn, that we never want to leave, never, not even to see the luminous, sunbathed  castles of spring. If we can just stay here, forever, on the verge of  this last homecoming, becoming, in which the long Fall, in its beauty, finally begins to make sense. 

***

Just learned how to insert hearts with the keyboard. There they are, all three of them, standing for the three units of the Wholly Trinity :

<3 <3 <3

If God is Love, that would be the signifier of  a love three times bigger. Could this be possible?  Love, as God, as the all encompassing signified, is the only thing besides Nothingness that can not be modified by multiplication. Love is the ultimate modifier itself.

***

Cold and drizzling. Where did yesterday go? Where, in the space-time continuum,  is the history of the past moments being archived? I would like to re-read the warm autumn days chapter.

Патриотизмът и вълшебната приказка: синдромът "Снежанка"

Понякога родината е мащеха. Понякога сме деца, омагьосани от ежечасните и вторачвания в огледалото, от нарцистичните и възклицания: "Не съм ли най-хубавата на света"? "Да, мамо, най-хубавата си!" - отвръщаме трансирани.

Понякога нуждата от принадлежност е по-силна от любопитството, което ни влече към реалността. С колко илюзии и утопии бихме заплатили успокояващото усещане, че не сме осиротели Снежанки?

***

Каква есен е в Сиатъл... Като измислена. Вчера валя, но онзи ден беше топло, седяхме на едно кафене, а върху главите ни падаха жълти листа. Като на кино.

***

Едно време хората се държаха за цигарения дим като за пъпна връв, сега са се вкопчили в ай-телефоните си като в майчина гръд. Дали ще паднем в космоса, ако не се държим за нещо?

Glorious Body

"In truth, the body of God was the body of man himself: man's flesh was the body God gave himself. (Man is the body, absolutely, or he's not: the body of God, or the world of bodies, but nothing else. Which is why the "man" of "humanism", dedicated to signifying, oversignifying, unsignifying his body, has slowly dissolved this body along with himself.) God had made himself body, he had been extended and molded ex limon terrae: out of the fat, smooth, deformable extension of clay, the raw matter, consisting entirely of modalizing, or modification, rather than substance. That God created limon, and that he made the body out of limon, means that God modalized or modified himself, but that his self in itself is only the extension and indefinite expansion of modes. This means that "creation" isn't the production of a world from some unknown matter or nothingness but consists in the fact that the matter (only that which there is) essentially modifies itself: it's not a substance, it's the extension and expansion of "modes" or, to put it more precisely, the exposition of what there is. Bodies are the exposition of God, and there is no other - to the extend that God exposes himself."

Jean-Luc Nancy,

Corpus

Virtual Reality: In The Realm Of The Senseless

Лекарство против северния вятър,  Даниел Глатауер

Седмата вълна,  Даниел Глатауер

***

Happy to be back in Seattle. 

The exile in the homeland is over.

***

Понякога е късно да кажеш каквото и да било.

За произхода на света

Облакът е пара. Парата е вода. Водата е от Господ. А Господ просто е дошъл. От въздуха.

Мила

03.10.2010