Marinkel *'s blog/

call me stupid (i dare you!) but i cannot find my own favorites. since things changed here, i've been confused. don't get me wrong, i love change, but i am like a headless chicken for a while until i readjust. so where can i view my own favorites? and other people's favorites? when someone faves a pic of mine i want to see what else they like... puts things in perspective and lets me get to know you. why else have that fave button?

also, i don't like that once a bit of time passes we don't know if someone has commented back on one of our comments unless we click on their picture again. and then we seem obsessed with this picture though we may not even like it that much and so we have to make ourselves anonymous so we don't seem like stalkers. actually i have never made myself invisible. something so harry-potter about this. so if i look at your picture ten times, don't worry, i am not gonna come knocking on your door... though that depends... ahaha.

i stole myself away from you

without waking your eyelids

leaving the scent of orange blossoms

on your fingertips

i feel so much safer with those machine gun wearing soldiers underneath the eiffel tower.

so i finally went to see it up close. last time i did was in 1990. memorable day that. i remembered this picture we took with the pointy monument between my legs, haha. it's somewhere burried amongst my scattered things, in germany or in orleans or in oblivion. this time i came here at night and i don't recommend it alone. come with an escort, ladies. and don't use your camera like a tourist. there will be an indian guy with a ridiculously blinking miniature of the tower in your face. when you tell him what you think of it, he will pursue you even more to where you are getting really annoyed. and while you had been initially scoffing at those soldiers and had highly liberal thoughts on imaginary terrorist plots to keep the population in check, you now are grateful when they escort you from the premises. still, the indian guy with the blinking dick in his hand wants to come home with you. with the help from a homeless drunk who'd like to show you the way but not share his cheap bottle of poison. thankfully neither of them can afford the train ticket and you arrive safely on platform three.

i think i'll stay away from the eiffel tower for another decade. unless i come with you.

my very best friend louise has sent me some birthday books. as i was in the midst of changing addresses etc. in september they only just arrived. and this morning i opened the first page on the train and got too excited for words about the first paragraph. so before i start my day i have to share this with you. it's just so relevant to everything i've been thinking about of late...

"above all remember this: that magic belongs as much to the heart as to the head and everything which is done, should be done from love or joy or righteous anger.
and if we honour this principle we shall discover that our magic is much greater than all the sum of all the spells that were ever taught. then magic is to us as flight is to the birds, because then our magic comes from the dark and dreaming heart, just as the flight of a bird comes from the heart. and we will feel the same joy in performing that magic that the bird feels as it casts itself into the void and we will know that magic is part of what a man is, just as flight is part of what a bird is."

from "the ladies of grace adieu" by susanna clarke

enjoy the magic....

pardon my french, it sucks. hehe. but i cannot make sense of this monday curse of late. i usually have mondays off since i work saturdays. but i've been working the last six mondays i'm sure. so today i finally get my monday, alone... and aaaaaarg, my neighbor decides to nail in a new wooden floor next to my head at eight thirty in the morning. how evil is that!!!!

i've sent the cat to take care of the problem, so i expect silence to ensue shortly. but now i'm up, ain't i! another monday with a freakin headache...

a repost from my myspace blog...

"there is not much to say. there are many things happening all at the same time. your body works like a clockwerk. orange. ma vie en orange. clicking. ticking away the hours. meeting in restaurants. sly looks. weak knees. your hand brushes barely against me. electrecutions from a faulty radio. even toasters can kill when wet. but i think of your eyes after your lips depart. impenetrable and dark. halfclosed. human. how long have we been here searching each other. in dark bars. down empty streets. sunday afternoons when all you want is sipping tea in purplecolored armchairs. a missed kiss. a faulty embrace. and the real one follows. paint the wall grey. and throw your smile upon it. word flow while you remain silent. throw your smile upon the wall. it will blossom into words of enchantment. blinding colors. dark and impenetrable. are you happy?"

a woman, mad, sitting on the imitation marble benches in the underground at RER station A, charles de gaulle etoiles. a star. her desperate voice echoes across the gewölbten wände. a flute plays somewhere as if accompanying her, her very own score and soundtrack. the two voices intertwining in strange harmony. people walking past, this is paris and mad women and men in every station. she holds out her hand, not begging, but pleading, s'il vous plaît. the woman dressed in a cashmere coat walks on by and the mad one nods, yes of course you don't want to see me. but i see her, hear her. it is the most beautiful mis-en-scene imaginable. the flute keeps on playing, the colors mingle.

then a rumbling noise joins this choreography. i'm fumbling for my camera, trying to capture a glimpse, the last sounds on earth, but too late. the bomb drops. the train rolls in and i can only hear the woman behind this metal barrier. i realize that this is the grand finale, the high point of it all, this here symphony. the iron monster cutting through the strange harmony, separating flute and voice, two natures interrupted. like it did cutting through the buffalo tracks and the apache warrior. the proud cry of the warrior. has become the pleas of a madwoman and pan keeps playing his happy tunes. he says all is changing but not me. i can stop time while you deteriorate in your rotten towns. so i start filming as the train rolls out, once again revealing the owner of that voice, vestiges of one who must have been proud once like a warrior. the next iron monster cuts through once again and my eyes turn to the concrete ground. a far cry from the steppes, from buffalos, from white magic. this is the place of black magic and i will learn its lessons. then i will wrap myself in cream-colored furs and return to the land of snow and ice.

oysters
for christmas
dying inside her throat
like the last memories
new life
on the horizon

the priestess rises
she decides
on the magician's fate
scans the horizon

still waiting for answers

but you know
how the force
is with her
ahahahah.

the melting earth
smells like home
said she
as she awoke amongst the brush
oaken leaves in her hair

the sign said
walk no further
this is where nature begins
but the doll had returned
beckoning her
from behind the hazelnut tree

she walked
and was seen

no more