Thursday, 29 September 2011

A Window Cleaner

A window cleaner

Just to trigger the dust in the windows
As they cover the corpses
Look down, to see
How dead would the dead be
Until they move with the wind
With the dresses of dust
I was supposed to wear
When I’d be asked to leave
With the chalk red door
Carved notes
As I’d see the smell of pine
On my shirt, denial of birth,
Which I’ve really
Really washed away


This was done on a character development class. I miss the course a lot. I miss all courses really.

Baby Says

Tuesday, 27 September 2011

Exit. Chapter 12

Was this even a date? The word hummed in the air as I took another gulp. That’s why I hated myself sometimes by my thoughts in reality. It felt as if everyone hated everyone. In my head they were harmless, but once they would collide with the real world, as real as I could call this anyway, they seemed stupid. They reeked of cheap soft covered novels which were easy to find and caused a gagging reaction when reading. I mean, anybody could think of cheap crap like that.

Yet not all made millions by it.

Or not all had the guts to write that shit down.

That was the only difference.

And now I was earning nothing.

Asides from colouring up my love life, experiences and further thinking before falling asleep, into another web of gooey dreams, soon to forgotten or hidden by the surrounding reality, which I desperately wished to escape. All my life, I added bitterly, drinking it off the hot chocolate taste on my tongue fading out the depressing thoughts.

But then why were they depressing?

Why was it a depressing thing to literally sleep with dreams? To shed the stabbing life and hide behind or in a soft mattress, cover, sweater of dreams. We pull it anyway no matter how much we like what is around us. We desperately pull it on, trying to find something else. Something we can only find in dreams. Love. Because in reality sooner or later the bond brakes no matter whose fault I it. The male’s or female’s. I could go all feminist, since I am a female and all, but I don’t. Because in real life it’s never enough, we can never be full, because then we spill it, grabbing another cup.

Just like that.

We do it to ourselves.

I should stop quoting stuff. Or rather songs, something I do in my head. Something Mason approves in my mind for the past days and in reality I have to find out with the risk of getting the opposite wherever I want to or not. Without getting questioned of the result I may get a shrug or an eye roll or maybe something exactly the same like in my dream.

It felt as it was a moment which would slip away but was heavily held by a finger pressed against pause. So I took the moment holding it as much as I could, being that finger or holding by the end of his raincoat which wasn’t present at the current moment. Did he really have one? A dark blue raincoat which made a heavy contrast to his red hair, white shirts or light gray, which was his choice for today and played with his eyes giving them a nice, soft, warming, known sparkle.


Did Graham have a girlfriend?

The thought got caught in my head as reality was mixing with my own creations. Did I fake it? What would I do now? I could close up on him, but no. But then I saw him holding hands with that girl, or did he actually make out?

Had I seen Mason make out with anybody?

Had I ever seen him before?

I swore I had seen that mop of red hair before, but I still couldn’t make out an ideal image in my head, as I thought. Had I seen him throw a ball in the air scoring in the final seconds? Had I seen him in the school’s yellow pages that he had an affair with a young teacher? Had I even seen him before?

I stopped seeing him on the outside, no teal gazing from the end of the school yard, no toast stealing and no whispers in the ears only to be muted out.

“Here, you asked for it.” Leslie. A blank CD or was it not blank? I couldn’t look at the cover as hazel with red looked at me intensively. Will I ever stop getting such dreams? Get pinned to the side, get my hair stroked and the guy’s attempt.

I expected Mason to run up and push him in the other direction.


Mason. Like some spell the moment is gone leaving Mason sitting on my desk, ruffling his hair, his hands holding open a book rather openly, as if hinting at me to read it. I walk up to him, as his gaze never leaves me as I take the book, the CD no longer with me. I flip it through, words burning in my head. I feel the paper brush against my fingers, I feel the words print into my head and its title burn turning into dust the rest of the dream, leaving recognizable ashes in the end as lyrics.

Mason leans back, closing his eyes for a second, giving me a wink before.


“You daze out here at first. Ignore it. Tries to corrupt your dreams.” Is it a whisper? Is it a shout? Is it telepathy? Why corrupt? Was I making all this up on the way, was my imagination making everything up on the way? Was this because I was dazing out because now it was normal for my body to mute out the world and by the looks of it black it out as well?

Saying that he was the light at the end of the tunnel would be poetic, useless and simply epic.

Why would I use that when I blacked out, not realizing where I was what time was it and once more what was happening and what was surrounding me. Maybe I just crossed it out fearing that my first encounter with Mason was personal and what if I could talk in my sleep, what if I would say it out, what if I’d write it down not able to hold?

I held out for several years.

Why not now?

Maybe because the stupid emotion was overwhelming creating a block for all further actions, as if I had this ideal play in my head, where I despite my principles I was the main character with the red head beside me, no other characters in it. Just hot chocolate in this scene, people in the background people I could erase with a swing of the hand, without any magic wand, without a click just a light swing even in the head. People I could make a fool out of myself knowing that I did not know them and likewise. I stood up as I finished my chocolate.

Chapter 13

Wednesday, 21 September 2011

Stage Scene

It would happen on stage
For the crowd
To capture
A defeat
A victory upon the other’s lips
In the flash
Of music
It would be a betrayal
From the devoted
With water in strings
Not to say

We had met on the date
On my wrist
A 14 of a 2
I had never seen your date
On her body
She had stashed it
Taking my shirt
Thinking that it’d be her 14
Or those who had tried to steal the 2
In the parlor
Giving tattoos to themselves,

That one kiss
You gave me
I shrugged it off
Because of age
You give none
Because of age
We lost

The microphone in blood
You had bit me


Inspired strongly by The Kill's Mosshart and Hince. I love their relation and how everything is build on the tension and all the additions to it.

By the way Moss' dress was hideous.

Inspired by The Kill's Satellite and Black Balloon.

A Window Cleaner

Monday, 19 September 2011

Exit. Chapter 11

I want to turn back to the door, look out, see the rushing students and stare trying to dig into reality.
This couldn’t be possible.
I feel no excited emotion overwhelm me.
I turn around quickly to see a bright red door fade out to white then a gray to match the trees to fade into the distance. I press my hand against the so-called distance. It’s quite real. I feel my eyes devour everything around me in a natural way.
I don’t go around hugging trees.
I just stare. I kick the ground making snowflakes rise along with dust. They don’t feel cold. There’s no winter chill in the air. There’s just… air hanging, as if everything’s still. As if somebody flipped the sand clock sideways.

It feels like a warm autumn, what should autumn be but never is, a stroke.

I tried to ignore the brown boxes far off in front of me. They open up and make houses, they’re gifts, treasures, sacrifices.They couldn’t be houses. The small stage wasn’t as big. That’s it! Realistic decorations, nothing else.

This was real. I began to shiver despite the hot air and crumbling snowflakes under my docs. I walked on, not daring to touch as if it would bend in two or fall or my fear would fall or I would.

I was afraid of something else behind there, something I did not want. Did I want… this? No.

I walked on, seeing smoke rise from the houses, the boxes now in detail, snow surrounding my footsteps and the feeling of my feet in there. I zipped my hoodie, as if it was cold. It was simply a need to believe. I walked on, keeping my hands in my pockets to reach a straight street with houses on both sides. They seemed lonely, until I saw several people pop onto the streets, as if I clicked on a button and they all ran out.


So many unknown faces.

They ran around me, closing all gaps between the houses. So many.

So many laughs. So many conversations. All so friendly.

All ignored me, until I sat down, looking down, trying to understand was it snow or dust under my feet. They stopped. They formed a circle, maybe waiting for the leader to acclaim what a great feast had come. Were they cannibals? I looked up to see them gone. Back. Gone.

Everything was clouded by my fear.

I didn’t want to go back.

I didn’t want to stay.

I wanted to find my own ideal world. My… exit?

“Are you my exit?”

I said that aloud, returning people, letting them scatter, let snow fall more, let the dust disappear, the decorations attack the houses like a virus. I stood up as I watched the city turn into Christmas even if it was long gone. But there was no big fat Santa, there were just the cozy decorations, which I couldn’t admire due to my relative’s constant nagging about how I should build my life, as if I were a Lego person waiting for somebody to build me out of the ruins around me a home, a friend, a lover.

I looked around desperately, trying to find anybody who was in my head, no matter when, even when I liked Robbie Williams several years ago, as I found him attractive. It didn’t matter.

Maybe I didn’t want a lover? A real one.

Maybe this… exit was, like some sort of real reflection of how I wanted everything to be? No annoying classmates coming up, everyone unknown and the faces would change every day so that I’d have no one trying to find out everything possible to gossip about but now they’d clearly fail. No one was stopping me.

No one knew me.

I knew nobody.

I could make them go away with a clap.



Maybe it knew what I wanted. Maybe I couldn’t control it, maybe it was built out of my life, every desire, every eternal desire. I shrugged wondering why of all ideal places my exit would be a small town with the population of Mexico. Either way, despite the word on the tongue, gripping onto the tip, afraid to get out, it seemed fun. It seemed fun to travel in your own dream reality, knowing what exactly you cherished and desired, making it impossibly unreal in a realistic way.

I kept looking around wondering if I actually was searching for somebody or not. Was I? Did I want to see somebody storm the doors and grab me by my waist kissing me passionately?

A box would be a cafe.

I’d seen that in Toy Story, I’d make Toy Story my Exit. It is in a way.

I got my thoughts interrupted by a waitress who asked me what I wanted to order after giving me the menu. The thought of food never hit my head as I entered the place a few seconds ago in a zombie-like way past the doors, past the noisy crowd plunging myself into the couch beside the window.

Was it even possible to earn a place as cozy as this in real life? Usually you’d get kicked out in a polite way or not. Instead I sat looking at the scattered names forming known food. I couldn’t call myself hungry, but I started to hesitate and ordered hot chocolate expelling the possibility of actually ordering beer, which people seemed to order. I glanced across the whole cafĂ© or whatever it was, making sure that I saw no familiar looking faces which desperately hinted the fact that I should hide under the table in order so that I won’t be found.

“Your hot chocolate, miss.” I flinched. He smirked.

I looked up.

He shot a wave to the waitress, hinting that he took my order. Ruffling his hair as he put both the cups down with a pleased smile, he glanced at me. The owner of the teal eyes looked down, spacing out on his thoughts, maybe regrets. Did he regret meeting me? Did he? I wondered if I should stand up, if I should take the cup and spill it at him, burning his face. The teenager, I think, leaned back into the other couch, crossing his legs, as a smile in the end as he watched my rather easy to read face.

What did I feel?

I played with my hair in slow motion trying to consume the fact that he was here. Maybe he was there when I walked in glancing from the stall in the bar, waiting for this ordinary day to come to an end, shaking the liquid in his cup, his teal eyes looking through items, behind, over, inside, splitting them open.

Who are you?

I wanted to say that but I held myself, ruffling not only my hair but the questions, answers, possibilities and further actions. What was he doing here?

Are you the love of my life?

“Thank you.” Hesitation. Fear. Unknown. Invade. “What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?”

He smirks, bringing the cup up to his lips, taking a gulp as I watch the upper lip show a hint of the brown colour liquid. Hot chocolate. He licks it off, as I take a gulp. I expect him to stand up, but he doesn’t. Instead he looks down, then back at me, as I suppose that it may be a regular habit of his.

“Mason.” He rubs the back of his neck, trying to accept the next step. Then I realize that he has a name, it prints slowly into my brain, not ruining the image. Mason takes another gulp, looking into the liquid before taking a gulp. “Yours?”

“Roberta. Bo. Call me anything, actually.” My voice hints the fact that I’m nervous. His smile spreads, as if he knew it, but tries to hide it. He presses himself into the couch more in a sign of easiness rather than discomfort, as his facial expression hints that.

“Nice to meet you, Bo.” He sits like that, the smile spreading on his lips as he watches me, the earlier regrets long gone.

“Same here.” I say that, ignoring how cheesy it is, because love is a cheesy thing to those who do not know it. Not that I’m saying that this is not love which I have in my head further planned for years to come no matter what in reality, in my head… or here. Maybe.


Mason and Roberta would truly be the most closest couple I've written like maybe until my current novel couple, but then the new novel has a different topic which I've never touched before, maybe that's why it's taking too long xD

I always liked the Exit. Maybe it would even be mine.

Chapter 12

Wednesday, 14 September 2011


I hope there is someone who gives you secrets to life

a mosquito bit my forehead

you paint your tongue because it’s fun

I wonder if you’d even bleed

we don’t know these people, but we know their graves


This was a bunch of random sentences which came to me through out the day.

Stage Scene

Monday, 12 September 2011

Exit. Chapter 10

It happens. It just does. Sometimes by a brief conversation, sometimes by an embarrassed I love you and hidden face in knitwear, sometimes it just happens and it hits you like lightning or sometimes you hesitate to remember how it did.

It just happened, that’s it.

Like when you see a flash, something unreal and then you find it most common. Like when you realize how devoted you are to that feeling, to love, that it becomes natural, like a gasp of air, like an exhale of smoke, like a gulp of water, like an awkward first kiss.

I counted that as a first kiss. Just like that.

I felt confident.

I didn’t care about anything. I knew what I felt. I felt real.

I didn’t know his name, never gave him one, none matched him.

I didn’t see him, even if I flinched every time I saw somebody similar.

In reality I never searched. I knew he was there, stroking the back of my neck, as we’d watch ‘Control’, flinch at Debbie’s scream. It’s stupid, isn’t it, how you find similar addictions.

“Do you like Control?”

“Love it.”

Even if it’s planned out, I love it. I hated school, as usual, but he’d be there, holding my hand, stroking my cheek, as the teacher would turn. He’d roll his eyes at Leslie, shoo Jonny, avoid Graham. I knew what hair dye colour he used. I knew everything. Absolutely everything. He knew everything.



“We have practice, Bo. You coming?” Leslie asked, rubbing the back of his neck. He had a girlfriend, did he not? I saw them making out yesterday. It was not in my head. I spied on him and so did my red head. Just like that, we spied from behind the corner. Teal eyes snickering, singing childish songs, before he lost his attention. I was better looking, at least according to him.

I nodded. Knowing that nothing would be bad. I had been acting all my life. I took the third to the last small role, usually. Something small, not much to learn, something I could put my soul into, but certainly not get the spotlight. Why would I want that? That’s right. Usually the main heroine needed to have her head exposed and arms something I’d never do. Except once when Juliet got ill, a role bigger than my own I got dragged in by the teacher. I washed my pink steaks off, rubbed my scribbles. I ran away from the party, escaping all congratulations, rubbing ink onto my skin, making my steaks bright. I skipped a week, ignoring all flashing faces with a grin with congratulations on my part. It wasn’t easy, but I hated the fake smiles admitting how brilliant I was. I don’t want to know that.

I’m not brilliant. I just play how I feel. Sometimes I feel so into those phrases up to the point that I forget everything. I feel Martha’s slipper hitting my cheek due to the constant repeating, but she never throws it. She sleeps like a log, not hearing or answering anything. I talked to her once, aloud, feeling depressed over a mark I believe. Maybe it was due to the global warming project or some other crappy assignment. I don’t remember. Jonny couldn’t hold it. I didn’t have the red head then, laying beside me in the bed, something Jonny never did.

Where was Jonny?

He still was on my wallpaper, holding his guitar, his lips looking all kissable, but not now.

I was loyal.

I had a boyfriend.

I tried to search for red heads which would actually resemble him, but nothing. He was unique with that smile, loosed ties, sometimes which I loosened. I just pull and that was it, an intense, no dumb gaze, no embarrassment, just is. I had no one who could replace.

It felt not right.

But I never told myself that, I never realized, I just went on, feeling a sense of curiosity as the auditions would come. He walked behind me the hands in the pockets, kick the door open, then shrug at his sudden movement. Just like that. He’d smile.

“Roberta! Finally, I’ve got-“

Role. I looked at it, knowing how late I was. I still had a main role. So many phrases and the dress requirements were the same. No tuque. No scribbles. I scanned it through, looking at the teacher.

Weird how the roles either of Juliet or Romeo change lives. Then you’re Juliet not only on stage, but in real life, fearing that everybody is expecting a dagger or a gun, in other words suicide at the age of fourteen, which I had passed. Why did suicide attract so many people? Just the thought of the gun, dagger, poison or quick path to the unknown or rather end. Just end. Blackness. No one to hold. No one holds you back.

Bald. Black framed glasses. Velvet light brown suit. Piercing furious looking eyes. I looked at him. Had everybody else left? No. They were there, some in their costumes looking at the loner holding the second main female role in a play I had not yet read. I looked at the first pages the words scattering, pilling into ants who ran around. Just like that. Ants. Nothing else. Insignificant ants which I could press my docs into and crush.

“Roberta?” I looked up, as the ants ran back into their holes forming known words. I nodded, as I knew that I couldn’t decline, no matter how much I’d despite that role.

“Can I-" Rehearse. Can I see the stage? The backstage?

“Sure.” I went backstage into the changing rooms. I walked past the spare curtains into the dusty, crumbled hall, clutching the script in my hand, knowing that a new student was waiting to get me dressed, some sort of addiction. Always rehearse in costumes. Well, everybody’s weird. I stopped in front of the costumes door, it’s bleached out white wrinkling in places. The thought were Leslie was appeared in my head. I looked around wondering if I made a sudden turn or if the costumes were now moved. Nothing. I shrugged and opened the door, feeling a light cold coming from the doorknob.

I made a sudden pull ignoring the gust of wind.

So epic.

Like the trees around me.


Yes, trees.


Yes, snow.

Costume room?

Not really.

And there certainly was no bright red exit sign printed on the other side of the door.

Chapter 11

Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Hello, shut up please.

The world is made for singles
You can’t kiss your lover on the street
The singles will hiss
They’ll rant that the world is against them
And for couples
But look
There’s not that many
And their squeals of desperation
In movies
Are disgusting
When I was fucking single
I hated silently
And didn’t make a show of it
So that the rest would hate me
When I’d leave the team of singles


I'm sorry but that's how it feels in the end. When you're single, you never get bugged about it, but when you're not single, you get restrictions given out by singles. Sorry, just that it's annoying. It's a single world, really. Just because people are together, it doesn't mean they have the love bond, they only have the sex bond, making them singles with the ability to fuck. Once again, I apologise highly, I'm just being honest.


Saturday, 3 September 2011

Exit. Chapter 9

Morning. Alarm. Mixes. All in a sick daily smell.

The brush of teeth. The cold water like a wake-up drug. Dressing up. Eating breakfast. Toast. Burnt toast. Second try. Butter. No, marmalade. Eat the butter one with a bitter thought. Leave no time for the marmalade to enjoy. Run to classes. Chew near the classroom. Know that I’m late. Get detention. Get freed from detention. Freed by unknown reason. Suspect that a new lover is mixed up somewhere. A cheap excuse of behavior. Think about how the poor dude must actually be like. End of first lesson.

Pass near the club lists.

See Leslie’s name in the acting club.

Damn memory. Sign up. Regret the whole day. Walk up twice to cross out the name. Realize that the love is strong. Skip art. Skip seeing Leslie. Regret the fact that cannot epically smoke in the banned area. Smoking area. With all cool kids. No, just nice people. Just expect them to be cool, but realize that they are nice. Just smokers. Come to the conclusion in the head. Freeze to death outside. The only heat coming from the iPod and headphones. Wonder if I’ll die from a new kind of freeze to death outside swine flu.

Wonder if swine flu is real. Remember BBC reports. Switch thoughts to global warming. Try to catch some signal. Get bored. Think about global warming more. Get bored. Decide that it may be bad. Decide that it may be a hoax. Argue about it. Realize that the argument took long. Three lessons. Bounce on fourth. Screw last lessons. Flood the head about global warming. Surf the internet about it. Love wi-fi. Dedicate lunchtime for global warming. Wonder if people ever spent so much time on it. Wonder if people care in general.

Decide. Come to a conclusion. Be proud of spending so much time about it. Get a project topic about it. Shrug and take it. Bump into Leslie. Smile. Blush. Have a whole movie about how romantic it is. The greet. In the head. Start conversation in head. Leslie answers or rather starts it aloud. Consume the fact. Leslie isn’t telepathic. Jonny is. Maybe the red head is.

Talk about daily stuff.

Find out that he likes Radiohead.

Be surprised.

Stop thinking like that.

“What?” Sound impolite.

“Um, yeah. Not my fave, but still, they’re nice.” Nice? Nice? Who can come up to Thom Yorke and say ‘dude, you’re music is nice?’ Shrug. Grin like an idiot. Chat about favorite songs. Get an invitation. Decline. Wonder if the thoughts leaked out. Hesitate. Realize that reality is getting cheesy. Be proud of it.


Sometimes you get dreams. The ones when you wake up and say what the fuck? But usually it ends with curling into a ball, smiling, as if the tingle now was real. They are stupid, unreal and suddenly the whole story behind cheesy love stories is easily explained. Dreams.

Nothing is ever cheesier.

What is absurd that in the dreams it’s like that theory about the afterlife. You die, get another life, but your soul is kept. In dreams you end up being with the same body, not always. Once I was a robot. I had my tuque, thought, but that’s another story.

I saw him there.

It was as if all the cheesiness of the world gathered together in that one dream, exploding in it and on our faces.

Dark blue. A heavy contrast to his red hair, as we ran somewhere, as I can’t remember.

In dreams everything is in a deep blur. Everything is highly primitive making the weirdest things possible, like some sort of bad written fiction. As if he’d appear with a gun, close one eye and shoot, ruining the whole quiet morning. He divided it in half. Later.

A blow to make the smoke go away.

A tight dress, revealing the curves, which I apparently do not have and constant biting lips, which are heavily painted red. My hair is down, my face looking like a mannequin, trying to fake what an ideal female should look like.

It reminds some sort of gangster film with both us ending either with a passionate kiss as the credits would roll or either one of us dead, as the other holds the breathless body, eyes full of that thing which makes actors cry.

Thankfully, that was not my dream. Or maybe it was. I had it in my head as my eyes lay closed, trying to recall or either forget the dream I had.

Dark blue coat. Running.

I was in my usual attire, but one sleeve rolled up, revealing just several scribbles as he held onto that hand. Did I have a small pink with flowers umbrella? Did he laugh?


Then we stopped, as we both gasped for air. He tilted his head from behind the corner, looking around. Who was chasing us? Nobody. Then he shrugged, leaning against the wall. My umbrella was gone, maybe closed, maybe in my hand, maybe I lost it on the way.

I don’t know.

It’s like those stupid moments when a guy has an amazingly dumb face, which stares at you in a rather intense ‘I am going to kiss you way’ and you hesitate. You know it happens.

It doesn’t.
Is it a sign?

But there was no wait like that. There was a quick glance to the corner and the next thing I now he captures my lips. Just like that. It’s long. Pleasurable. Intense. I remember it. There is no hesitation, no stupid dumbstruck face and it happens again.

He pulls back, glancing at me briefly, before kissing my cheek. He stretches out his hand. I take it. We walk on. Lace fingers.

Chapter 10