approval
It seems that there started to be a slight lag between the rhythm at which my thoughts pop into my head and the rate at which they get approved for storage in my receptive brain chambers. The declined crumbs that fall out of range recycle themselves into a viscous fluid and surrender on my canvas into an artwork that resembles mine, but with colors, an offset of my regular palette.
madness
I was so mad at her, but when I saw her weak shoulders bent in a vulnerable way, my madness turned into pity in no time… ad I felt like I had been a monster
weakness
I read this somewhere, and it upset me: “all the anger that she had carefully hidden was waiting for that one weak person with potential… -to empty all those feelings into-
for a rainy day
I remember vaguely that I had collected in a container some happy uppers, in the form of potential craft ideas. I hid that jar on the top shelf of my desires, to seek happiness on a rainy mood. Now I forgot what container… and I realized that my sensory motor abilities have curbed themselves from past over-use… and to think that I could have enjoyed them when I was still “alive”. So sad. Now I have ideas for research pipelined in the pseudo brain left on the right side of some hidden/forever hybernating hemisphere…
two days
And to think that I had saved all the readings I collected in my bookmarks for the day I finish my work, just to discover that I had miscalculated the long term powers of my vision and my patience. Disappointment is an understatement: long-term (in)compatibility could not be properly calculated. By the time I started to have time on my hands, the needed enzymes were dead and my health did not help. I had saved it all for nothing. Severe miscalculations overlooked all the important physical conditions, and I had assumed all the faculties remain as bright and operational. Now the numbers mean nothing. I forgot how to enjoy. I have 2 days to finish the book. What book? All I remember is that I have 2 days.
House 1
Why say things when they are out of fizz?
Birds green
When we repeat the same statement in different modes, on and on, it is only an indication that it is empty, and that we are trying to give it a volume by talking about it.
Double Birds
It is a good feeling to trim edges, to re-read and trim. But please let there be something when done…
Hanging birds
Aging is losing one’s appetite for the main dish one has been working on all along
Dream Fairy
I barely got a glimpse of her… before she disappear from my angle’s vision. She was still smiling when she turned and fluttered her wings. She had just deposited lucky pollen-like glittery dust, all over my hemisphere. She was light, now that she had emptied her sand bag . I saw her, my beautiful Dream Fairy with her slight smile.. she did not want me to see her. I could not get a full view. No need to thank her.. she knows..
the whisperer
My ideas at night have a ball. They dance and jump, then, when tired of all that gymnastics, they start at role-playing.. For fun, they turn into metaphors; and get disguised as my mom and her sisters, pretending to be hysterically alive; my mom whispers advice and kisses.
pain map
As if we have letters engraved under points of weakness in our bodies. Each time we grow or suffer, with every experience, be it happy or sad, we get to uncover one letter.. when all the letters are uncovered, our configuration is complete..
in sync
Last night when I was sleeping, my hands must have had a misunderstanding. This morning they refused to sync. I sat them down; both on my lap. Then pressed them against one another; I waited for their temperatures to sync. They sent me a sign… and I played the piano.. celebrating their reconciliation.
pain pain go away
The pain in your body gives those in-between, grey sentiments a name — and calls them sadness, without question.
sun and birds
And my body remembered — the precise angle to stand by that door, the tilt of my neck needed to disappear into the architecture. Just enough to vanish from the sightlines of corridors, windows, and doors. A learned geometry of survival. A blind spot — claimed as refuge.
self resemblance
This button drawer will outlive me.
While uncluttering my art drawers — full of whimsical, disconnected objects — I paused over these buttons I’ve had forever, untouched. Suddenly, I saw them clearly. When I die, they’ll remain. Probably.
And then the thought shaped itself into words:
I will be outlived by these collected buttons and tassels and threads and laces and paints.
I feel the urge to write a formula on the backs of those containers — a kind of peaceful self-exodus. An auto-execution plot. A chemical composition for quiet self-exhaustion. A Wako-style self-termination. Not for drama, but release.
I don’t want them to burden others.
They were meaningful only to me.
To someone else, they might feel like a weight. An unsolvable puzzle of things left behind.
So please — when I go, take this collective pill.
Let them self-explode in silence.
blind spot
And my body remembered the angle at which it should be standing by that door and the angle at which my neck should pose so as to be invisible to all others overlooking that spot from all corridors and windows and doors of that place..
unstructure
When I first discovered that the house didn’t need to start running the moment we woke up — that we could linger in quiet, in calm, for hours — I felt something shift. We could think, be productive, without rushing. No one had to make their bed right away. I could take it easy. Who said lunch had to be cooked in the early hours? Lunch could happen whenever. No need to force a nap after. No reason to turn on the TV just in time for the evening news.
It felt like an emancipation — from forced commas.
And yet, thirty years later, those old rhythms crept back in, like a vintage dress returning to fashion — worn with a nostalgic grain of salt. I found it… cute. Even healthy. But this time, it was by choice.
Then I wondered: maybe that structure is what shaped my bones into what they are now.
But still — I would never want to subject my kids to such military conduct, especially at such a high cost.
deformation
I remember a deformation retract I studied back in 1991, in a class where the sun streamed across the seat beside that warm-hearted old Romanian professor — the one who always made me feel seen, special, and smart. I loved listening to the description of a deformation retract in algebraic topology. My mind would drift into metaphorical excursions, spinning stories from that concept. It felt like a playground for the imagination — a tool I applied to everything around me, layering meanings over meanings.
I became so attached to it, so convinced of its playful potential, that I felt I deserved credit for the idea. It felt like something I must’ve invented in a previous life. It just made so much sense to me… I loved it.
And now, it’s resurfacing. Why?
Could my present be a deformation retract of that moment?