IN ANOTHER LIFE WHEN WE ARE ALL CATS


Drugs through the needle are to be avoid but no one warned me about the dangers of the little vibrating device I hold in my hand. I was not told that once you get started it is quite hard to stop. Dosification and moderation are key to a healthy, balanced life, getting to know my drinking limit and leveling down the amount of sugar turned out not to be enough. Laying down on my back as I look out and up to the sky, nothing is more hot and sexy that nature, the wind blowing, travelling through the swinging trees, feels so inviting to launch on this free skydiving trip. I forget I’m on my kitchen floor, by the balcony’s glass door, wide open so I can hear the birds. The subtle buzz gets my mood right on and wanderlust builds up, girlscout prepared embarking on the vogage up towards pitch high. Hanging on a thin string with my fingertips for as long as I can bare, it’s at times difficult to handle, specially whilst my body and mind discuss back and forth whether this is the best I can do to relax or should I rather take a cold bath in the aim to simmer the flickering flame of desire. Am I as greedy in other aspects of life, I doubt that. Overall invasion of electric shocks and then, one, is never enough, neither is two. How many treasures can I find, before I run out. Out of power, energy and any conscious thought. An innanimated flesh mass until I regain my strength again, and my will power to get up on my feet, and on with the day. Wondering if everybody feels the same, if we all have this need for attachment through this delightful inner convulsions and extraordinary high voltage charges to our brain. And if so, how come it is not easier to get, how come I need a device to get me there. In another life, when we are all cats, we might just be able to get smoothly close to one another, and ever so gently, touch with the back of our heads the shoulder of the ones we prefer and explore this free love of the hippies and the sixties affair.

In another life when we are all cats. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

WILD STRAWBERRIES

I fight progress one human-tended supermarket counter at the time. I don’t mind the waiting, in fact, I like it, to a point, of course, and I enjoy the soft voice in the corner of my ear whispering, you do have time. I am, indeed, in no rush. I have been to many places and, sure, there is more to come, but for now, I have no reason to feel that I’m missing out, nor need to run after none. I welcome encounters of any nature that are worth of my time and attention. Like the finding of hidden tiny wild strawberries, the sweetest little things you will ever know, worth of immortality by the finest Scandinavian cellulose, along the way as you go. And here it is, by the queue that invites me to wait, that I dream. I dream of where I have been and how it could all be if any of it would have happened somehow differently. And the sound of my laugh wakes me up, for where would I ever want to be if not here. This is lovely, my place, my space, my thoughts. My warmth, my pain, the cold. For I own a Satie beating heart and, as it strikes on every key, my blood runs full of life and excitement, until I can almost taste, and smell, the metallic flavour making its way up and steaming out through my head and up into the air. Bunny shaped clouds floating above, I look at them and, once more, I dream. I dream of progress slowing down its pace, hanging on to life through the cable of the headphones attached to my mobil phone, I was modern once, while I keep on fighting, one groceries shop visit at the time, cherishing the memory of the sweet taste of wild tiny strawberries along the way.

Wild strawberries. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales (The red table & A scared black cat book adventure)

THE SHINNING

Is it me, or the screen of our telephones is taking our will to be physically wherever it is we might find ourselves on any moment, one login at the time. If this was something, somehow, we pondered about before, now, in a way, it is almost a matter of fact, one could even say. Says the woman writing this story on such a device. I try to avoid it, falling into the trap. Used to feel so embarrassed of finding myself nose to screen in public. I am still embarrassed, the only difference is that, now, that does not stop me from acting like an idiot anymore. Cause I do feel like an idiot while I’m holding this little, it didn’t seem so little at first, kind of the opposite, actually, rectangular flat screen shinning back at me. A sudden hope for a Midnight special to shine a light on me instead, reminds me that it is up to me to be this way. As the idiot in me snaps out of her idiotic hypnotic zone, though still with the help of the same device, I decide to play the song, unavoidably surrounded by flashing propositions and catchy lifestyle changing improvements for five seconds, that this days have the same sensorial length as an eternity, and I look through the window to my left hand side, for to my right there’s only a sea of idiots like my kind and that could, almost, make me cry, for only five minutes ago I was giving the same sad show. It is very much in my nature to loose track of space and time getting lost in my thoughts, though, that was the sort of thing that made me proud, it was almost like a super power, whereas this, now, feels almost dishonest towards my evolution, diminishing my chances to a graceful future.

The shinning. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales (The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)