The Flossy Flossy
Keeping it “on the real” the best I can.Archive for March, 2009
Майк: Yo lo sé, que el mundo encontraré viajando en tu mirada…
I was pretty pissed and homesick the last time I wrote, but that usually happens when I have a lack of things to do. I don’t think I’ve stayed home during the weekends since…after the New Year, maybe, so it was a bummer that I didn’t go anywhere.
其实，我也不是设么都没干。新奇六我坐霍尔滕-莫斯渡船去东福尔见 Франк-Турэ。但是回家以后就又感觉无聊了。然后，这个新奇–哎呀！我则么能开始讲哪？兴奋高潮，哈哈。我感觉自己像个十四岁的小女孩儿一样。
Je me sens comblé de joie–il mio cuore sta per scoppiare, me estoy enamorando. Та щин Чы.
Pero sé conmigo jugarás, como has hecho siempre.
¿Qué sonrisa inventarás?
No, yo quiero resistir. Si pienso en ti yo tiemblo.
Nå føler jeg at jeg skulle si noe om historien. Vi møtte gjennom en nettsida for rundt–jeg husker ikke–et år siden? Rundt våren 2008. Jeg husker ganske godt at jeg hadde det største crush på ham fordi han lignet skikkelig på Nek. (Alle italienerne må riste på hodene sine over dette, haha.) Men allikevel var han mer enn bare kjekk–han var intelligent og kunne skrive så bra og vakkert. Og i tillegg har han opplevd mye: en mor som døde foran øynene hans; rasisme fra de andre på barneskolen–ikke et ukjent skade; flytting til utlandet for å begynne et nytt liv–ikke en ukjent opplevelse; leiting etter et behagelig sted mellom to verdener og den oppdaging at ingen av de to vil virkelig akseptere deg–ikke en ukjent skuffelse. (Men han har ingen idé at jeg veit alle disse tingene.) Jeg har aldri følt en slik forbindelse med noen. Hvis det finnes noe slikt som én ekte kjærlighet, da var han min.
Men vår korrespondanse var sparsom og sjelden, og snart sluttet vi å snakke med hverandre. Men jeg klarte ikke å glemme ham. Min tanke var en fugl, og han var redet sitt. Uansett hvor jeg fløy, kom jeg alltid tilbake. Så én natt skreiv jeg et brev til ham. Men etter én og en halv måned uten respons, blei jeg håpløs. Og plutselig, ut av det blå, et svar–et après, la conversation la plus romantique de ma vie.
So many warm and gentle words, so many soothing and tender images of being together. Même si l’instant est passé, mon cœur brûle encore. Même si le moment ne reviendra jamais, ces images de bonheur me resteront longtemps en mémoire.
Le bonheur est si petit. Je ne veux pas qu’il passe entre mes mains. Je ne veux pas qu’il passe entre ma vie.
FUCKING FUCK FUCK!!!
Marie made dinner today; it was Asian-inspired and delicious. It reminded me of the bay’s diversity. I miss the cuisines. Chicken satays and tom yums, sushi and udon soup, Denny’s sandwiches, Chili’s fajita quesadillas, and whatever they have at Applebee’s. I miss how everyone comes from different places, speaks different languages, and have different and exciting stories. I miss the suburban feeling of Fremont. Horten is so homogenous…
The radio was on when we were eating dinner today. I was stuffing chow mein into my mouth and Daniel Powter’s “Free Loop” came on the air. I used to like that song back home. I used to eat this food back at home…
I am sick of being here. I am tired. I want warm sunshine. I want to check out the hot bartender at Starbucks and throw peanut shells on the floor at Texas Roadhouse. I want to be dozing off in the car as we drive down to Half Moon Bay or Santa Cruz. I want to hear people speak Tagalog and Spanish; I want to say “gracias” to Mexican busboys; I want to wear shorts and sandals GODDAMN I want to wear shorts so badly!
I want to go back to a school where at least I had people to hang out with during lunch instead of sitting by myself facing a fucking computer screen like I’m doing now. I want to be in a class in which I can understand and not just nod half-assedly at whatever English term the teacher spews up every fifteen to twenty minutes in thinking that it’ll benefit my comprehension whatsoever. I want to walk with Katherine from her house to Borders and talk smack about how “she gave a blowjob to HIM? Twice?!” and our latest successful and disastrous romantic and sexual endeavours.
QUI PEUT PRÉTENDRE ME CONNAÎTRE ICI? Or rather, qui veut? They care so much about the Look of life, but they don’t Live it. It’s an image, it’s contrived, it’s dull and it’s mimicry. And I don’t know why it’s attractive. I hate it.
I’m frustrated and I’m sad. And I’m probably wrong. I need something new in my life.
Marteler
Je suis allé chez toi avec comme alibi que j’étais avec une amie. Je ne suis pas sûr qu’elle m’ait compris, mais elle a accepté.
Je suis entré dans ton appartement, un havre de propeté au milieu d’un ghetto, et j’ai aspiré les effluves de ta vie. Je me suis dévêtu et suis entré dans la douche, et j’ai laissé la bonde rester comme tu m’as dit.
J’ai vu le lit, récemment fait et tentant. J’ai trouvé des bougies dans un de tes tiroirs et ai pensé à les allumer, mais ça aurait été trop romantique. Et ceci n’était pas du tout romantique…
Et après nous avons finit, tu as mis ta tête contre ma épaule. C’était papitant, c’était intense, c’était tragique. Mes doigts ont brûlé de toucher tes cheveux: longues mèches douces d’un or profond qui tombaient de ton front et illuminaient le vieillissement de ton visage. C’était la chose que je préférais de toi.
J’ai embrassé tes lèvres et la menthe qui les couvraient. Je savais que dans dix ans, ces lèvres n’appartiendraient plus au même homme. J’ai regardé dans tes yeux, les rides qui les entouraient. Ton regard était perçant, mais fatigué par l’expérience et trop de vécu. Ils étaient les yeux les plus beaux, au tournant d’une transformation soudaine en quelque chose d’indésirable. Et dans dix ans, ils perdront leurs étincelles, devenant des yeux lassés, sans flammes.
Mais ces cheveux seront toujours magnifiques. Dans dix ans, au moins. Et bien sûr, comme tout le reste, ils deviendront blancs et disparaîtrons.
Je ne sais pas pour qui je plains: pour toi–l’homme qui prend de l’âge; pour moi–celui qui souffre te voir vieillir; pour nous–et notre relation qui ne fleurira jamais; ou pour tout le monde–car rien n’est pour toujours.
Nous avons parlé de ton passé et de mon avenir, de tes premières aventures avec des filles espagnoles, et ce que tu faisais en 1992, de moi qui écrirai un livre quand je serai plus vieux, et lorsque tu ne seras plus là. Et cette pensée m’a fait le plus peur: que quelqu’un avec qui je pourrais être si intime ne soit plus là. Je voulais pleurer, mais j’ai dû prendre le train.
Dette har vært en fantastisk helg! På torsdag slappa Kevin og jeg litt i Tønsberg etter skolen før vi dro til å være sammen med Tilly, Luiza og Marie française. Så på halv av Chocolat og koste oss med litt snacks. På fredag tok jeg bussen til Tønsberg igjen for å få en annen piercing hos Arne. Etterpå møtte jeg opp med Anıl og vi dro tilbake til Horten. Vi blei ferdig med filmen hos Luiza og spiste pizza hos meg med familien. Tilly sov overnatta og vi hadde noen flotte samtaler. Den neste dagen reiste vi til Oslo og gikk vi rundt byen.
Okay, I’m too drained to write any more in Norwegian so I’ll continue in English. As I was saying goodbye to Tilly in Oslo S, I ran into Doug, who was waiting for Xenia. Met up with Xenia, Francesco, Faustina, another guy from Italy named Eric and Chris for Free Hugs. Afterwards we all went to chill and eat pasta at Chris’ apartment. In the evening, took a two-hour bus ride with Francesco to Siljan, kosing ourselves with shitty coffee. It was great to see both Francesco and Balazs again. We had tacos for kveldsmat, and watched Milk, which was pretty interesting. Stayed up chatting with Balazs about random stuff and playing mouth-harp until five in the morning. Woke up at twelve and had a nice lesson about pentatonic scales from Francesco before taking the bus to Skien to take the train home. (Note to self: Skien rutebilstasjon is nowhere near Skien togstasjon.)
School is also going well. I’m trying to fix my nasty habit of sleeping too late and not waking up in the morning. Also took a test in both Samfunnsøkonomi and Historie og Filosofi. (Although instead of a grade, I got a smiley face for economics.) Today, played volleyball for Breddeidrett, and I realized I’m back to sucking at volleyball again. But it’s okay; I still know how to serve. Fell asleep in norsktimen. Worked a bit on translating the chapter on sustainable economies with Gulli. And I actually got a lot of reading done in Historie og Filosofi. And it was very koselig walking home with Anniken and Rudi!
Sorry for this ridiculous summary post; I used up all of my brain power three o’clock this morning writing a two-page essay on leadership for Franklin College Switzerland. I’m barely coherent.
Ha det bra.
Scotland and My Untethering Heart
This past week has been pretty fun. Went to Scotland on a school trip from the first to fifth of March. We stayed in a hostel in Glasgow and spent most of our time there, with a one-day excursion east to Edinburgh (or if you rather, Edinbruh). I remember not really particularly looking forward to Scotland–we’d just read MacBeth last year–but aside from the weather, which was pretty Shakespearean, it was pleasantly nice.
We had a lot of time to ourselves, so I think I really got to know downtown Glasgow. Shopped a lot, ate a lot, drank maybe a little too much. (EuroHostel Glasgow, I’m really sorry about your staircase…) That suddenly reminds me, if you ever get the chance to visit Glasgow, go check out La Tasca: it’s this Spanish tapas restaurant and bar with excellent food, drinks, service, and ambiance. I know, shame on me for recommending a Spanish restaurant in Scotland, but really–do yourself a favor and eat there, or at least order a rebujito. We also went into some authentic Scottish pubs and tried just about everything under the sun: rum, vodka, schnapps, whiskey…pretty nifty (just like my rhyme), and ate some haggis: the whole gastronomical nine yards.
Came home Thursday and went up to the family hytte on Friday with Mammà, Pappà, Marie, Hilde and Morten. Alltid koselig å være på hytta vår.
So lately I’ve been harboring this really sweet and irritating feeling. The only way to describe it is like my heart can’t be contained within my ribcage. I’m emblazoned with a violent urge to do more, to be selfish, to go after what I really want. I’ve felt like this sporadically, and there’s no doubt Keith Urban’s latest single has a little something to do with it. (It also explains my sudden pregnant-womanlike craving for contemporary country. Just no Taylor Swift, please.) I love this feeling; it’s so motivating. It makes me want to get off my ass and do stuff and make something out of my life. But at the same time, it’s a humbling feeling: I feel so small, so unimportant, so there’s almost a need to move, faire, fare. It’s a fusion of desire and desperation. It’s the thought that “It’s a stormy sea ahead, but you’ll sail through it if you really put your mind to it.”
So anyway, to assuage myself, I’m planning on learning “You’ll Think of Me” within the next two weeks. Ambitious (for a gee-tar retard like me)? Yeah. But things feel different this time…
À suivre…
