Shaking it

I am shivering so. I don't know why, but my nerve system or my brain are sending it down my spine, rolling down within me. I want it to stop, but it can't, even my fingers are trembling as I type this into eternity. Well, eternity. I live in a security-building but the last thing I do is feel secure. And it's not due to the drunk Ozzie (2m tall - 200 kg approx.) who just destroyed half of his room and who's now opening his door, possibly searching for more to destroy. My heart beats in my throat concealing all my pent-up emotions and my breaths become again the uncontrolled inhalations I thought I'd gotten rid of (maybe I have a new form of asthma).

My finger-with-the-weird-rash is getting better. It's no longer inflamed and the leathery scalps are becoming new white skin again. Wounds healing.

Softness.

The boy cries a lot easier these days. He can lie on the softest grass possible, relaxing with the softness of solitude, and then, just reading or writing, he gets emotional. He wonders if going away made him more capable of showing his emotions, showing what he truly feels without fearing the consequences (too much). This he thinks while he feels a raindrop promenading from his soft face. 'Being able to cry is liberating,' he said once when he proclaimed his inability to do so, remembering how long he went without shedding a tear, as if it were some sick contest.

He's been crying while watching the extraordinarily wonderful "Angels in America" series when he came here. Maybe because Tony Kushner's deep dialogues speak to him more in a symbolic sense. As some tears entered his eyes, he thought of Mr. Lies - the imaginary black man who takes Valium-addicted Parker to an imaginary Antartica - saying: 'There are no tears in Ant..artica. No sorrow.'

'oh softest grass,' he whispers, 'caress me.'

He used to think that soliloquies were no part of non-fictional life - he refrains using "real" before "life" since it would bring up doubts about Truth ('"Fuck the truth!" you say, but in the end, the truth ends up fucking you!"). These monologues now are a part of his daily life - a vent for everything and nothing - and considers everything he's ever written a part of the one big soliloquy that makes up his (non-)existence.

He is glad he is learning how to express his emotions better or, at all. The positive thrill he got when finding Umberto Eco's "The Name of The Rose" for only five dollars in a secondhand bookstore today is becoming a part of that soliloquy.

'I am becoming more human,' he soliloquises, 'I am gaining more personality.'

He's dreaming of our Future.

Upwards, skyrocketing, the free river of thought, a gauntlet of traps and rocks through which we travel with the securest dinghy around, living stream of consciousness (dear Modernist, how are you?), riding Pegasos from Olympos around the globe, driving on the poetry of streaming emotions and spewing out the flies that enter your opened mouth while traveling. That's life, too, those are his emotions, his food, his sick dreams lived out by an even sicker body.

And he's still lying on the grass, softly stroking his hair, looking at a wedding ceremony in the distance, wondering. It's his own wedding in one of those distant futures (without the bagpipes there though, maybe with Scottish skirts though...) and he's listening to the band's jazzy tones that send comforting vibes around the world. He begins to see the point of it all, the whole ceremony. He goes off to the groom who stood there waiting for his bride (stuck in traffic). He takes the groom's hand and kisses him. From here on to reality; on to the exchange of rings, right there, on the softest grass you could ever imagine.