Apparently I can write. I've been so busy being depressed and moaning about about my life that I forgot all about it, or better put, I forgot I can do it here. Since the dawn of its existence, my blog has always been my moaning sanctuary just as much as it has been my spotlight. Here I tend to use bigger words and sound far more cultured and pretentious than I do in real life. I often wondered why that is, but that's a different story which shall maybe tell another time.
I forgot about about my blog or better yet, I've been ignoring it for lack of having something to say. But today I remembered I never had anything to say and yet that never stopped me before.

So here I am again saying nothing! I've thought about my life many times and concluded it would make a pathetic, overly dramatic and meaningless novel. It would make a fucking great novel! People would love to read it! ....I've also remembered that for some silly reason I tend to curse a lot less if not at all on my blog. Why is that I wonder?
Anyway coming back to the kind of novel my life would make. I thought about beginning to write it many times, yet something stopped me. Maybe the fact that I never finish a single thing I start, maybe the fact that I get bored and give up quite quickly, that I never sacrificed a single thing to achieve a goal,  maybe the fact that it would be- as it always has been- the only thing I could ever write or maybe the fear that people would know it. They would be able to read it all, see it all, judge it all, every little aspect of my life, my every move, my every decision, my every mistake and more importantly the way in which I never really assumed responsibility for anything.  blamed of thanked a god for my lie, my present, my future and my past ever since I know myself. I've never been responsible for anything. I am both actor and spectator in my life. I say and do what the script says. I observe and criticise and enjoy the acting form the perspective of a viewer, but I would never accept, not even for a second, that I am the one who also writes the play.

I threw away my course work so I forgot the name of the genius analytic film theorist that claimed that as spectators, we are all men. Though many have argued against this female genius' claims, I find her theory to be very true. At least in my case!

PS: Laura Mulvey! Yes! That's her name! Brilliant woman, not very fun and with an unnecessarily complicated academic writing style, but nonetheless, brilliant.

-Un tip cu un ordin de restrictie,un receptioner glorificat,un drogat care vrea sa faca medicina, un regizor ratat care e deasemenea drogat si un virgin.
-Suna ca un banc nu foarte bun. Si? Cum e sa 'lucrezi' cu ei?
-Dau telefoane Ver, nu ma prostituez....Inca...
-Imi pare rau.N-am vurut sa ...grabesc lucrurile. Cum e sa dai telefoane cu ei?

I went down among the dust and pollen
To the old stone fountain in the morning after dawn
Underneath were all these pennies fallen from the hands of children
They were there and then they were gone

And I wonder what became of them
What became of them

Sunlight over me no matter what I do
Apples in the Summer are golden sweet
Everyday a passing complete

I'm not one to ever pray for mercy
Or to wish on pennies in the fountain or the shrine
But that day you know I left my money
And I thought of you only
All that copper glowing fine

And I wonder what become of you
What became of you

Sunlight over me no matter what I do
Apples in the summer are golden sweet
Everyday a passing complete
Apples in the summer are golden sweet
Everyday a passing complete

In the morning waking up to terrible sunlight
All diffuse like skin abuse the sun is half it's size
When you talk you hardly even look in my eye
In the morning, in the morning

In the doorway holding every letter that I wrote
In the driveway pulling away putting on your coat
In the ocean washing off my name from your throat
In the morning, in the morning

In the ocean washing off my name from your throat
In the morning, in the morning

Green apples hang from my tree
They belong only to me
Green apples hang from my green apple tree
They belong only to, only to me

And if I just stay awhile here staring at the sea
And the waves break ever closer, ever near to me
I will lay down in the sand and let the ocean lead
Carry me to innisfree like pollen on the breeze

They took away my name and they never gave it back...
It was never their's to take, still they never gave it back....
So I made a new name, a simple name made from scratch and hopes and dreams..
And they want to take this one away too, but I won't let them...

what the mood requires

Elope with me Miss Private and we'll sail around the world
I will be your Ferdinand and you my wayward girl
How many nights of talking in hotel rooms can you take?
How many nights of limping round on pagan holidays?
Oh elope with me in private and we'll set something ablaze
A trail for the devil to erase

San Francisco's calling us, the Giants and Mets will play
Piazza, New York catcher, are you straight or are you gay?
We hung about the stadium, we've got no place to stay
We hung about the tenderloin and tenderly you tell
About the saddest ending of a book you ever had to read
The statue's crying too and well he may

I love you I've a drowning grip on your adoring face
I love you my responsibility has found a place
Beside you and strong warnings in the guise of gentle words
Come wave upon me from the wider family net absurd
"You'll take care of her, I know it, you will do a better job"
Maybe, but not what she deserves

Elope with me Miss Private and we'll drink ourselves awake
We'll taste the coffee houses and award certificates
A privy seal to keep the feel of 1960 style
We'll comment on the decor and we'll help the passer by
And at dusk when work is over we'll continue the debate
In a borrowed bedroom virginal and spare

The catcher hits for .318 and catches every day
The pitcher puts religion first and rests on holidays
He goes into cathedrals and lies prostrate on the floor
He knows the drink affects his speed he's praying for
a doorway
Back into the life he wants and the confession of the bench
Life outside the diamond is a wrench

I wish that you were here with me to pass the dull weekend
I know it wouldn't come to love, my heroine pretend
A lady stepping from the songs we love until this day
You'd settle for an epitaph like "Walk Away, Renee"
The sun upon the roof in winter will draw you out like
a flower
Meet you at the statue in an hour
Meet you at the statue in an hour

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si-atunci mi-as fi dorit sa fiu oricine altcineva....doar nu eu

I was raised up believing I was somehow unique
Like a snowflake distinct among snowflakes, unique in each way you can see
And now after some thinking, I'd say I'd rather be
A functioning cog in some great machinery serving something beyond me

But I don't, I don't know what that will be
I'll get back to you someday soon you will see

What's my name, what's my station, oh, just tell me what I should do
I don't need to be kind to the armies of night that would do such injustice to you
Or bow down and be grateful and say "sure, take all that you see"
To the men who move only in dimly-lit halls and determine my future for me

And I don't, I don't know who to believe
I'll get back to you someday soon you will see

If I know only one thing, it's that everything that I see
Of the world outside is so inconceivable often I barely can speak
Yeah I'm tongue-tied and dizzy and I can't keep it to myself
What good is it to sing helplessness blues, why should I wait for anyone else?

And I know, I know you will keep me on the shelf
I'll come back to you someday soon myself