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The universe is made of stories, not atoms. —Muriel Rukeyser

As time is passing by and bringing cooler and more humid weather I start to think that addiction to books might serve me good this time. I live in a basement in the house on the peak of the hill. Sun rays conquer my cell between 9 and 12 in the morning, the time when I sleep. The rest of the day crawls in the shadow. Warm tea and bunch of unread books just gives me a time to relieve the stress, not that I have something to stress about, but just because I am very good at making up problems. And yes, bunch of unread books, just because I'm collecting books more passionately than reading them . However the thing is, it is a perfect time to read. And go for a beer in the evening. And read while riding a bus. And read while riding a bus back to the top of the hill. 

Just got out of Castaneda's peyote delusional hallucinations and long hours trying to "see" and feel the seeing as a shamanistic power. Not long after that Herman Hesse's "The Glass Bead Game"  dragged me into the marbles rolling in the musical environment of a growing genius Joseph Knecht. I'll stay here for a bit. And like somebody said "God made man because he loves stories", if it is too cold to go out and create a story by yourself, get a book. 

Good Books has a brilliant campaign and brilliant sense when to publish it as well. 

Mystified and soaked black Metamorphosis animation of a harrying need to have Kafka...

...and boiling blood hot Havana Heat for ladies who are still counting the shades of grey autumn skies...

When I'll finish reading Hesse, maybe you'd recommend something for me?

If not, meet you in bed. Here's the most comfortable place to read for now. 

Bridget Collins

Unarmed

Me and Johnny sitting here on my bed. Johnny has a nice voice and gentle hands. Me? I can whistle to his guitar tune. I can't tune his guitar. It is in perfect state. Johnny doesn't call his arms guns. Johnny doesn't play hide and seek with me. I know where to find him. Always... without an exception. He answers me: 

"Don't take your guns to town, son. Leave your guns at home, Bill. Don't take your guns to town"

Johnny told me to blow the dust off my shoes. It is not a good sign to pack shoes with the dirt of the place you leave. It is not a good sign to pack the dust. So I clean my shoes and get rid of all the letters without a meaning. I've stored it for a long time. Never read it. My summaries left unread as well. I regret it, but it is not really healthy to regret. Not really healthy as well as high level headphones. Not healthy.

"Don't take your guns to town, son. Leave your guns at home, Bill. Don't take your guns to town"

It is late, but Johnny doesn't seem to be tired. My eyes hurt even though Johnny wiped them. Johnny still sings for me. I don't know anything about music. I have Fellini, Polanski and Coens coming over. I have Johnny. That's all I have. Handful of imagination. Despite that, tonight I steer my anxiety crooning:

"Don't take your guns to town, son. Leave your guns at home, Bill. Don't take your guns to town"

Duct Tape

If you ever wondered about inflatable welfare/health-happiness-fortune, yes, it is inflammable as well. You blow it with a great passion and hopes but more oxygen it gets faster it burns and melts down. Really easy to understand. Pretty impossible to avoid though. Living life with no peaks and no downers most probably is a deadly pleasure. As well as smoking is. That never ending story. One minute you get what you want and it ends up being a piece of coal. Health-happiness-fortune burned down leaving you with the memory how perfect it was while you were inflating it. Well, checking the pressure might be not a bad idea. Pump your tires if they're flat, get your ass if it is stuck between stones. And try to last as long as you can. With a consideration. I'm actually done. Though I'll be here for a while.

Gonna listen the same song (that I am ashamed of listening) for couple more hours.

Letter A

In the morning I wrote a letter to a married Ukrainian man. And his kids. And myself :

"For centuries being sad was something that pushed millions of men to build temples for their art, for stories they've created, for beauty they've tried to immortalized. Men who cherished their skill and fought for it without being frightened. The sadness was a fuel. 

The smell of leaking misery is sour and uncomfortable. Almost like the feeling of pleasure in front of people who are weeping. Almost the feeling that you get after somebody tells you a dirty joke in a burial. Obviously, you want it to end but it's not so easy to kill an abstract you gave birth to. This abstract misery, sadness, sorrow is mellow to you. Hugging your shoulders, your tired head with warm wet wings as a mother bird hiding her heirs from a sunlight. You get even more tired.

Men create when they are sad. However, there are exceptions. I hope you will not be it. Stagnating, static and making everything look worthless doing. That's all.

When sadness reach a certain point above the take-it-seriously line, when it's mentioned too much, when it has its roots dug deep it becomes just a ridiculously let out laughter. It's funny 'cuz it's sad. This laughter has to be praised and reminiscent more often than the sadness it was caused from. It fades but the misery comes back.

I hope your family is doing fine. The best wishes."

My name is Ugne and it means fire. Suck it up.

One foot outside

One of those moments when the blood is boiling making the snapping sound like you would pour water into the hot oil. One of those moments when the paint at home smells stronger than flowers. One of those moment when flowers fly straight to the bin. Time for something new.

So I enter the room and I say "I've been having some time to think. And I want to do something with that time. Instead of thinking". 

R. posted few minutes ago a pic with super formula, that everybody tries to explain but they go other way around. Motivating not showing facts. Formula is: "Talk - Action = Shit". 

Treat people like animals and they'll get it. You never say to a dog 'go bring me a newspaper and I'll give you a treat.' if it never did that before. you show it that. you give a treat. you train the dog. Train yourself. However after all is said and done more is said than done. 

Let's get active.

Systematic Tuesday

Structuring, combining, applying, limiting, organizing, systematizing, clearing out, pushing and pulling. Putting into Procrustes bed. C'est fini. Life is fine with a plan. Plan is fine when it doesn't cut your life. 

Automatically controlling. I learn so much. I crave so much. I believe in so much. I want to do so much. Casual headache is pinching me and Miss Discipline is holding my hand and taking me to a better place. Sounds like a death note but it is not.

Mood: sterile black.