There’s 21 degrees outside. Twenty one. I left my cubicle for lunch earlier than usual, walked to the gas station listening to fugazi. Back home, the fridge has been empty for a week now. I move the hair over my eyes to guard them from the light. If I stay in the sun for a few seconds I can feel the principle of sweating. Spending words for sweating is something I would have never thought possible before. There’s no drop on the body yet, but I sense a different odor coming from the palms, as I rub them on the eyes to keep the light away. This odor is me, I’m on the palm of my hands. I’m sweat essence at twenty one degrees.

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I stepped on the bus and took a seat: gazing at the shoes, legs crossed, hands crossed, glasses dangling from the pinkie. I felt the urge of taking a picture of these hands, something I could not do easily without altering the original scene, a urge I did not satisfy.

I asked myself if it is possible to document one’s own life without any trace of the human body. If I would be able to document my life without any trace of anyone’s body, including mine. A document made of trees, clouds, roads, lights, shadows, water, air, heat, cold. What is the right balance among these elements? Where is the line I should not cross before all these elements melt together leaving behind nothing but noise? A document made of noise. Loud noise. So loud I can’t hear myself. So loud I don’t know if you’re listening.

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tonight’s failure tastes of hummus

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I should have bought ice-cream

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light is any colour you like

Black

As a kid I played this silly game, where I was safe in darkness for no more than ten seconds, and shadows would have swallowed me if I hadn’t rushed towards light before the ten seconds elapsed. I ventured through the house with the lights off, in the storage room, under my parents’ bed, and in grandma’s basement, with the buzzing electric pump and the water dripping in the huge tanks, until the seconds turned into minutes and hours.

Blue

Before going to bed, the abat-jour my brother received for his birthday was always on. A blue globe radiating blue light with some cheesy glittering, it projected the shape of a ghost on the ceiling. I stared straight into the ghost shady eyes until I could feel the tickle of fear, and then told myself that was just a shadow, just a shadow.

Orange

At night, an orange light was put right beside my bed. I caressed the floor, then slowly approached the light. I unscrewed the orange cover, and studied the thin wires and the tiny hot glass, then drowned in the changing reflections on the shiny floor as I placed and removed the cap, until I fell asleep. I received an electric shock twice.

Red

I once found a red light bulb in the storage room, headed straight to my room and replaced the main light. When my parents came back home, they laughed and put the old bulb back. The only explanation I got was that it was ‘not convenient’. Many years later, I realized what ‘convenient’ meant.

There was a time red signified something to me, even if I don’t know what, exactly. It was part of a special kabbalah which included the number five and the letter H. Not now, not these days, but I think I will shift to red for a little while, just to see how much of it I can stand. It’s just red, just colour red.

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How many times can you repeat a word before it becomes a sound? How many times can you photograph a place before it becomes a space? There is no wind, here, today. There is a clear sky, and the smell of something burning in the distance.

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Midweek thoughts I let pile up become Sunday BS.

If you stock ten frozen pizzas for emergencies, the first emergency will likely happen the same night you went shopping, the second crisis the night after, and so on, until the stock is drained.

How do I know if anything is breaking inside? Old Nintendo cartridges used to make funny noises a few times after they met the ground. Nothing moves when my head shakes. Does that mean anything?

This past week I learned how to say ‘gorgeous pussy’ in Indian and Arabic. Is that of any use? The Chinese transcription of my name contains a character that looks like a square, I find that is really ironic. Why people just don’t cuddle on the floor at discos?

It snowed for 30 minutes on St. Patrick’s Day, at least on this side of the city. On the same night, they left me on this side of the world.

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[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]

stash the trash away

Bus stop. Fine mist. A boy and a girl giggle, then kiss. They run after each other and pretend to fight, then giggle and kiss again. Kittens learn through play how to chase a rat. We do small talk, pour ourselves a drink, go for a smoke, apply for a mortgage.

Parnell St. Pissing down. There is no crowd, even at crossroads. There are persons everywhere, but no crowd, even in front of Burger King. There are small raindrops on my glasses.

Grafton St. Heavy rain. I walk around looking for the pub in the wrong lane as my face gets wet. I join the company, eventually. There is a seat and a pint waiting for me in the corner, and a guy, I think he’s Bobby Peru, like the country.

Wexford St. Fat drops dripping from a leaky gutter. I don’t know what it is, that I’m talking about. This feels like sleeping, in a good way. It’s time to stash the trash away and go home. When I go paying for my burrito they tell me it’s free, it’s your tenth burrito, congratulations. Congratulations.

Westmoreland St. Cold wind. All buses have a left, they stop a taxi, how was your night, great hahahaha, then silence. I hand a tenner to the lads in the backseat, walk home, skip all the rituals and tuck myself into bed.

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It takes one week for the bed to suck up my smell. Neither delicate nor strong, no traces of aftershave or perfumes, which I seldom use, just dead skin, greasy hair, and saliva. As I stare the ceiling on Saturday night, it crawls up the nostrils and gently dismisses any train of thought, until I’m confronted with a presence, both familiar and uncanny.

This smell lives dark corners, still it knows about joy and enthusiasm and the zesty games of light. Its identity is clear and definite. This smell speaks in patterns, and repeats them until any sense is lost. It cuddles me, grazes my neck, puts me to sleep.

On Sunday morning, I change the bed sheets.

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