Boys do cry Robert Smith

Sadness is bad ass. It's stronger than fear and subtle than joy. To say it's over is really very hard. You can't define the end of sadness, but you can that of happiness; and that is sadness. It has a systematic methodology in breaking down a human life piece by piece, organ by organ, cell by cell to thought by thought and feel by feel. Degeneration has never been so evident as what sadness causes.

I've seen the women weep, but it's always a little different when the man weeps. One minute he is all that can keep health and wealth in tact, next minute hes' tears fall with echoing thuds, shattering a courage or two and a hope or two. The sobbing is worst. It keeps coming in patterns attempting to gasp for air, or maybe life you might think. It sends so much of body reflexes showing the amount of control the mind and body is under now. All you do is, sit and watch. While you watch, you want to know what's next. When is recovery going to come and will he live down the shame? The solitary minute of weeping in front of you will he live it down? Can you live it down? Feel not too alone, not too wrecked to know this whole life is up to you, no matter how many are there for you in person? Wreckage is meant to call on doubts and doubt is a monster who lingers for a very long time, time being a monster of its' own of course. I always hated time. bah!

Maybe men need to cry. Maybe that's what lacks a bad man. Maybe that's what causes sexual harassment. Maybe that's what causes a man choose violence as the emotional out put. Maybe that's the cause of the Sexist you live with. Maybe masculinity was defined wrong by Merriam Webster and now a whole sex suffers and feels defeated at the event of shedding a tear even when its' the biological process of resisting something that just went into your eye.

Well, I made up my mind. I want a man who cries. So cry for me baby, cry.

Lavender eyes

To see too much of beauty in a dream that you can never reach might seem a shame. Making that dream not come true is still a shame. Fight the thoughts, light up the neurons, feel good with the very blank lasps....

You need the Lavender eyes.

Everyday you're a hero to all. To be a hero of your own you don't remember. To give up on the daily breath you're suppose to breathe is killing the dream, day by day, night by night. It bids you good bye along with the sunset, into the coastline disappearing into the tides that you loved so much, and yet will never come back. You sit back here thinking... 'It's all fine. I'm building my boat. I'll be there with you soon.' You won't. So....

You need the Lavender eyes.

Watch their thunder, watch their tears, watch their flame, watch their hunger. You don't do thunder, you don't do tears, you don't do flame, you don't do hunger. Then you're not one of them, but still you watch till your heart tumbles over your guts all the time.

You need the Lavender eyes.

Perspective rejoices, and you cry out loud. It stops the world from being from one; but no. Everyone wants you to give an explanation, to give your opinion, to give your word that perspective exists. To debate, to criticise, to argue, to get heart burns and eye sores. You need to say no....

You need the Lavender eyes.

Can't stop the aficionado in your lovers eyes. They will dig for the gold while you scream no, no. The maggot in your eye starts creeping in to your hind head, wailing on its' way 'I will feast, I will feast. I will feast in your sadness like a juicy fest'. You can't stop the lovers, but you can stop the maggot.

You need the Lavender eyes.

You want to live this little alone. You want to get away from them all. You want to start over all new. You want to ask them to fuck off. You want to make sure they follow you not at all. Then you know....

You need the Lavender eyes.

A distant swim, a distant revival. You're finally living the mirage, live it well. Head high with the sun in your eyes you'll see the clouds in you face, and the ocean ripple that carries you high. Sonatas from the mellow crimson caves not too far will fill your imagination with everything in between you and the soul. Fill, fill and fill. Drink till your drop, feed till you drop, live till you drop. See your way out....

You need the Lavender eyes.

The dream; it keeps you under the hood.

Bad day, fists fly, rotten words sweep by and then an ache deep down inside reminds you the human heart can't bare this anguish that you are hoping to inflict. We ignore. The rest is what we call regret.

You wish you kept your mouth shut, you wish you let that beast whine, you wish you didn't see the blood on it's face, you wish you would have ignored it, you wish you remembered it matters to you anyway. Humans are such. It's more human to realise.

Living the dream helps you a lot. Don't start running wild and fiery. Next time think 'I have a dream to live so screw this'. Drift away from the energy drainer to an energy generator. Stay under the hood of your dream, it's the best booster you got. My dream goes somewhat like this; 'Heel girl! Heel!' it shouts.

The mind of mine so light I feel,

It shows nothing but the bliss I want to see,

The heavenly seas say out to me,

Our warm blue waters wait for your dive so deep.

Peace to all. Peace to this world. Peace. Peace. Peace.

A million dollar you

The savagery of an eye exist when it does nothing. Let it look up high a million feet up, let it look down a million feet down, let it look around and spin around along with the boggling head.

The leaves keep growing, the grass will always be green, the sun will rise on the other side, the flowers will bloom and so I ask...What have we got to lose?

A ticket to heaven - 'Working according to the scripts assigned by human nature can get you somewhere only on the other side.' Think again. God meant something more when he said do good and you will see heaven.

Life long love - You really want to put all that effort to be loved only by one being while there's quiet a few millions hearts out there? Love a world fellas, love a world.

Vanity fair - A stunner you are, a stunner I am in this disco ball of a society. We make it complete, we keep it going even though we are rubber flip flop clad or leather boot clad, sarong clad or micro mini clad, combed our hair less than a month before or curled it to match your dog.

Leaping frogs - Time croaks all the way leaping away from us every time we try to grasp it. It leaves with us nothing but the signs of the love it made to us or the hate it wished for us. Bid farewell and bid it well. It didn't come across you for nothing.

Diamonds in the house - Only a diamond cuts another. Greed is never a friend and never far away. It's with you, around you and sometimes it's on the house. Cheers for the death wish mate.

The crimson tide - Reaching between the legs is quiet a deal. Sometimes, that's all it is. A tide that you ride when you're high, when you're low.

Your life is a million dollar bill. Sometimes you'll be picked up, sometimes you'll fly with the wind, sometimes you'll be trampled hard on and sometimes you'll end up real old money. But you'll always be a million dollar bill. So yes, hell you have nothing to lose.

The sour grape, rape and ape.

The grapes always listen to the ape.

He loves it when they listen to him justifying rape, but it's just so ugly. Most of the grapes smile along. But Sour Grape shows nothing but bitterness and it bothers the Ape.

He has seen nothing but bitterness on Sour Grape. It makes Ape not feel ape-y.

'Sour Grape. I will bother you, because your mere smirk has bothered me.

Tell me Sour Grape, why the face so bitter?'

'Ape from very cold Apeland, everything about you was disgusting from day one. It will be so forever. I will be bitter on you forever.'

'No, no. How can I promote rape that way. I have to! You not looking is an option. An option for the other grapes to follow suite. I'll lose it; this rape adoring nation I'm building!'

'Yes, and you can go back to Apeland where you will freeze your furry arse to death. My Grapeland has treated you very exquisitely hasn't it? And you mock us with nothing but allowing rape?

Rape our beliefs you say? rape our sense of values you say? rape our need of effort you say? Rape the long tough way to life you say?'

'Well it works. You grapes like it nice and slow.'

'Well then, I will continue. I will continue disliking rape and you. Every day my bitter face will bother you. I will keep my bitter face on for as long as I will be seeing you.'

'Sour Grape, I'LL DESTROY YOU. YOU WILL REAP NO MORE. NO MORE THOUGH YOU HARVEST MUCH!'

'I will harvest, I will harvest for my many wine dreams. I will never let them be your urine dreams.

And I will reap. When you are gone I'll reap. After all your nothing but an ape in my life.'

So Sour Grape left Ape who ran around, jumped up and down, twirling his frisky fancy white tail raping the Grapeland about how bitter Sour grape is, while Sour Grape started harvesting all over again on her many colored wine dreams..............

Because as Sour Grape said, after all, he is nothing but an ape in her life.

So many of you, it kills

Yes I slave. I slave as much as you would expect one to in a short time of 21 years on earth. Appreciation is not there I accept, but now and then it's nerve wrecking. Especially when you are one of them who thank someone over a million times for the slightest matter because I know, that minute counts.

It's the minute that takes our effort to put up with your whining that,

1. pleads for service for free

2. explains to us it is our responsibility

3. reinforces we are brothers/sisters from another mother

4. rattles as a speech of how we will technically save the world

5. believe they are giving us a valuable chance that we shouldn't throw away

6. suggests I take a certain approach to it as well!

7. thinks I should totally put up with the bitch you don't want to work on this with; it's all about the LURVE apparently

8. reminds me I'm meant to do it; I'm chopped liver

9. blesses me in the name of God for the deed

10. tells me I'm all you can count on from the billion odd people you party with the other times

Not forgetting the bomb of it all; 'you do remember you owe me this one mate'. ON FUCKING WHAT? You try to remember.

A misery of measuring the value of a deed seems like a vitamin deficiency of it's own kind. It is primary basics for your information where you can't hold a ten dollar note as a million dollars. So where does this 'You owe me' come from?

1. A guilt trip

2. You're Osama; great brain wash.

3. A racist, you believe you're better.

4. You are an old hag, and I'm young and wasted you assume.

5. You gave birth to me. sigh.

6. You matter to me, but of course I don't to you!

7. You can get away with it anyways. Trying me out was an option.

8. You dated my sister???

9. I helped you before.

10. Apocalypse is near. I'll never figure out what you meant by then.

Sad, sad, sad situation.

Help I will, come clean I need. A jagged edge proposal never cut through without a horrible painful, dodgy and time consuming process. And what's more; it damages a lot and spills an awful lot of blood. Appreciation is more than words we all know, but what we have forgotten is it's way more than silence.

Next time tell me I did a great job, and give me a pat on the back. Yes, then I owe you.

Sunny went home, so the Pearl goes mad

Another day of celebration in Island Paradise. The whole land rejoices as the Sun traveled from one mythical dimension to another. I hope Sun feels at home. I certainly do, and so layed back doing what I do best to relax, I read. I haven't been this fascinated with something I read for awhile and to post it was almost another Avurudu craving. So here goes.

Professor Gilbert J. Rose, a clinical psychiatrist at Yale, has a therory about the artistically creative mind. I came across an account of this specualtion in an essay by John Fowles, who describe it as follows;

'In simple terms, his proposition was that some children retain a particularly rich memory of the passage from extreme infancy; when the identity of the baby is merged with that of the mother; to the arrival of the first awarenss of seperate identity and the simultaneous first dawn of what will become the adult sense of reality - that is, they are deeply marked by the passage from a unified magical world to a discrete 'realist' one. What seemingly stamps itself indelibly on this kind of infant psyche is a pleasure in the fluid, polymorphic nature of the sensuous impression, visual, tactile, auditory, and the rest, that he receives; and so profoundly that he cannot, even when the detail of this intensely auto - erotic experience has retreated into the unconcious, refrain from tampering with reality - from trying to recover, in other words, the early oneness with his mother that granted this ability to make the world mysteriously and deliciously change meaning and appearance. He was once a magician with a wand; and given the right other predisposing and environmental factors, he will one day devote his life trying to regain the unity and the power by recreating adult versions of the experiance: he will be an artist. Moreover, since every child goes through some variation of the same experiance, this also explains one major attraction of art for the audience. The artist is simply someone who does the journey back on behalf of the less conditioned and less technically endowed.

John Fowles added a footnote to this piece: 'Sensitive female readers may not be too happy about the pronoun used in this, but the theory helps to explain why all through more recent human history, men have seen better adapted - or more driven - to individual artistic expression than women. Professor Rose points out that the chances of being conditioned by this primal erotic experiance are (if one accepts Freudian theory) massively loaded towards the son...' Actually I don't see why girls would have differing memories than the boys as described by Professor Rose, but I thought it sufficiently controversial to merit an airing.

- John Fowles, Wormholes, Vintage (London 1999) -

Bloody fascinating don't you think?

Oh well, happy New Year buggers...Go mad till we meet again at another sunny side.