Tuesday, 23 April 2013

Love is served



Friendship as the boundary of sex and love?

Sometimes, when I recall my past relationships, not least when I listen to the confidences of the people close to me, I realize that relationships look like more and more a cream puff - the “choux pastry” represents friendship, whereas the filling cream is the fatty and sweet compound of sex and love; or maybe you noticed that relationships look like even the Italian “Calzone” which we’re used to eat on Saturday night at pizzerias, in which case the friendship is represented by the outer swollen and burnt shell-like pizza dough, thin or not it is; indeed, sex and love are represented by the melten mozzarella and soft artichoke’s hearts.

I was convinced that friendship was the actual soul of the love stories, and not vice versa. Still, today all is "Com’on, gimme your number, let’s be friend!", instead of "I wanna fuck you" or "I wanna be your lover"; also, there is such manner to speak like "I'm so sorry, but I wish we can be good friends. Com’on, let’s be friends...?" instead of "You’re dismissed; I don't love you anymore, this makes me feel guilty, but I’m not so brave to tell you the truth."

It’s like friendship had become not only the access to the love, but also the door to run away through.

When last week a guy dear to me told me that he’d put "The End" wordings to his last love story, because the counterpart would rather be something else to him (something like a friend), then he added “How can I be his friend?"

"You should not be his friend at all" was my answer, stating that, for example, when Tiger-Fish decided to break up with me, well, these were his words: "Over time we’ll understand if we did the right thing", whilst I personally flipped out and boiled with anger, dreaming to get up and kick and punch him. But today, after 5 years of separation and a very slow rapprochement we’re friends, eventually.

It does not happen often, but when the friendship after love does happen, it’s not because it’s been programmed, ie studied, manipulated.

Much more often, the friendship could be defined as the result of a silent hoeing of the parched earth of the heart, a product of a growing fortitude. Just because the heart has got the productivity of the well watered undergrowth, it does not mean that it’s correct to burn it in order to destroy the field of love in order to speed up the transition to the next (not granted at all) friendship’s stage. In fact, it just works like in agriculture – you burn the lands and what remains is only the carbon, so that you get a rich harvest the first year, but you're going to lose the fertility for the following ones.

Perhaps all this is not new to all of you, and that is why if we want to play down the insinuation of those sticking a love story at us, our first reply is: "Me..? Not on my life! We're JUST friends."

Thursday, 11 April 2013

The Harmony of the Contrasts by Rf


“Wait!”, he yelled scanning the horizon.
It was bright and very cold out there. The landscape ran fast under his gaze, leaving the biting feeling that he was losing the last chance of revenge on life. Something held him, and prevented him from becoming part of the herd, so that his dreams would never come true.
“Fuck!”
What held back his desires was inside him; it was part of himself, actually. Nonetheless it stemmed from something lacking, from the absence of something needed urgently, although he couldn’t name it yet.
He considered that probably moans cut down the good fortune, so decided to press out a tiny smile, and it was just like letting a sumo wrestler wear a baby tank top.
He groaned disheartened, and leaned against the white walls of the clouds, and when all seemed lost he felt suddenly a sexually exciting bloat stretching his rounded shapes, little by little.
This is the universe: a cluster of contrasts. Who did say: "Born round, you don't die square"?
The sky was whiter now.
“W-wait!” he sighed – a soft breath, as he looked sadly at all the others moving away through the air. They were free, whereas he could not gain his independence yet. He became still convinced he would never see them again… and just as he thought like that, his fleeting world made of steam stopped, and the abrupt recoil of its arrest made him wobble.
“Wa-wa…”
He couldn’t speak anymore. Something was happening, eventually.
The strange excitement grew more and more. His body got swollen and harder under the pressure of the wild desire to mingle with the other drops, and to empty his own frenzy on the earth.
Cr-r-r-ack!
A dull thud, then a huge snap – noise of frying oil, or breaking bones.
His dancing eyes went from side to side, then up and down.
While the windows of the misty house frosted over, he could see his transparent blood crystallize into the watery veins. He was conscious that his blood and his sperm were the same thing, and according to the Theory of the Harmony of the Contrasts, the sperm freezing meant that he’s dying and being born again at the same time.
Cr-r-r-ack! Cr-r-r-ack!
All his rounded shapes were entirely straight now, and pure white colored, even bluish here and there… and cold and spiky too.
Cr-r-r-ack! Cr-r-r-ack! Cr-r-r-ack! Cr-r-r-a-a-a-a-ack!
An abyss swung open under his excited roundnesses, making him fearful and happy to plummet. But… surprisingly he started floating down.
The chilly air was holding him up.
“Hey! Talkin’ to you, Hundred-tips!”
“Me?”
“What’s up, huh? Long live the cold! Long live the deadly army of snowflakes!”
“Y-yes. Hurray…” he replied hesitantly.
“Oh, fool that I am! I’m Odyssey.”
Hundred-tips smiled courteously. At that moment he realized that he was free to choose even his own name. So he decided that Hundred-tips was okay.
“Ready to kill?” asked Odyssey, revealing his intention not to give up and staying stuck like a bead of glue.
“…?”
“O-o-oh, I see… You’re a newborn snowflake.”
“Indeed.”
“Ah! You, young killer! Welcome on board then.”
A killer, thought Hundred-tips, not sure whether should worry about it. Actually, this was not the idea of freedom that he’d nourished once he’s out of the clouds. And that Odyssey! His extremities trembled like the devil’s tail. Anyway, he reasoned, he’d had the same opportunity of becoming a life bearer, in case he’d stayed in the aqueous state, or a death bearer, in case he’d turned into ice, as it finally happened.
“The Battle of Britain is about to finish, unfortunately! We’re only in October, and you know what? I’d really like to have time enough to make gangrenous a couple of German legs… Don’t you?”
A sudden gust of wind gathered both of them.
“Wow! I can see the Royal Navy from here. Can you hear this rumble? The trembling air… and look at our native clouds – they’re black like crude oil on the top now, and bright white at the bottom… All this touches me” he sighed with a wicked glimmer in the eyes.
“Listen, Odyssey,” Hundred-tip’s voice sounded too high, almost like the whistle of the bombs raining all around and diverting them “honestly, I can say… I don’t care, you know?”
“You, blasphemer!” Odyssey bent ominously his icy tips “Tell me, are you a goody-goody?”
“Hey, put your pins down!”
“You, chickenshit! Traitor!”
In that moment a new gust of wind swept them away, flipped and separated them.
“Damn you, Snow Queen!” heard Hundred-tips, smiling pleasantly.
The incessant whistlings of the bombs cradled him downward, until he became aware that clouds were left above his head, and now he could catch a sight of the sea and the British coast beneath him. What once seemed monochrome in the distance, now was blue and turquoise green - the sea was a heavy sweater and the sharp rocks were the earth’s arms pinched by sleeves edged with embroideries of white foam. Ashore were scattered many little fires fumigating bluish and toxic smoke. Now he could distinguish human shapes - some of them ran following a foreordained and obscure path, others slithered, but many lay motionless on the grass and half-mired in a mixture of mud and snow. Beyond, on the mainland he even saw a group of children crammed in a bomb shelter - girls with hair gathered up were bended knee and with their back pressed against the rammed-earth sides of the trench; their arms were folded due to cold air and lack of space. They looked at each other, each of them scrutinizing the anxious expression of the others.
“Hurray-y-y!”
Hundred-tips recovered himself. A new horde of snowflakes swirled in the heavy air. He remained indifferent and turned his gaze back down at the boys in the trench. Unlike girls, they stood looking upwards. A couple of them waved their hands greeting the military planes or, who knows, greeting the falling fatty snowflakes, who reciprocated and shouted:
“Hello-o-o! We're coming! Don’t worry!”
Maybe those guys, too, thought they’d find freedom out of there.
In the meantime Hundred-tips arrived at destination.
The wind had pushed him in the offing, where the waves tossed a little boat about. In the boat lay still the body of a soldier with closed eyes. He had red hair and appetizing freckles on his ash-grey cheeks; the trousers were ripped and the pale and wounded thigh was still bleeding profusely.
He’s so charming, thought Hundred-tips while landing gently on the rip’s edge. The smell of the human blood reminded him of the desert sand that sometimes in the past, when he was just a raindrop, has come to mingle with the clouds.
He’s dead, he noticed, but he’s still so… so full of life!
Hundred-tips began trembling and twinkling under the unexpected sunlight; he heard the sound of thousand bells shaking all the molecules of the ice crystals’ conglomeration, which became less and less frozen.
The harmony of the contrasts states that where there is death, life comes, and vice versa; but the two never meet, he thought peacefully before melting down in soldier’s lukewarm blood, Of course life is indispensable condition for freedom, but what nobody seems to understand is that sometimes freedom arises from death only.

The End