kimberry cake

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IX-VI-MMXVIII

i will make a cake, it’s imaginary

temporary, as my thoughts may be

my recipee, is visionary

chery, berry and a bit of raspberry

add some crushed crampberry

a little strawberry and mix them gently,

no sugar, it’s not necessary

trust me, it will be extraordinary

I’m and artist of the culinary

X-VI-MMXVIII

one taste turns your senses primary

second makes you drunk and your vision blurry

heaven, hell and purgatory

every state is transitory

but this high is not momentary

in your heart my love, you’ll carry

you’ll feel out of the ordinary

as my love is legendary

every day a romance story

will be written in your memory

 

Today you smile

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Today you took a feather form your hair,

from your book an empty page,

and wrapped them together with care.

Today you gave me a stage,

so I can sing for you when I’m not there,

so I can show how much I care.

Today I’ll wite a ballad,

written with my blood,

to heal your heart malade.

Today you’ll listen to the words I sing,

wrapped together on a string,

around your fingers in a ring.

Today you’ll smile,

with tears your eyes will flood,

and from your sorrow mud,

you’ll sprout a white lotus bud.

 

 

The hypocrite

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Yesterday I saw a guy riding his bike while sipping from a soda. At one point during his trajectory I see him emptying the liquid in the bottle, doing like a pendulum movement with his hand. His bike had a grocery basked attached in front so I figured “Oh such a nice guy, he’s emptying the bottle so he can save it in his basked for recycling or whatever”. While I was thinking that, he does another pendulum movement with his hand, this time with more intensity and smashes the bottle to the ground. At which point I thought “What a piece of shit… what a fucking piece of shit”. I literally thought that. What a piece of shit that guy must be, for smashing that bottle to the ground.

While judging this guy, a weird memory comes to surface. When I was in my teens, I used to visit my cousins from the countryside. One of our friend’s father owned a small egg incubation facility. People in the village who grew chickens could bring their eggs for incubation in a controlled environment. Here the rate of succesful hatching is higher than in natural conditions, especially during the cold season.

Although the rate of hatching is higher, that doesn’t mean all eggs hatch. As you can imagine a lot of eggs need to be thrown away. So, our friend tells us that he has to do this nasty thing his father made him do. He was supposed to take all the rotten eggs to the village landfill. All the eggs were loaded in a carriage, pulled by his father’s horse. We never saw so many eggs in one place in our life. The carriage was completely full. It was one of those childhood awe moments. And we were in charge of the whole opperation.

We jump into the carriage and we are on our way. We’re not rolling fast, we’re rolling steady, as we are carrying a full load of stinky eggs on a country road. At some point along the way, as I get bored I get the idea of egging houses. Of course my friends thought it was a pretty sweet idea too, so we egged all the houses in our path. We egged them with rotten stinky eggs. We trew so many eggs. Oh man, it was so disgusting. Now that I look back, I still think it’s a funny story… but not as funny as before.

Everyone got grounded like forever and had to do a million chores, except me. I got to go home the next day and my parents only found out after the initial tension was gone. I didn’t tell them. Although I was just a kid at that time and even if I don’t exhibit this type of behaviour anymore, because I know a bit better, what a hypocrite was I to judge that guy… What a hypocrite, what a fucking hypocrite.

But still, I think this comes to show that while some people change incredibly after a certain age, others only double or triple-down on what they already were. As long as they receive ample social reinforcement for the role they are playing in society, they will continue to spiral down. Sometimes a “smack on the head” is what it takes for people to wake up and “man up” and be responsible. Other times it comes naturally, enforced by one’s environment and social situation.

People need a call for adventure to grow up, they need responsibility in their lives. To be “in charge” of something. Even if it’s as small as ensuring their own decent living. Some don’t even manage that. Responsibility brings meaning to our lives. In contrast many people seem to avoid responsibility, they just want to “be in charge” because they feel entitled.

Anyway, it’s just a rant.

Something wicked comes your way

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My demons, although quietly dwelling beneath the surface are an equal part of me. Same as light reveals the beautiful features of my face, shadows outline all that is rotten inside. Calm as they may be, they lurk patiently, biding their time, looking for a reason to wake…

I’ve unleashed it. The thing that’s going to remove you from myself. It’s on its way and it’s not going to stop until I’m clean again. It’s irreversible, I couldn’t stop it if I wanted to. It’s done. There’s no turning back now. No one can undo it. Prepare.

From the darkest corner of my soul, I have summoned your doom. It’s an embodiment of all that’s wicked and twisted within me. All my demons, all my bad thoughts and primal impulses are bottled up in this potent essence of evil. The beast within is thirsty for you.

My maze, the place which was once your playground is now going to become an altar of sacrifice. The walls wich you gently brushed with the tip of your fingers while your were roaming arround are going to narrow down on you. It’s getting colder and darker in here.

Soon all you held dear inside of me is going to get corrupted and turn away from you. Soon it will all become a tenebrous scene of a nightmare we’ve dreamt together. Soon it will find you.

Will your love roar louder than my demons?

Will you tame the beast I have become?

Will you survive?

 

Tango of the sinners

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Immoral, injust

Sin and lust

Fire of desire

Engage, commit, conspire…

I see two shades dancing with impunity

Two empty bodies, becomming unity

With no concern about tomorrow

One drop of extacy for an ocean full of sorrow

Why should we reason our destiny

If the drop is deeper than eternity

Why should we deny this chapter

Let’s live for now and agonize after

Let’s sway to the rythim of disaster

For this is our Dance Macabre

It was all so divine

But we ran out of time

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Disgustingly delicious

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When I was eleven, I had my first taste of Jamon Serrano. My mother had brought from Spain an entire Jamon which she placed on a special support (soporte jamonero) just like you see in typical Spanish Tapas places. Back then I had a very big appetite for meat, especially red meat. I am also the type of person who is keen on trying new experiences. Seeing the Jamon, nicely placed on its support, I was practically drawling.

Because we were having company over, I was supposed to wait until dinner was served so I don’t spoil my appetite. My expectations grew so much and I was so eager to taste it, that I was the first one who took a seat at the dinner table. I even asked for extra slices as I was super sure that this new food was going to rock my world.

Haha (still funny now)… I was never so wrong. It smelled just like my football socks used to smell after an entire day of kicking the ball. Oh man, I was so disgusted by it that my mother saw it on my face and started laughing about it.

Four years later I moved to Spain. More often than not, there was a Jamon in the kitchen, with a Jamonero (a special knife for cutting thin slices) placed beside it. At first, I was just ignoring it, seeing it more like a pile of dirty socks than a gourmet food.

At some point, I don’t remember exactly how it happened I started tasting it again. I had small bites from time to time, until this very disgusting food started to grow on me. I still thought it’s super grose, but somehow delicious. It did not take too long until this disgustingly delicious food became one of my favourites, especially Pan Tumaca.

Only after clearing my expectations, but even more importantly, my prejudice I was able to really taste and enjoy this food. Before tasting it, I placed it on a golden throne, on top of all the food I tasted before. A completely non-rational decision, more like a chemical reaction. The closest I got to the “love at first sight” feeling.

After I had a first bite, I was so quick to dismiss it, that I did not even conceive giving something so disgusting another bite. How could I eat this smelly dry meat covered in weird looking fat, bleah. How can so many people eat this crap. It took me a while until I opened my mind and decided to give it another chance.

A fresh mindset opens new doors, doors which were once locked. Arriving at a different answer to a question you’ve answered before is a peculiar feeling. One that enlightens us. We all have our own version of the Jamon story. Could be smelly cheese, could be some other part of life, not related to food. Some of us manage to get to the delicious part, others just spit it out in disgust the first time they try it. They do not dare to taste it again, one mouthfull of digusting is enough.

Although I stopped eating meat all together, this story stuck with me. It taught me a valuable lesson and it especially resonates with me now. I never felt so disgusted about something which was once so delicious… and at the same time, something so disgusting never felt so delicious before.

The evil of everyone

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The biggest fear of a thief is that of being robbed.

We don’t forgive, we don’t forget. We judge others because their wickedness is disimillar to ours… or perhaps indistinguishable. Darring to throw the first rock and then some more. Guesstimating a person’s worth based on what we feel, for this is the human condition. This is how we shackle our wings and those of ohters, hammering ourselves to live in the dirt. Crawling we may go to our graves, desperately clinging on the strings we put on those which we condemn. We would take it all with us if we could, but everyting will fade away as we give our last breath.

“People forget that even doctors have moral scruples, and that certain patient’s confessions are hard even for a doctor to swallow. Yet the patient does not feel himself accepted unless the very worst in him is accepted too.

No one can bring this about by mere words; it comes only through reflection and through the doctor’s attitude towards himself and his own dark side. If the doctor wants to guide another, or even accompany him a step of the way, he must feel with that person’s psyche. He never feels it when he passes judgment. Whether he puts his judgments into words or keeps them to himself makes not the slightest difference.

To take the opposite position and to agree with the patient offhand is also of no use but estranges him as much as condemnation. Feeling comes only through unprejudiced objectivity. This sounds almost like a scientific precept, and it could be confused with a purely intellectual, abstract attitude of mind. But what I mean is something quite different.

It is a human quality, a kind of deep respect for the facts, for the man who suffers from them, and for the riddle of such a man’s life. The truly religious person has this attitude. He knows that God has brought all sorts of strange and inconceivable things to pass and seeks in the most curious ways to enter a man’s heart. He therefore senses in everything the unseen presence of the divine will.

This is what I mean by “unprejudiced objectivity.” It is a moral achievement on the part of the doctor, who ought not to let himself be repelled by sickness and corruption. We cannot change anything unless we accept it.

Condemnation does not liberate, it oppresses. I am the oppressor of the person I condemn, not his friend and fellow-sufferer. I do not in the least mean to say that we must never pass judgment when we desire to help and improve. But if the doctor wishes to help a human being he must be able to accept him as he is. And he can do this in reality only when he has already seen and accepted himself as he is.

Perhaps this sounds very simple, but simple things are always the most difficult. In actual life it requires the greatest art to be simple, and so acceptance of oneself is the essence of the moral problem and the acid test of one’s whole outlook on life.

That I feed the beggar, that I forgive an insult, that I love my enemy in the name of Christ, all these are undoubtedly great virtues. What I do unto the least o’ my brethren, that I do unto Christ.

But what if I should discover that the least amongst them all, the poorest of all beggars, the most impudent of all offenders, yeah, the very fiend himself, that these are within me, and that I myself stand in need of the alms of my own kindness, that I myself am the enemy who must be loved. What then?

Then, as a rule, the whole truth of Christianity is reversed: there is then no more talk of love and long-suffering; we say to the brother within us “Raca,” and condemn and rage against ourselves. We hide him from the world, we deny ever having met this least among the lowly in ourselves, and had it been God himself who drew near to us in this despicable form, we should have denied him a thousand times before a single cock had crowed.

Anyone who uses modern psychology to look behind the scene not only of his patients’ lives, but more especially of his own life—and the modern psychotherapist must do this if he is not to be merely an unconscious fraud—will admit that to accept himself in all his wretchedness is the hardest of tasks, and one which it is almost impossible to fulfill.

The very thought can make us sweat with fear. We are therefore only too delighted to choose, without a moment’s hesitation, the complicated course of remaining in ignorance about ourselves while busying ourselves with other people and their troubles and sins. This activity lends us a perceptible air of virtue, by means of which we benevolently deceive ourselves and others. God be praised, we have escaped from ourselves at last!

There are countless people who can do this with impunity, but not everyone can, and these few break down on the road to their Damascus and succumb to a neurosis. How can I help these people if I myself am a fugitive, and perhaps also suffer from the morbus sacer of a neurosis? Only he who has fully accepted himself has “unprejudiced objectivity”.

– Carl G. Joung ”

All this may sound so simple and divine. You may feel insipred after reading this. However, in reality accepting the existandce of a shadow self is almost impossible to cope with. Consider for a moment a simbiosis with all that you deem unreasonable, senseless and evil.

In the end, we are who we are, good or bad, handsome or hideous… it all depends on who is made judge.

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“Just take it easy, man.”

Home

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They say that we travel the world to search for what we need, only to come back home and find it. After a long time away I came to visit what I used to call home. It’s the place where I was born and where I grew up. The place that fostered me but which I outgrew as my wings developed.

My timeline starts in the small town of Slobozia. It’s located in the South-East of Romania, the flat part of the country which is mainly covered in crop fields. Argiculture is the fuel that keeps this little town going. Asside from that and a few pubs there’s nothing much to do arround here. It’s a pretty quiet place, were everyone knows everyone and where nothing ever happens. Or at least it’s how I remember it now…

My parrents divorced when I was young shortly after my mother went to work abroad. I lived with my father until I was fourteen after which I decided to move to Spain and live with my mother. I resided there for two years, in Coslada a small city located only ten mins away of Madrid. Still a small and chill town but with a lot more posibilities than Slobozia.

One summer break when I came to visit my home town, I fell in love with a girl. So much so that I decided to return to my brithplace after two years of living in Spain. My mother was curshed. I didn’t care, I was in love. Shortly after I moved back, I found out that my inamorata was cheeting on me. I was crushed. She didn’t care, she was in love. My revolution was for nothing. Here I was in this boring little town again, feeling more and more like a stranger.

The following year (and a half) I finished highschool and moved to Bucharest to study. My university path did not last long as I dropped out in my second year. I then got a job and shotly after I started my first mature relationship. That marked a moment of profound tranformation, a sort of remembering of who I really was. I started walking that path almost seven years ago and I’m still walking. I’m still discovering myself, still pealing off ego layers.

Last summer we moved to Utrecht, a very pitoresque town found in the rainy lands of The Netherlands. Change brings change and after six years of being together, me and my better half deicded to stop being a couple. We lost each other but found ourselves again as borther and sister.

Like any mango person it did not take me too long to fall in love again. It took me even less to crush and get crushed in return. I’m the optimist, I get burned and heal fast. I don’t look back and I’m allways up for finding the next big thing. Not this time. Not anymore. I wanted to continue my path but lost all frame of reference. Same as any lost person would do, I started drawing maps in the sand figuring out directions for myself.

There’s so many places I want to go. There’s so many experiences I want to taste. Wait. Do I? Really? Not that much. Only after losing everyting I realzied that I don’t want anything anymore. I never wanted it to begin with. The only place I ever wanted to go, was home. Although I had many places I called home, lived in multiple families, I never was home. All this adventrue seeking and soul searching was that of a kid trying to find his way.

Home is not where I was born nor where I grew up. Home is not where I’m living now nor where I want to go next…

Home is where my heart is, so I come to you.

7

Days of weekend past

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We’re not hungry, not that much

Sleep for breakfast, sex for lunch

Then we roll one on the couch

Rainy days tipcal Dutch

 

I feel your tender touch,

Grabbing gently on my crotch

Then you feel a rising heat

As I wrap between your feet

 

Those stains are not mayonaise

We get messy when we blaze

Broken glasses on the floor

We’re not gentle anymore

 

Going deeper as we rise

We’re stargazing in our eyes

Culminating in the sky

This is how we learned to fly