In my own dream.

She smashed all my senses into something soft like sand seeping through to my ears. Dylan said of her that she had the voice of Billie Holiday, and played guitar like Jimmy Reed. To me she is out of this world. And it's her company that satisfies a hungry soul tonight. She is the rare, the cult, she is the true Katie Cruel.



I didn't know I could be fooled.

Laid on with a trowel.

I ain’t a funny person. There, I said it. Attempting to make jokes just to appear funny would make me even less of a person that is already not funny. I do however at times use someone else's poor joke to test others' humour, or better said, their nature. But that’s not what I was gonna say. I was gonna talk about it being breakup season. But I’ll come back to that in a bit. Now, for some people, trying to be funny is hard work. Especially when it’s not part of your innate abilities, nor when you don’t have an eye or a ear prepared for moments that present the potential of being well-timed, perfect for side-splitting satire. And I slightly branch off from humour to its neighbouring ‘satire’ because being sardonic is, on the surface of things, easier to do than actually being comical. Anyone can have a go at playing satirical, while making sweeping statements that are hard to swallow – it’s the fashion these days to ‘act clever’, right Cha-Char boy? And we don’t like clever people, mmno Sir.

Then comes the more complicated part, which is how successful one's attempt at playing the satirical, wise fool, really is. And when you meet people trying to be lampoons with the intention to cut deep, that’s when things get nailed up, back to front. When these failed buffoons become far more focused on hurting and on being cutting (these are people with issues btw), than on exercising their ability of being funny and on attempting some wise crack... well, when that happens you just wanna snap their little limbs to pieces and brush them off under the carpet, in a gasp puff. But, as we live in a eunion-civilized world, we serious people can only satisfy ourselves with eyeing the culprit during a long buildup to which some others have to be unfortunate witnesses. And as with any worthy long buildup, we have our kitty-like wits climax by telling him to chill the fuck out and have a cookie. Tesco-value, asa cum iti plac tie ba!

Now back to breakup season, this should actually be the case for some people (soz for my cool impetuousness). Because for what's worth, and as my to-be-hubby puts it no-jokes, We that are true lovers run into strange capers; but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal in folly.

How do you like 'em apples?

Wise jam for break(ing) fast.

Last night I went to bed at 4 in the morning, today I seem to be following the same route. Late night conversations about nothing get me tired but keep me going stubborn, perhaps on the lookout for a revelation that my dreams could probably never reach. Except they do, and often they do it better than any conversation at the crack of dawn.

When I was little, mom told me that once I'd grow up, I would be able to tell truth from untruth from anyone that would cross my path. More so, that people would uncover truths to me that they would hide from others. Thx mom. Frankly, that's not great, and it's not even a special gift, since at times you will find yourself in awkward situations having to choose between sticking with the true, or not so true, while being perfectly aware of the consequences, just to save someone's backside from being named and shamed. She also told me that if in my closer relationships I would be given truths in half measures (which "draga mea, se va intampla o data, sau chiar si de mai multe ori") I would have the instinctive ability to choose if I should know the truths from untruths, all a rather subconscious process, mind you. While it all sounds a bit like psychic mumbo-jumbo, a mommy's witchcraft doing, whenever I make the conscious choice of sticking with the untrue, and therefore the err, dreams come pulling my eyelids up to show me who's pulling my leg while I sleep. [Sleep talking then becomes a Beckettian tape which my Lady Dreams play in rewind to make me look quirky to whoever happens to hear me.] Then I wake up listening to those that celebrate a clear conscience, and this my friends, is a sign of a bad memory; but while that conscience belongs to them, memory belongs to me.


A ruffled mind makes a restless pillow.