Twitter bird

And it’s on! I’ve successfully stepped into the 21st century, with my first Twitter account ever. I feel blue, blue bird. If Wallace Stevens had been a little more commercial, he would have written Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Bluebird:
I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the bluebird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three bluebirds.

III
The bluebird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a bluebird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The bluebird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the bluebird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the bluebird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the bluebird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the bluebird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of bluebirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For bluebirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The bluebird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The bluebird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

Conclusion:

Blue are the ways
Of the bluebird.
Blue its echoes
In a sea of dreams.

Hug-a-snowman

Today is my last chance to post December’s hug of the month. Sorry it took so long, but I had to wait for enough snow to fall before I could build this month’s huggable friend. So, bring on the drums, it’s time for you to meet my ultimate hug victim. Tha’ 1.80 m snowman. You know I usually post a short bio of my featured friends. I could try and do the same thing for my snowman too. I think he had a short and happy life, this one.Probably about one day, before it melted to smithereens. Why is this snowman better than all the snowmen out there? Nothing special, it just happened to be the one I built for the purpose of hugging. It’s enough to shape an object with a thought in your mind for it to come to life and be unique. It’s what you think when you look at it that makes it special. So this is my frozen, lonely hug of the month. Me hugging an object, me hugging my own thoughts. Me melting myself in a squeeze between my soul and reality.

Happy holidays! And a happy freezing New Year!

Sirius

This hug of the month was posted on request. I wanted to linger a little longer with it, until the person it is dedicated to could actually get to see it with his own Internet connection, not from an impersonal PC at school. But it seems it was not to be, dear old friend. The show must go on. People want you. You see, there is this thing. I feel shattered most of the time, but I have people around me to teach me how to go on, how to get back into my senses and get a grip of myself. Surprisingly, Sirius here was one of those people. You might not believe it. I despised him myself once for his slow way of acting, for his sumptuous way of outliving life. Sirius is something of Emily Dickinson probably (and no, I don’t mean he’s gay). He has few friends, but his life is rich with thoughts and senses. He can love an idea till the very end. As I was saying, I despised him for that at the beginning. Because I have a fanatical way of pursuing my dreams and I can’t imagine what waiting can be like. If any of you out there have read “The Perfume” (by Patrick Suskind), then note that Sirius was a kind of Grenouille - quietly waiting for his dreams to lay out for himself, crawling in an indefinite mass of art and good taste. Even his family name reminded somehow of his destiny. Margineanu, which can only be translated like a sort of (Marginal-ickinson or McLeftAside, i guess). He never intruded, although he had the right to. He was too smart for most of this city, and yet, he never burst out with discontent. He only had one dream: to take on playing the guitar. After he graduated high-school, he stayed at home for one year to pursue this dream of his, to my huge surprise. I almost burnt him on a stake at that time, thinking of his ultimate waste. But it was not so. Sirius is studying music in London now. Trying to play out Scar Tissue, by Red Hot Chilli Peppers. He doesn’t have any musical background (he was most into science in high-school), but he seems to be doing a fine job at least. I hope to request an autograph from him once. And yeah, I goddam think he looks Norse.

One hug is worth a thousand words, and a thousand stories.

I ask again… is this right? Maybe I’m shamefully young and I keep missing details. But I don’t think recession should take the form of exaggerated recycling.