The Toilet Roll Series

With the ‘Toilet Roll’ series, I wanted to explore the connection between the mundane and deeper stuff.

Based on ‘Toilet Rolls’ – a previous blog entry/thought that was born when reading the packaging of a well known brand. I imagined the rolls talking to me… But what were the rolls not telling?

I explored…

Toilet Rolls.

Toilet paper is talking to me.

Something about it being the softest paper I’ve ever tried.
I reply I’m not a professional toilet paper taster.
I don’t know anything about ‘softness’.
It says it has a dimpled middle layer for extra texture.
It says it is the best shit in the world, a jug of warm milk coming second place.



A new day, a new sheet...

toi·let pa·per

Noun:

Paper in sheets or on a roll for wiping oneself clean after urination or defecation.

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That said, don’t forget the environment when talking to your rolls.

And if you want to know about toilet rolls and how they affect the environment:

http://www.worldwatch.org/node/6403

S.x



On death.

I’ve always thought Shakespeare understood death like few people has.

Death is a recurrent topic in my writings, it fascinates me. The way I see life, being aware of death, makes us seize the day and welcome life better (I may be wrong).
In any case, what a great invention!
This is something I wrote about it, for it, to it, because of it…

“There comes a time when death needs no description.

(Am I being followed?)
This night so cold.
I can feel my bones.

Dear William,

You had such clarity when speaking death.
Death as wrath.
A cloudless sky.
Death as a word.
Spoken at the exact time.
Never right.
Always measured.
Awaited.
Understood.

Death as an echo.
Loud and clear.
Voiceless.
Speechless.
A silent night.

We will all die!

Our days are counted.
We live as if blindfolded by an imaginary everlastingness.

Death.

Death is here.
Its bony hand on my knee.
On yours.
Death is near.
Silent.
Cautious.
Aware of its own density.
Thin-air like.
Cold and shallow.
A metallic taste in ones tongue.
Death is lonely.
Solitary.
Death is close.
Cold like a cave with no entrance.
No exit. No return.
Death is hissing, whispering in our distracted ears.

Listen.

Its broad mouth opening, swallowing tomorrows and our discolored beliefs.”

Theories in a string- wordy thoughts on a theory of everything.

Perhaps we’re imagining the atoms.

Perhaps our understanding isn’t lengthy, but our fantasy is.

Perhaps dolphins and whales have theories of evolution and quantum of their own.

Perhaps they’re looking at us and pondering on our self destructive nature.

Perhaps they’re collecting phytoplankton funds in order to help us- we could use some chlorophyll.

Perhaps every now and then, a heroic individual sacrifices itself in the coast trying to warn us.

‘Oh, those animals just won’t listen.’

Perhaps we are just fungi.

A fungal infection gone mad.

It happened to a Gregor Samsa before.

He thought himself human- he was only a bug.

Perhaps atoms give themselves the same importance.

Perhaps cells and viruses also build societies and fight wars, gossip and study and look out at the stars at night. Perhaps we are just words in a book, a thought in a bearded man’s head, a white hair on a cat’s back, a piece of plastic in the middle of the sea (wishing itself a better luck).

Perhaps we are just lab rats in a lucid dream…

 (p.s.: And in the end… there’s just a vibration… and it sounds a lot like a cello… period.)

My Existential Knee

We are dying.
All of us.

Pause.

We, in a way, started dying as soon as we were born.

Pause.

I had a sports injury.

Patellofemoral pain, or commonly called ‘runners knee’.
My knee had decided to infuriate me.
I limped my way for about two weeks.
I didn’t really rest… I was trying to be ‘super’.

‘The patella is damaged’.

Patella…
I only knew my knee as ‘right knee’.
I didn’t think there were separate parts to it.
Like a skeleton to a body…

Kryptonite.

I may come across as some type of hypochondriac.

Illnesses and injuries are a delicate topic, they make me really anxious.
But who doesn’t feel this way?

The line between life and death so undefined.

Death- as I see it, could find us anywhere. Any day, any time of day.
What if no one remembers me?
The sun will rise for at least 5 billion more years, but my existence is limited.
My expiry date due.
But when?
The ink is blurry…

What happens after that?

Dreamless sleep?
An encounter with the unconscious?
Silence.
Quiet.

A sharp pain in my knee reminds me that I am still here.

Pause.

Sigh.

‘Patella Discomfortis’, I would call it.

The End.

(not mine)

Fantasma.

La invisibilidad de su persona.

La espontaneidad de su curiosidad.
A medias.
Vagabundea por los corredores de la casa.
“No es nada.” “No es nada.”, escucha a la vieja calmando a la niña.
“Es solo el viento.”
“El viento no camina”, reclama él sin ser escuchado.

Las cuencas de sus ojos somnolientos, oscuras, como tumbas.

Qué poco solicitados los fantasmas estos días.
Ya nadie los considera seres vivos.
Ya todos olvidaron sus pecados.

Prelude to a birthday.

It rains like it did when I was born.

I wake up to music and breakfast with the friends, then I read Jason's journal and wonder when I can start touring again.

My nails are purple-pink, my tummy rumbles, Marion mumbles something about a room somewhere, La Rata is gone, Charlie downstairs.

Richard didn't piss me off half as much as he could have- maybe cause he's pretty. I wonder if when all this started- 3.9 billion years ago, the consciousness that is me already mumbled and rumbled and wondered if Jason, if touring, if Marion, if some room, if Charlie downstairs, if Richard, if somewhere my nails are purple-pink, if it rains, if I...

Hypochondriac

I enter the room.

Paleozoic.

Late.

Late Paleozoic.

Nervous.

Confused.

Did I misdiagnose the self diagnosis?

Did I imagine it all?

Perhaps this is just normal.

Everyone waits their turn.

Silent. Pensive.

Are they too, imagining worst case scenarios?

Am I uncommon?

I get nervous.

As if the schoolmaster is about to deliver the bad news.

I failed.

Health check failed.

I’ve had cancer three times in the last half hour,

AIDS, insomnia, rabies and a mild condition of yellow fever.

And the worst is yet to come, when I enter that room and (almost in tears) deliver my diagnosis and the doctor confirms that indeed, I am a hypochondriac…