PantoHell...

Director:

Can somebody kill me?

.

.

Sophia:

...I didn't want to say.. it is pretty bad, but...

.

.

Director:

No! I meant: Can somebody kill the MICROPHONE!!!!!!

On how Farm should think of a new door....

He examined the door, as a paleontologist would do with the ancient remains of a brontosaurus.

At first he felt like an Indiana Jones, but as the task became more and more difficult to achieve, he thought that Mr. Jones probably never had that much trouble with a single door and he probably never used the 'girl' to hold his 'stuff' while attempting the unachievable under the London rain.

'Bollocks', he thought... and all that Christmas decoration waiting to be hanged...

The End.

p.s.: By the way, the name 'Brontosaurus' is not right.... the correct name is: Apatosaurus.. but there's something so romantic about 'Brontosaurus'....

A Night

Blackdrop. The darkest night I've ever seen. So dark, the stars could almost be fetched with ones hands. Thousands of stars, engaged in a slow dance, flirting almost. The milky way as visible as the spiders that crawl on your shoes if you step out of the tent.

Five or six tents spread over a small area. Lanterns an ghost stories rolling from tent to tent alongside the nicotine and maryjane. Jose Julio, Jorge Mario, Oscar and Luis pee in a line, looking at the sky while killing insects with the yellow liquid.

Nights in the rainforest are longer, not because of the absence of light (light never lacks there, and stones glow in the dark, reflecting the moonlight.), but because your dreams seem to be as old as the stones used in the temples. Sleep is heavy and memories from ancient times gravitate in the environment colliding with your thoughts from time to time.

Legend says that once, one of the guardians of Tikal fell asleep at the top of the big temple (the Great Jaguar). He then woke up having had the most extraordinary dream; in his dream, he participated of a funeral some thousand years ago. He saw every detail of the ceremony including the exact position of the grave of the magnificent king who was being buried.

His words awoke the curiosity of the archaeologists who had been trying to find that spot. To everyones surprise, the place he described was in effect, the place were the king had been resting since his death.

...

I love randomness...

In a weird way it was a sort of serenade....

thank you.








p.s.: who likes 'normal' anyway?

question of the day.

What do your friends love about you?

x

you have to find out, for yourself...

Over the last two weeks I've been in some kind of emotional rollercoaster in which I discover (quite insightful also) all the range of emotions a human being is capable of.... so it seems.

It all starts with some projects I was really looking forward to be part of and couldn't because of various reasons; then there is the usual pain in the ass-blondish cutie with british accent who is the biggest idiot on the planet, that, and a fucking comedy genius.

Arrrggg.... So one day you look to the future and think: what a beautiful life... I will do this and this and that... well, the next day you are back in '0' and nothing seems to be working...

Tonight I had dinner with a friend, (hard to say because before today I never really saw him as a friend, but just someone I know... but now I know he cares)

basically he told me of how much he did underestimate me in the past and how amazed he is with me now. He said something like: 'Somehow you managed to hide your strenghts from me.' In his opinion that is what I do in life... I am afraid of taking risks, of leaving my comfort zone and of showing my strenghts. 'Your playing small doesn't help the world' someone wrote in a book. Sometimes one has this amazing image of how one wants to be... but maybe in the future; I don't know... a bit like leaving life for later... something like that...

And I did think of a song a friend sang for me once (the same I sang for another friend too- but without the audience), of a Buddhist phrase and something I read in a 'New Age book'.

The Buddhist thing goes like this:

Radiant Presence-

However young,

the seeker who sets out upon the way

shines bright over the world.

Day and night

the person who is awake

shines in the radiance of the spirit.

Meditate

Live purely

Be quiet

Do your work, with mastery.

Like the moon,

come from behind the clouds!

Shine.

Song for a Friend is a song I always told myself I would remember when having a bad day... probably my fav. song by Jason.

The video is a little shitty, but hey, it was a nice present.

I also have to thank Indre for reading this blog and for being such an amazing friend. xx

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 fuck about ‘softness’.

It says it has a dimpled middle layer for extra softness.

It is the best shit in the world, a jug of warm milk coming second place.

Just Feel...

Checking the t-shirts at Blend, I came across one called 'FEEL', it has that word printed with raised ink in Braille; I thought it was pretty cute, but what I loved the most was this: 'They say love is blind, and even if you're not, we encourage you to close your eyes. Don't think. Don't rationalize. Don't order or define. Just Feel.'

It felt good. No matter what happens... just feel.
And then I read the question of the day (which I plan to incorporate in my life like the friends do when they are on tour): 'Where are you avoiding playing a bigger game?'

x

not so usual...

One
A ‘hello’ that feels uneasy, uninvited, disturbing, un-emotional, obliged. A friend, who is not a friend; a wolf that’s not wolf, nor a lion.

Two
House is empty, lights are off. How easy it is to be with oneself.

Three
Running shoes, pony tail, a jacket.

Four
The ‘event’:

His breath stank of wine; a cloud of drunkenness surrounded his every move. She heard his back crack like a broken branch, his green eyes looking at his state with tiredness, fragility. She failed every attempt of picking him up. His hands were dirty with leaves and mud; which he tried to wipe off with his coat before holding her hand; but his weight kept pulling downwards and the melancholy of his solitude covered him with an unnecessarily heavy fog. She felt as if she was holding him and not, at the same time. She was holding the empty body of an already inexistent man.
A diseased soul, the empty package of a lost chain of dreams. Suddenly the heaviness became part of her too. She wondered if she would ever love someone; she wondered if she would ever feel this lonely; she wondered if she would ever fall like this, she hoped for someone to pick her up, would she fall.

Sixth track and the fog covered the place in an embrace. A man runs past her and mumbles something undistinguishable through her earphones.
End of the track and the gate is locked. As she walks to the next door, a man and a dog walk by and disappear (probably through that same door, and with the aid of a key (not a ‘Tim Key’, just a regular key)). Next door is also locked, third, fourth door: locked. There is no way out, and in a moment of ‘I don’t-careness’ she imagines herself sleeping in this park, the cold fog hiding her from everyone, the trees drawing shadows on the ground and spiders crawling on her shoes. Silence starts to vanish to welcome a night time soundtrack, it’s as if the fog and the wind were holding conversations; there is no silence, it doesn’t exist here.
But that is not a possibility: sleeping there. No mobile phone, no keys, just a woman with a small dog and an Indian man with the creativity to build a bridge with a rubbish bin. One step, two steps, don’t be afraid of heights, just put the foot in the right place; now jump….

What a weird evening. Unusual.

Fito's way is on this side of the road...

If you see this post, play this video... listen to Fitos musical poem...




It makes me feel attached to Fito, to Arjona, to a few monkeys in the rainforest and to that latin american thing that they say makes you different from others.
It makes you feel like a rebel with a notebook in your pocket.
It's a thing.... a thing about being a romantic pesimist.

I like being on this side of the road; forgiveness is divine; the books, the songs, the pianos, the cinema, enigmas- my father, the beer, love, the stage, hunger, cold, crime, money, and my 10 days... (made me this rebel)


'...siempre se me pasa, es solo la intuicion de mi destino...'

S.-

On love, on a not-so-particular-night, on this computer...

Maybe men don't have women in their heads.

They have sausage rolls, food, CD's, some movies, breasts, but no women.

It rains there most of the time.

Women think of men often.

Whether they like them that much or not.

They just do- they're cute and funny and smart.

No, not the women... Well, yes-also... but I was talking about the qualities women give the men they always think about.

Men don't seem to think about women. They forget, they ignore, they like pissing them off (women, I mean).

Women think of men often.

But what is it that men always think about, then? How could I possibly know? I am not a man.

In a few hours the ciber-retro-astro urinal will rise from below the ground, people will be out drinking and I will be heading home not knowing if the world agrees with my plans of greatness. I feel a little sad tonight. A little melancholic. A little lonely. Maybe I'm just feeling hormonal. Sometimes the four walls that are supposed to make you feel safe, imprison you and dry you from energy.

Tell me... Is it the apron?

I only ask for a little effort. Show me that you care, for God's sake! But no one cares... Maybe they just ran out of mariachis...

of flowers, chocolates, ideas; I don't know.

I'm scared of relationships.

I'm scared of someone falling in love with me and of me not being able to love them back.

I'm scared of falling madly for someone and having that someone falling out of love with me; or just cheating on me with a cow, a strange exotic flower, an underwear model from California, a millionaire or just a bitch.

I've done crazy things; not kissed on a date, kissed on date, called back, not called back, said the truth, not said the truth...driven people away... Truth is I just want what everybody else...

To love and to be loved.

Isn't that what it's all about?

So tell me what the bloody problem is.... is it the apron?

knock knock...

-Knock, knock!
who’s there?
-Doris.
Doris who?
-Door is locked, so I had to knock.



-Knock, knock!
who’s there?
-Norma Lee.
Norma Lee who?
-Norma Lee I don’t go around knocking on doors, but do you want to buy a set of encyclopedias?

Welcome to 11 O'clock...

WELCOME TO 11 P.M.
That (whim-sical) mystical hour between TOMORROW and TODAY.
Full of sleepless minutes in between.
Full of melodies of darkness, of dreamtime cartoons and diminishing temperaments.
The episode of our days we never considered favorite but the one that always, always floats alive with its “what ifs” and “maybes” for days past and coming.
For isn’t 11 o’clock a perfect moment to reflect on the future, on life, on existentialism?
Isn’t 11 o’clock the perfect borderline, the modestly correct time span to survey what you want to get out of the 11 o’clocks that will (hopefully) follow?
Welcome to eleven o’clock.


thinking time.... at midnight..... Sophia.

Pinguinos en la cama.

He is Guatemala's most famous singer-songwriter. This is a song called 'Penguins in bed'. Enjoy.

Did Love return from war?

I didn't see Love again, I wonder if he is back. In case you wonder, his name really is Love.

I wrote this for him the day I met him. He was a little scared, a little sad and a little tipsy. I wonder if he left, I wonder if he came back, I wonder...

Love is going to war.
Afghanistan.
He told his wife yesterday.
He flies tomorrow, at midnight.
He doesn't want to go, but at least he'll have 20 grand in his bank account when he comes back.
(If)
Love has been married for 6 months.
He'll be away for nine.
He's not sure he'll have a wife when he returns.
'She's not happy'.
Love is going to war.
He's only 21.
He wants to marry me if his wife leaves him.
I assure him, that is not gonna happen.
Besides, Love may be just too young to love, and he's going to war.

random thoughts....

There are three spiders living on my window. I can see their shadows through the curtains at night.
I have a little koala hanging from a desk lamp; I have a rose Grant doesn't know I kept.
On a night like this I wish myself in a gallery in New York, holding a glass of wine, watching photographs or paintings. But I did that here last week.
Sometimes I don't understand myself. I can be this today and that tomorrow and who cares if I fuck up, you can't -says our line of thought. Life is an experience, there's no right or wrong, just experiences.
I fucking love music. I could sit there for hours and travel in my head under the influence of a good tune. I think Bob Schneider is awesome.
I used to stargaze. God I did that my whole life. I would search for anything I could find about the stars, planets, the universe; I wanted to be an astronomist. I had glow-in-the-dark starts covering my walls and ceiling. Dance isn't boring; just difficult; but then again, is there any other way of truly flying? I have three small dogs. Dolly slept in my bed since she was a puppy; she still uses it now that I am here. I wonder if Ainslie is writing beautiful new songs.
I've never been to Scotland. I will have the fun of my life, they say.
I did something intending to do something slightly different. Why did I do that?




I've been listening to this song for the last hour. Just this one, I can't yet get to terms with how fucking good it is... maybe another listen... I just realized my friend Bruce is playing the bass in that video.. funny... Maybe if I go to Austin I will get to meet Bob. I like Bruce, although he must think I am a bad tourist guide. I fucked up, didn't I; and I just discovered I am a bad salsa dancer. Why does one do one thing if one intends to do a different one?

I need to stop thinking. I need some meditation. A little yoga. A run in the morning. A smoke.

I need some more music.

Or a sign.

La Finalidad De Tu Amor.

“Ama como puedas, ama a quien puedas, ama todo lo que puedas, no te preocupes de la finalidad de tu amor”
Amado Nervo

change...

I am still scared of change. But aren't we all?

I remember Alejandro Jodorowsky used to say that between doing something and not doing it, you should always go for the first, if you fail at least you'll have the experience.

I re-started this blog from scratch not long ago because I was longing for change. If I am offered change I am going to take it.

If it doesn't work, I'll change again. I don't know how I ended up feeling 'stuck' in there. I want to be more like a gypsy. I want to feel less attached, I want to be able to say: tomorrow I want to go to a different place, take my few things and start again; without fear.

I want to act again, to dance again, to paint music and write stories. I want to feel like the world belongs to me...

Waiting for Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart...

It was... how to explain it?... Magic?
I walk amongst them, but I am not there; I am somewhere else.
They're all experiencing 'reality', whereas I am in a place in my mind.
It's like being out of myself; or maybe like being 'in' myself for the first time ever.
I can hear them talking, I can see things, objects; I recognize the space and the time but all I can feel is the emotions the play evoked in me. It was weird since the begining. I went there like 'dragged' by a silent and invisible force. I could say 'my fingers' took me there. I could feel my fingers asking me to stay. I swear I was about to go, but this subtle interaction of my fingers and the air.. I just had this 'feeling'. I knew I had to be there tonight. 'For a reason', I thought. I was told 'you'll have to come back in June', but my fingers said: 'Wait a bit; walk around... stay.' Maybe it's what we call 'instinct'. Yes, it was. It was my 'instinct'. Got it. But it seems like my instinct has been modified to be creative and now I feel like in outer space. Like in a time capsule. I feel as if I finally understand what he meant when he wrote: '... unless Godot comes. -And if he comes? -We'll be saved.'-
I feel. I understand.

Mi Tipo....

S. xx

My story with Rahere, William Wallace and a french guy...

There's this guy- a french guy; he offered us a story. He lived in the States for a long time. He used to be a lawyer in Wall Street. 'Like in the movies', he says.

(I didn't know what movie he was refering to; I thought of The Devil's Advocate', or that one with Paul Newman, but his long hair and leather jacket would not fit any of those)

While he was there he made a lot of money; but money doesn't make you happy.

'That is lesson number one.'

his wide smile lighting his expression and his eyes analyzing the ceiling, looking for the right words.

So-not a lawyer anymore, he lives in Paris. 'Do you know why I am here today?'

On the other side of Smithfield Market there is St. Bartholomew's Hospital and Church.

Our french guy is a direct descendant of its founder and he is burried in that same church. (remember Four Weddings And A Funeral?- this church protagonized one of the weddings)

He traced his family tree all the way back until he found this amazing fact. After discovering this personal treasure, he flew to London (for a day) to find the church, the hospital and the burrial site of his great grandfather. He spent the morning there, listening to his own past talking to him through the stones of the tiny church; maybe forgetting questions he had, because he doesn't need the answers anymore. His heart is full like a balloon, while he sits there and experiences the most extraordinary feeling of connection and expanssion of inner space he has ever felt.

He then had a coffee having for company a little black notebook and a pen.

I wondered what he wrote there and if perhaps I could learn something by reading it.

After coffee, he had lunch, while telling us his story and his plan to go back again in the afternoon and 'listen' for a last time.

(My friend was a bit sceptic at first but then she commented on how better this story made her feel inside.)

'You know what the funny thing is?'

'When I was studying law, my best friend in school was a descendant of William Wallace'; he smiled.

'William Wallace!'

As it happens, William Wallace was hanged in Smithfield (just across the Market), a few meters away from the hospital and the church.

Two best friends- their great grandparents saw the same piece of land before dying.

'Can you believe that?' 'It's amazing.'

'It makes you question what happens between a generation and the other- between a man and his great grandfather.' I said.

'I know, it's so mysterious

It's like a miracle; just being alive, it's such a miracle.' He said, still smiling.

'Life is beautiful', he continued... and it was like getting the promise of the premise for this story; the 'theme stated', the question to our most primal question: What are we here for?

It was as if he was saying: 'We are here to LIVE' Period.

We are here to experience it all, and open ourselves up to these things.

'Things happen to you when you are willing to see.'

'Maybe we will meet again'. he said in his goodbye, and he wished us to be happy and find our path.

And then he left, leaving a smile on our faces and all that energy floating in the room (Maybe William Wallace was there, maybe Rahere too, and St. Bartholomew; and maybe they were all him).

I met a french girl this morning, she asked for directions. I wondered why she was here...

Martin and James

Scottish boys are sooo sexy...





crashing info, love? ;)


(it gets easier after a few pints- or in Geman!! )

A Pint of Change...

A guy (we will call him Mike) doesn't understand how it is possible that, in a terrorist conspiracy involving thousands, no one has the 'heart', the 'soul' to rebel against a movement and start a change.

'We've been conditioned!' said the other guy (that one we will call Jeff). 'Society conditions us to follow'. Still, Mike doesn't believe things could work like that; was it really something planned by the same people? Are those videos THE truth?

'I cannot believe it. Not ONE person could say NO?'

'We would have to question the Nazi Movement then.'

'Yeah, yeah-you're right...'

'We've always been like this, look at the wars; we kill each other.'

'No- we're not like that; they condition us to behave like that, but...'

But Jeff is sure the solution is in passing the information we have to others.

'But what do you do with it?' asked Mike. 'We don't solve anything by talking about it with a beer. You have to go to the centre of things, work for the government and then produce change; real change.' (That he said as if Jeff was the only one of us capable of taking the ring to Mordor).

'I don't know anything!; I don't know what the truth is!'

'Well, that IS the problem, the problem is that we don't question things and just buy all the shit they try to sell us.' I replied under the approving look of Jeff who was finally getting the excitement he was aiming for. You could see passion burning in his eyes.

'But what can we do?, It would take so long to make a difference; a lifetime...' Lamented Mike.

'If we sit down NOW and think and start... we may not finish, but we can start a change...' Replied Jeff moving his hands, like building mountains out of air... the possibility was there, coming right out of those hands.

And for a second it seemed as if we had something starting up there. Amauri made a joke about a film being made about us in a few years and how they would start it with the scene of the 'Revolutionaries' beginning the movement at the bar and how Jeff's hair reminded everyone of 'El Che Guevara'.

'So this is how it begins' Said Mike finally getting to the possitive side of it and it seemed as if he was finding breathing a lot easier.

'We're starting a cult- a movement' he said.

He seemed excited but his disbelief of the capacity of an individual to make an actual change was evident.

But is it not our social responsibility? Isn't Jeff right and just by seeking the truth and questioning everything they tell us and by sharing our 'knowledge', couldn't we change the world? Is it really that impossible?

In my head the best way to cause change by sharing knowledge has always led to 'education'. By changing the root of the system we could transform the future...

But then... what time is it?

Then we said goodbye, we kept a nice warm blooming hope inside and a few details about each other, and it was the end of one cool story between a few strangers.

They don'n know each other, but hey- together, they can change the world!

I thought I could share some music; this is playing in the background right now.

This is my Norwegian friend Marit Larsen with her single 'If A Song Could Get Me You' in an underground station in Oslo. Just how cool is this video?! On a good day I listen to this song a good couple of hundred times. Enjoy!

Welcome

I took all the previous posts away, I left the blog like a naked newborn baby, changed the layout, thought of changing the name again: it went from 'White Walls' to 'Hypnotic' in two years; I wanted to call it 'Dejavu' and have hanging from it like a movie tagline the phrase: 'Because it all happened before' (or something like that). But Hypnotic still sounds truthful to me. Find it a very round word, with a nice universe around it and it could be the title of a big blockbuster, a summer hit, a romantic comedy or a drama, it all fits in there.

I decided I needed change, to start all over again and just ripped all off.

Like having a past life of which all you carry with you is experiences you can't even remember; they just form part of who you are.

I saved them all, as drafts - in case I run out of ideas for films. (or something)

Who am I, really? I thought. I've changed so much this last years.

And it all takes me to feel like going back to my childhood, I just accumulate things I want to bring into my experience, I want to do it all, to see it all, to have it all.

So I will try to be at my 'purest' in my future blogs, not trying to buy anything with words but simply expressing myself by being real. You are welcome to read this space whenever you like and find links to our common humanity or evidence to my underlying crazyness.

I hope you enjoy your stay in this cyber-corner of my mind, please call back soon.- Maybe you'll find something amazing here next time. Why not?

Thanks for being here,

Sophia Mertins

creative director of 'My Life' and of 'This Blog'