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.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

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 (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.)