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Secret and private are hopelessly mixed up in the IP address world.
Damn all the privacy freaks and leaks, they’ve made pointless security a big business today. Everywhere is a cornucopia of outrage about the country and all that it knows about you, that it shouldnt and how it manipulates your life to suit its convenience. I have no idea what these countries and their peoples know about me, or what they can possibly use.
My identity? Its not in a piece of paperplasticrock, take all of em away, I’ll make more.
My life? I am human, I am woman. I love, I understand, I write, I drink. How is it unique?
My privacy? I have a stalker, had one for a few years now, not sure why, but sure means my life’s had meaning. Hey, it pissed off some random dude/babe enough to stalk me, thank you darling, kiss kiss bang bang.
I pay taxes, all of ‘em, no cuts, no attempts. I also rage, fight, I am a street urchin with a purse.
Um think I have not a damn thing to hide, or maybe yes, ask again when im sober. On my own, just private, my deepest feelings are mine, guarded, not for sale, not for any price, but not particularly afraid,
If some cunning con did get hold of them. so be it, so be life. Their loss, of the marvel of life, not mine. I tend to view threats to my freedom very seriously, but privacy seems hyped in the average life, mine.
These rumorers and theorists, these tend to be Sheep with an accumulation past tolerance, a graveyard of secrets that burned civilizations and cut hearts, these are real weird growths.
We all like to own our souls, not turn them into marketplace muffins, but some baffle logic, and they persist, and they perpetuate.
For me, its crazy to try to kill someone to hold a secret, what the hell can be so precious? Think about it, yes, no?
Are the regular Sheep so gullible that a state secret in plain sight, revealed on website, television, someday, can convince billions and billions to change direction?
Hah. You must be fucking kidding me, a friend of mine likes to say.
Maybe not, I am no statistician, just one of the derelicts of time, a backwards double jointed crab-pelican creature, one of those wretched soldiers with a powerful will and no innate wisdom.
Damn, I want to be a star wars hero, why are my fingers making me a fucking bunny rabbit with man parts and a god complex?
My laptop is quite cranky today,
I am waiting out a demon of ugliness, stationary like lead inside my heart today, that settled with a word, practically one word.
Dunno why I didn’t beam my pain and anger immediately, it gathers now at the back of my spine like a storm, growing on ignorance, as I pretend it doesnt exist, nothing changed, that I can go back to a state before explosion. But my spine knows, something has altered, something has congealed and become unalterable.
I must I should, have seen it come, realized some visions are always six by one, they take time expanding, time I do not have. And I know, I have been granted a key here, an opportunity has presented itself loud and demanding, grasping both its hands on the sides of my head, forcing focus.
But ive become, somewhere along the winding flower garden road, a myopic house cat, I dunno if I can go off the cream and start leaping the barriers again, dogged, ruthless and sharp. Extending hands grasp my head and force my hand, to see, comfort is a deadly thing, stationary and sure, sitting ducks come to mind. Our guardian angels like to keep us hungry in the pit.
Perhaps, this is why some blind dingbat takes on lifes mantle every now and then, to sweep us change. Ugh, but I hate this side of humanity, hate seeing it in action, hate understanding it, hate admitting to it, hate descending into it, a long dark angry pit of snakes, but it exists, it is needed, it must breathe every now and then, if not for long.
For now I am stationary, I cannot see beyond the word, my vision too has become six by one. I grieve, for life as it was, for a nice sunny ball of wool I was happy swat-tangling, I grieve because I cannot recapture my altered spine, I cannot fight for what has settled in lead, I grieve for the moment I gave up a path I had myself chosen to lead, I grieve because it was thrust on me, and I feel powerless and disillusioned.
Most painful to give up our own choices, since we know the blood we shed to make each one. Most painful to admit to a mistake, a big fat clawing misery of a mistake. Easier to go along with other hands holding us hostage to life, deciding our paths and making our beds, always someone to blame for our failures, our losses, our little broken flotsam boats.
Giving up beyond salvage is always a difficult thing, change is always rebirth, small or big, like regrowing an arm or a soul. Change is always slow and difficult, with constant regression into comfort.
The road flies like a pendulum snapped mid-swing. Right now, I have no idea where it will land.
There used to be a compass in my handbag for a few years. It was free with something, and very nice looking, black and gold and plastic. I liked knowing which was north and the novelty of a compass in my handbag. And I don’t throw stuff away, even the most useless piece of junk from 1992 that I will never look at again is buried carefully somewhere in my home in India
A few days back, early morning, I checked my handbag and the compass was gone. I dunno when I lost it, where I put it, I haven’t needed a compass for 8 years now. That day, I wanted to know where east lay. I was up early and I wanted to see a sunrise. Sunrises are rare for me, I tend to sleep between 2-4 am.
Back home, if I was up early or up all night, I went to the terrace and looked around. It would be silent but for the occasional vehicle, there would be birds chattering excitedly.
Here, I pulled snow boots on my onesie, a giant furry down jacket, yak hair scarf, woollen gloves, and my keys. Then I went sojourning.
The deck, is locked, points the wrong way anyways. The tennis court, is locked. I rode up the elevator to the 24th floor. The roof, is locked. The windows point wrong. I went down to the skyway, walked about for half a mile, then from the angle of elongated rays, I figured out which way lay east.
The only way east for me, on foot and muffled to the gills, was through a parking lot. I went, it was empty but for one dirty white sedan. But the sun was rising. I climbed up four flights so I could see above the skyway.
And I saw it bright and clear and beautiful and timeless. Somewhere above me, birds chirped. I had the absurd urge to cry.
The regret cut deep, that there was no one beside me to share this moment. I’m working on it.
There are very very few people in this world I want to share a sunrise with. I don’t want someone beside me who’ll have to be dragged against their will and sleep, to stand beside me going – dude, its just a sunrise, get over it.
And of course you’re not supposed to look directly at the sun. And of course I looked anyway. Turns out, I am ok with the news item, she went blind staring at a sunrise
you have to dress to kill
in short and low and black
walk a mile
with a glittering diamond
on each hand, with a small
jewel handbag, high heels
a billion dollar smile
at midnight, all alone
to understand freedom
you have to see the world
in a leopard skin jumpsuit
so tight you can breathe
every now and then
but the ripples around
make it worth your while
you learn what a little change
you have to live
life in a black shroud
with a square window
for your eyes
you have to blend into a crowd
perfect with sweat and bleeding tears
you have to spread your hair
unwash your face
you have to tear your clothes
and ravage your skin with age
you have to be ignored
on grand scales
before you understand need
you have to shorten your skirts
and plunge your neck
show vast windows of scarred skin
and bury your soul
you have to live
like an aging porn star
with a new disease
to understand sympathy
you have to burn your skin
with lil cigarette fires
you have to wear makeup
with a dash of hydrochloric acid
you have to take a knife
to slice your loins in two
to understand abuse
you have to wait
on a row of endless clones
for your turn to go up
and take a seat
that they refused
because you were weak
with breasts and a womb
you had a single purpose
for the world, till today
you have to wait and
Statutory Warning – Explicit Content and Language
I had a weird day today. Two wrong numbers during the day (I have been in this country over a year now, but I only got about 3 wrong numbers in 12 months). Then I was asked out by some guy on my way to somewhere. Ok man, I admire his cojones, I might have been some strange psycho bitch (in fact I was) but he came right up and asked me out, Thank you no thank you and I moved on. Didnt ruffle me too much. Decent chap, I was alone, but he didnt try any funny stuff.
And what disturbed me was, in the night, some genius sends me a video of his dick. I assume it was an entire mood piece of him masturbating, but didn’t check, home made porn tends to be dull with bad lighting and poor actors
I replied saying wrong number, and pretended I was a dude. And the guy writes right back asking if I liked it, so in fact, he knows damn well im not. So of course, I called him. Voice Mail. Called again, Voice Mail. And he has put in his name in the voice message, I get a clear shot of his name and accent. Indian dude. Of course.
And now I am PISSED. I thought I had left behind this particular class of human being when I landed in this country. Morons with the “Oo check out my stunning penis” fixation.
And theyre crawling out of the woodwork again. Ok to be fair, one is, so far this place has been good to me.
But I never understand the motivation. Am I supposed to be scared? Humiliated? Flattered? Turned on? Fall in love? (yeah this ought to be classy)
WHAT goddammit? WTF is the reaction these men expect? Will SOMEONE please explain the psyche of Moron Man to me? Did this genius just have so much blood loss from an erection that he couldnt use his single cellular brain?
Is this another brand of psycho stalker? The guy is naked, anonymous and cowardly. And I am supposed to be scared of him? Bring it bitch.