You know that you have been without lovin' for way to long when seeing a picture like this invokes a chubby of a different breed for no reason whatsoever.

From Post Secret this weekend and too true. I keep letting him back for a night every few months cause I know that no matter what he says it's the last I'll hear from him for weeks. I learned after the first time not to get hurt and now it's just something that helps break up the monotony of solitude.

See you in April, baby.

He is waiting for a bus. A transfer, actually, halfway between home and the people he's left behind, all of whom drove home to their sheltered little boxes. The lack of transportational assistance makes him feel both indignant and proud that he isn't like them. Couldn't be if he tried and right now he enjoys that, in no small part due to the unseasonably balmy weather. Also helping his mood is that he is at one of his favourite busstops. He thinks it odd to have preferred stops but then again this is hardly the most bizarre of his idiosyncrasies. This is one of those mega-stops where about two dozen buses stop, which always leads to a fascinating motley crew of people waiting around. The urban wannabe couples are a popular archetype tonight; the tall men in baggy pants with their petite lady friends wearing the opposite, but both in jackets with fur-lined collars. There is always a fair bit of affection, nothing too intimate, just some hugs and hair kisses, made all the more sweet due to the practical nature of body heat in winter. It would make him sick with jealousy if he for a moment wanted their lives. No, he prefers to stand alone. He feels alone, ever the observer. Sometimes he imagines himself at the bus stop where he is, acting as they act and it makes him smile, not because he finds it remotely appealing but rather because the idea of finding himself in this situation is ridiculous. Is there anything more counterproductive than a romantic defeatist? he wonders. He also stands alone to get a better look at the beautiful ones. Both genders may qualify, but rarely does a woman make the cut. She needs to stand out, through stature or dress, perhaps her nose. He finds himself staring at tall girls with pixie noses most often, quite the opposite of those waiting tonight. For the men he has much lower standards or perhaps he's just learned not to care as much. Once you've had your share of variety you become more forgiving towards clothing, mannerisms. While his eye naturally goes to the lanky, woolen coat-garbed hair product afficionados, he is always more intrigued by the blue collar types. He chastises this fetish as elitist but secretly loves the classist voyeurism. Bonus point for being short or wearing skateboard shoes; two for carrying a hockey stick. He likes to find the most intriguing one and stare as much as possible without being caught or noticed by the other soon-to-be passengers. Sometimes there are two and he must split his focus back and forth; a pervy tennis match, he thinks. For love. Tonight, however, his singular attention is drawn to one who meets the short requirement; spikey blond hair, eyes of a boy bander, sneakers. Close enough. The boy's posture is appaling, which is just fine. He loves flaws; makes it safer to have his own. Exchanging what he dislikes about himself is practically foreplay in the right setting. The wind picks up, chilly, filling the air not with scent so must as olfactory sensation. It is a feeling of smell, like if he could see with his mouth or taste with his ears. It is the wind that comes on a night when it is warmer than it should be and reminds you that this is your fortune and not your right, that you are existing in privilege within its warmth, bringing you down a few notches. It is the wind of tears, causing them to spring forward not only as the involuntary reaction to air on eye but also as a reminder that this moment is simply a compilation of these same winds which came before during actual memories. These were moments that will be remembered, not like this, a pathetic game played at a busstop to pass the time and to forget that he is standing there alone. As the water evaporates off of his eyes, his vision becomes clear once again and he sees the boy looking at him looking at the boy. He turns away and runs a gloves finger along his lashes, wiping the corpses of tears away. The bus pulls up.

This is a translation to a piece I'm auditioning with in New York next week. I just translated it today with my teacher and while I always knew the overall themes of the song, I had no idea how beautifully horrible its implications were. The poet wrote this for his daughter who struggled through life with depression and mental health issues and the title, Shimri Nafshech, means "guard your soul". His daughter would later kill herself.


Guard your soul, guard your strength, guard your soul
Guard your life, your mind, guard your life
From a falling wall, from a burning roof, from a covering shadow
From a light stone, from a knife, from nails

Guard your soul, from the one who starts fire, from the one who cuts
From the one who is close to you like earth and like sky
From the one who is inanimate, the one who waits, the one who pulls
And the one who kills, like the water in the well, like the fire of an element
Guard your soul and your mind, the hair on your head
Guard your skin, guard your soul, guard your life

This is a summer's evening, it would seem
It would seem only to be a good summer's evening
Familiar and old
That should bring acts of goodness and mercy
Not fear and not whispers of suspicion and words of guilt
One that comes with the smell of food cooking
And with the lantern that gives light
Until we should rest and sleep
Only a summer's evening, hot and good, it would seem
Only a summer's evening that comes with no fear

Here the wind sends hands and without a whisper
Suddenly a window slowly opens in the darkness
Say why you laugh in fear
Say why you are frozen with happiness
Say why the world is still so foreign
And fire and water look at it from every side
Say why in this world your life is flailing
Like a frightened bird in a palm
Say why you search and shake so much
Like a bird in a room looking for a window

Guard your tired soul, guard your soul
Guard your life, your mind, guard your life
The hair on your head, your skin, guard your beauty
Guard your good heart
It is all found in your hand

No bloggy this week. I'm too tired from, well, life. I do have three new notes on Facebook though, including one that I created based on La Vie Boheme.

New York audition next week. Guess who's kinda losing his shit. This guy.