:Wavetales

No one goes to sleep here.
Well at 3 o clock.
And then they wonder why I sleep till 12.

Nothing gets done either.
I’m tired.
Today I tried to sew a pants… After one seam I broke the bloody needle from the machine and couldn’t find another. And no one is home. And I hate to think what hermano will say.

There’s too many things like my mother, like me.
I’m dumb.
‘
I got a bike which is nice because riding a bike is nice.

Time is passing with speed, I know. Time is not passing.

Brasil is waiting pretty soon and I should write to people about going to rosario and dance a bit.
I haven’t danced nearly as much as I tought and hoped mainly because BS AS regular jams are dying down. Jams are sometime somewhere. Well on monday and tuesday I think. On tuesday I teach before the jam so it should happen. But nothing here happens until it happens, so I should shut up about it and see does it happen. Too much of blaa blaa blaa for me eventhough I love talking. But not enough talking just blaa. And money is everywhere in blaa. Should learn the language I know I know.

I’m drifting further away from her. Or she’s drifting from me. We both know it and try to do something about it. I wish I knew what my life would be. Do I know what it is. A floor, bad posture for my back, no glasses, typing away and listening music that sound good (and no wonder it’s James Blackshaw), my feet starting to numb, have to change position soon. My life is. Life is. What can we do about it.

And I get nothing done. I say it’s others but it’s me. I could do, all by myself of course, because otherwise I end up just waiting, but I could. If I really really really wanted. Maybe this is teaching me to really really really want.

A moment. We tried to talk a bit. And I have so much love, wishing I could give to someone without conditions or needs. Brief flick of realisation that most of us spent most of our lives looking for someone who we could just give the love to. And when not successeeding we become old and bitter and ugly. I wish so much I would find it. But we are not old, bitter and ugly. And again… I’m not separate. It is all that is made. But when you feel that love and understand that helplesness where we are it’s hard to stop crying… Why I can’t just love?
What is it? love?

I think that’s where the creativity goes and comes. From the attempt to express the love… the hugeness of what we have inside, trying somehow….to express it without fear or need. Just as it is. so… it is so…

And I think sometimes, people do manage, to express that. I’m not sure are they happier after it, but I can sense it in some music, in some books, in some movies, in some dance pieces… in some discussions, in some dances, in some touches. But it’s so huge… and we are so small and yet we have it.

I’m not sure where I’m getting at.
Where I’m getting at?

I am so afraid of failing that I’m afraid of everything.
And I’m tired of being afraid.
I’m tired of failing.
I’m tired of everything.

But I’ve always been melancholic… When do I stop liking it, and see the joy or happiness as beautyfull as longing and melancholia?
I though I did it already.

I whish I knew.