heydoctordoctorplease

[heydoctordoctorplease]

When hiding tears

Don't bother drying your eyes. Just wet the rest instead.

[heydoctordoctorplease]

4K

The hazier reality becomes the more we worry about high-resolution images.

[heydoctordoctorplease]

So what if life was a performance?

Organized, theatrical and realistic, spectacular and annoying, would it be so far-fetched? There seems to be a rhythm. Can you feel it? It´s 8 o clock. The alarm clock goes off. Birds chirping from the speaker, even if you live in the center of San Paolo, on the 17th floor of a building above an avenue the size of Luxembourg You go to the bathroom and “piss, flush, brush”, you switch and flick through rhythms and melodies. “And press and step and turn”. Chewing dry bread while wearing your shoes and waling out the door. Rhythm picks up pace and movements are added. “Front, back, left, right, diagonal”, steady and organized in time. You, sir, can't you hear the clacking of your heels? Is it coincidence that you look somehow connected to that blind man's stick softly hitting the footpath? Don't those movements and sounds perfectly complement the girl flipping her hair over there? Follow her as she is crossing the street. In perfect harmony with the traffic lights, as if she has rehearsed it over and over before showing us. And if you let your gaze turn left over her shoulder, a child drags its fluffy dinosaur along the gravel in the park. Look how the sound clashes and sizes change as the cement truck passes by, creating little vibrations and tingles in our feet. If this is not a full/blown, well-organized, award-winning performance, then what is?

[heydoctordoctorplease]

La mentirosa, by Jean Cocteau.(my translation)

"Me gustaría decir la verdad. Me encanta la verdad. Pero a la verdad lo le gusto. Esa es la pura verdad: a la verdad lo le gusto. El momento que me sale de la boca, ella cambia de forma y se vuelve en mi contra! Parece que estoy mintiendo y todo el mundo se ríe de mi. Sin embargo, no me gusta la mentira, os lo juro. La mentira se arrostra líos y problemas terribles. Te caes en su trampa, andas y te tropiezas y todos se ríen de ti. Mientras es tan simple decir la verdad. Digamos que yo, por ejemplo, cuando me preguntas algo, quiero decir eso que pienso. Pero no sé qué me pasa...Algo me pasa...cómo lo digo...no puedo analizarlo...es algo como un miedo y entro en pánico...un miedo de parecer ridícula si digo la verdad. Algo me pasa y abro la boca y miento! Miento! Y ya está! Es ya tarde y no puedo retractarme. Y si te metes un pié dentro de la mentira, te perdiste. Te metes hasta el cuello. Y no hace gracia, os lo prometo. Pero qué fácil es decir la verdad! La verdad es el lujo de los perezosos. La dices y acabas. No tienes miedo de equivocarte luego, no tienes que recordar “qué dije, qué no dije..cuidado!” Cualquier cosa te puede venir de la verdad te pasa allí, te encuentra en el acto. Pero la mentira...No es un precipicio de que te caes, te matas y acabas, La mentira es una hola inmensa. Te agarra, te levanta, te corta la respiración, te para el corazón y te ata el lazo sobre el cuello. Cuando amo, digo que no amo. Cuando no amo, dijo que amo. Podéis entender las consecuencias...Mejor que alguien coja una pistola y que se vuelan la cabeza! Sin éxito me siento en frente del espejo y dijo a mi misma, por supuesto en tono muy estricto: “No mentirás ya! No mentirás ya!” Y miento otra vez...Miento, dijo mentiras pequeñas y grandes. Y si, por accidente diré alguna vez la verdad, mirad qué me hace! Ella se gira, me mira, cambia de forma y se desproporciona, y miro, y ves en frente e mi una mentira! Se convierte en una mentira, os lo juro! Yo cambiaré! No, no mentiré otra vez! Encontraré una manera de dejar de vivir dentro de la mentira, de vivir en este caos de la mentira. Vivir dentro de la mentira, sabéis qué es? Es como vivir en una habitación revuelta, Como andar en la calle por la noche en una calle llena de mallas de alambre en los que te tropiezas, les caes por encima, te arrancas... Me curaré! Encontraré un sistema de curarme. Y creo que lo encontré! Cambiaré! Sabéis cómo? Aquí, en frente de todos, confieso mi crimen. Os dijo que miento y por favor os pido que me juzguéis. Y no piensen que me parece agradable confesar a algo así. Yo iría hasta los confines el mundo para no estar obligada deciros que miento... Entonces...pero un momento...Vosotros siempre decís la verdad? A, esperad, porque yo me siento aquí llevada a juicio y no me cuestioné si el mismo juicio tiene la capacidad de juzgarme, absolverme o penalizar me. No, ahora que lo pienso, es seguro que vosotros también mentís. Vosotros además mentís constantemente! Y os gusta mentir y pensar que no mentís. Esta es la diferencia, yo no miento a mi misma. Yo admito a mi misma que miento. Esa esa la gran diferencia! Pues, la broma es para vosotros! No miento! No miento nunca! Yo os lo dije eso, lo que miento, para atraeros a una trampa! Quiero entender algo, Darme cuenta de algo. Yo no miento nunca. Odio la mentira y la mentira me odia a mi. La única mentira que he dicho de momento es la de antes, la de que miento. Ningún otro. Y ahora, por supuesto, veo vuestras caras asustándose. A todos de vosotros le gustaría irse, porque tenéis miedo de que haga alguna pregunta, no? Tu, señora, que dijiste a tu marido antes de ayer que irías a tu ropero, a dónde fuiste? No digo nada! Pero eso qué era?E, mentira era! Mentira! Mentís. Tu señor, no te ríes, porque tu también dijiste a tu mujer que irías a comer con tus amigos al club. Te acuerdas?Y no fue solo una vez que mentiste. Mientes constantemente. Atrévete refutarlo! Atrévete llamarme mentirosa! Nadie habla e? Lo sabía yo. E, claro, es muy fácil echar la culpa a otra persona, ponerla aquí y decirle que miente. Y además decirlo vosotros, vosotros que mentís constantemente! Decirlo eso a mi, que no miento nunca! Yo, si ocurre alguna vez que miento, yo lo hago por...cómo lo digo...para..evitar algún desastre, una catástrofe. Lo hago para ayudar a alguien. Son esas mentiras que llamas mentiras de contexto. Esas se permiten. Son mentiras permitido. No, no dijo muchas. No constantemente. Alguna vez, cuando es necesario. No creo que juzgáis este tipo de mentiras! Me parecería absurdo. Y además me juzgaríais vosotros a mi, que no miento nunca! Vosotros, que mentís constantemente. Entonces, antes de ayer....no so diré! Porque no me vais a creer. Y después la mentira...oh la mentira! La mentira es maravillosa! Imaginados inventar un mundo fantástico y hacer los demás creerte! Me refiero a mentir... La verdad es que la verdad es buena. Tiene su prestigie. A mi la verdad me deslumbra. Se me impone. La admiro. Vale mucho. Ambas valen...Tal vez...la mentira...vale un poco más..qué pensáis vosotros? No no, os pregunto porque yo no sé. Porque no he mentido nunca. Cómo? Mentí? Qué va! Mentí cuando dije que miento. Ahora....mentí cuando os dije que miento? O tal vez estoy mintiendo ahora que os digo que no miento? Soy una mentirosa? Vosotros qué pensáis? Yo pienso que tal vez soy una mentira. Una mentira que dice siempre la verdad!"

[heydoctordoctorplease]

10 little japanese women

There were ten little Japanese women standing in a painting One got a transfer and moved to a museum and one fell in love and set off to share it Eight little Japanese women standing in a painting One clashed with the other seven and left to seek other companions One died of a strange disease and left them all forever Six little Japanese women standing in a painting One disappeared in the middle of the night One went looking for her and hasn't come back Four little Japanese women standing in a painting One fell asleep and slipped under the frame One went swimming in the lake behind the trees 1 little Japanese woman standing in a painting It got painfully silent after a while So she got up took her very few and most prized possessions and left to seek her luck elsewhere There is a painting on the wall there used to be 10 little Japanese women standing in the middle they would greet me every morning and wish me sweet dreams every night Now it's just a meadow

[heydoctordoctorplease]

-volution

"I used to be a catterpillar, but I grew up" said the butterfly. "I used to be a tree, but they cut me down" said the magazine. "I used to be a person, but somebody got too comfortable" said the pillow.

[heydoctordoctorplease]

Chinaski

I had heard about this bar from a friend. It was called Chinaski. So I was compelled to visit it and have a drink. If it hadn't been a million degrees outside I would've had a large glass of red wine, but anyway, I decided to go for a craft beer. From a list from mostly unfamiliar names and kinds, I ended up ordering a belgian beer with 11 degreesalcoholl. It was a black beer. It felt like a meal. Maybe I should've ordered the wine.

[heydoctordoctorplease]

There once was a lady

with a magnificently large coat. Such a large coat, that the folds were big enough to hide inside them any sort of treasure, from rings and watches to grandfather clocks and antique lamps. Her sleeves were so wide and long, that she had to spend a whole morning rolling them up to find her hands and during the winter she could wear around fifty-two woolly jumpers underneath. (She had tried it once while traveling from Russia to the arctic circle to feed the reindeers). Her collar was so enormously big, that she could unfold it, open it like an umbrella, and shelter herself as well as friends and strangers. On other days, when the sky was clear and sunny and the wind light and friendly, she would once again open the collar, create great wide propellers and fly through the air, greeting surprised and confused birds. And her pockets. Oh, if someone were to see her pockets, they would most surely be lost for words. She had whole wide worlds, hidden worlds, stuffed inside her inside, outside, right and left pockets. Sometimes you would see mice, little grey and white mice sniffing around and picking on the linings. Other times flowers, pants and earth would pour out, making her sneeze sometimes. Some people swear to have jumped into the enormous and cozy bags and enjoyed a delightfully peculiar ride. When she set off to travel and explore, it would protect her from anything, serve for anything and come in handy in the most peculiar of situations. She would wander the streets of unknown cities, gazing at the wonders around her. At the end of each day, she would wrap herself in the infinite cloth, ten times, fifteen times, twenty-seven times, creating a puffy and comfortable bed. She has slept in parks and beaches, in deserts and on frozen lakes, in parking lots and underground platforms. So if you ever see a blur in the sky too big to be a bird, try listening carefully to the wind. You might hear her yelling and singing with the birds.

[heydoctordoctorplease]

Every time

I drink water after I kiss you I curse my thirst for the taste of your saliva is gone from my mouth

[heydoctordoctorplease]

Scale trouble

Perspective doctor. What a curious word. The perception of ones environment. The ability to realize distances between oneself and the world and sizes of the world itself. I can't seem to be able to do that doctor. Measuring situations and contexts becomes more and more difficult, and every day I seem to get more and more lost in scales. Instead of reading a book, or even a page, I get lost in a sentence, between the words and letters, struggling to get from one syllable to another. Comprehension itself doesn't seem to be a problem, but the immensity of it can render me helpless. I do understand doctor, but I get overwhelmed. I wander between the enormous letters, like buildings towering over me, and context doesn't seem relevant anymore. I will be swallowed by this gigantic world, so why does it matter what it means? Or is it the fact of getting swallowed exactly that which makes ones desire for understanding burn and scorch? Overwhelmed by the immensity of my environment, perspective seems something unreachable.

[heydoctordoctorplease]

my pillow

In the beginning, we protest. We do anything within our capacity to get our message across. -I don't want to be here. I scream. My food is scorching. I scream. You're not giving me enough attention. I scream. You don't understand me. I scream. I need more love. I scream. Time passes. We learn that our desires cannot always be met with shouts and tears. We have words for that. And our words slowly form demands. -I want it. I really really want it. Right now, or it's the end of the world. Or, I don't like it. I really really don't like it. I won't do it. I would rather hold my breath until I faint. And slowly, little by little, we learn and get used to drinking, eating, saying and doing things that we don't like, even despise sometimes Because that's the way the world works, we learn and later repeat. Our cries slowly die out, our shouts get silenced and are replaced by "reason". And then there are no more screams, nor tears. Expect maybe sometimes at night. (but we have pillows for that)

[heydoctordoctorplease]

extraordinary flutter

there once was an ordinary girl. she lived in an ordinary house. with an ordinary cat. she read ordinary books about ordinary people in ordinary circumstances. her ordinary days was exactly the same as the extraordinary ones she once met another girl who seemed different that herself she couldn't quite understand why she did not have any ordinary elements she did not have an ordinary smile and the gaze in her eyes was peculiarly non-ordinary the wrinkles on her hands were complicated and beautiful i looked at the girl and something beat inside me the flutter in my stomach was definitely not ordinary

[heydoctordoctorplease]

thick liquid

Doctor, I am furious. I feel like I might explode very soon doctor. And the reason is simple but excruciating. I think I am out of means. There is this sticky, unrecognizable sizzling liquid inside me and I find myself unable to find a grand enough way out for it without damaging myself or anybody else. Ironically, I feel painfully silent. You need noise doctor, if expression is a dire necessity. And I mean literal noise, no metaphors or idioms here. I mean literal, raw, brutal artistic noise. Artistic silence can become excruciating. The hot, boiling, thick liquid is pounding on the inner surface of my skin, running out my pours and pouring out of under my nails. It sometimes feels, doctor, like it all might escape one day. I worry it will explode our of my pours, burning everything inside and outside me. It will wrap itself around me, completely cover me, scorching hot and sticky. And then I fear doctor, it will, like lava, slowly dry out and create a layer of cold stone. And then there will be nothing doctor. No liquid, no noise, no necessity for expression. Sometimes that idea scares me.

[heydoctordoctorplease]

have you ever heard

of the bukowski effect, doctor? give me some time and i will elaborate on everything. I'm right in the middle of it. A perfect victim.

[heydoctordoctorplease]

a box with a view

It seems that sometimes it is impossible to stop moving and stand still for more than merely moments. Other times again it seems to be a bliss to sink into one of those moments, which slowly stretches, and time passes by differently. And then, the melody starts, and everything has a soundtrack, and everything divides itself into scenes, putting me automatically in the position of director, actor and audience. I create, deliver ans interpret. And then, the concept of film seems much more attractive. My own, small, private cinema.

[heydoctordoctorplease]

late-night notes: trains and wine

On my first visit, as usually happens with all things the first time, I hadn't realized exactly what I was being told about the apartment, enchanted by the dim morning light peering through the large window and filling the attic with a misty and musky light. It had just the right amount of romanticism to get inspired and just about not too much too get carried away in its haziness. In all fairness, the landlord, a slender man with a crooked nose and a ridiculous pasmina around his neck and shoulders, told me that the attic was right above the local town train station. “You might hear trains pass by sometimes, or stopping at the station, but I wouldn't be bothered about it. You're a writer, right? I'm sure you will find it an inspiring background melody”. He said with a smile that revealing every surface and shine of his teeth. I thought at that moment where he could stick his background melody, but to be honest I was enchanted by the small space and was more than delighted to overlook his stupidly camouflaged warning for the price he was offering it and after giving a small deposit I got the keys to my new apartment. Or maybe we should call it room, since there wasn't much of a division of space except for the bathroom. I moved in the next morning, since it wasn't really much of a hassle anyway. I had 3 large suitcases. One with clothes, shoes and bed sheets, one with books and one with everything else that didn't fit in the categories of books or clothes. In about an hour I had finished unpacking and since it was still considerably early, I decided to wait for the train station to open and head to the cantine for a coffee, or something stronger. At what I imagined was between 7 and 8 o clock, - I had forgotten my clock, I didn't own a watch or a phone, and my computer cable had given up so I couldn't turn it on – I walked down the stairs and chose the door on the right heading directly – my landlord had told me – to the train station's ticket office. I opened the door lost in thought and suddenly realized three pairs of eyes staring at me. I was standing right in the middle of the ticket office, however found myself looking at the inside of it, the side behind the glass, the safe place of the workers of the train station. The faces of two women and a man were turned towards me. Their expressions told me that they weren't quite sure if they were amused or annoyed by this sudden interruption of their automatic routine. I quickly explained that I had just moved in on the floor above and had had no idea that I was given the key to an inside entrance to the station. I was just looking for the cantine. They pointed at the door on my left. “Cantine's there” said the man without smiling, nevertheless politely. “Bring me a coffee, will ya?” said one of the women that was sitting with her back turned without even looking up. “Black, one sugar”. I was slightly but not unpleasantly taken aback by her directness and agreed while only getting a view of the back of her neck. She had a long neck. I opened the door on my left and stepped into the cantine like stepping into a different world. My ear rang with shouts of people looking for their platform, their children, their suitcases, their tickets and their sandwiches. The waiters were running here and there knocking into tables, chairs and there were several pigeons that had probably flown in through the open door feeling lucky. I ordered a black coffee with sugar and a whiskey for myself and waited a few minutes for the panicked waiter to figure out which glass to use for my drink. I got nearly water glass full of whiskey and ice. A few minutes and slugs later I went back upstairs, lightheaded from my breakfast and the commotion. Now that the train station had opened and everything was up and running, you could hear the clattering and shouts all the way to my attic and between the whistles and the train breaks every minute or so, I could hardly hear myself think, and after a while I found myself sitting in front of the window, looking at the downstairs activity, absent minded, keeping notes and drawing sketches of small figures, scenes and movements. The view was as chaotic as its soundtrack. Over the next few weeks, I got used to waking up in the middle of the night to the sudden noise of containers shifting and the first workers talking and shouting instructions to each other. After the first nights of jumping up to the bangs of the containers being put down with the delicacy of a rhinoceros, I would sit myself in front of the window, open a bottle of red wine, and stare outside until daybreak with my head spinning with thoughts and images. Other that the few morning workers, everything else was dark, highlighting the interior of the night trains passing by in the distance and the drowsy people leaning against the fogged windows. At daybreak, I would go back to sleep for a couple of hours and the moment I woke up, I would walk downstairs, greet the three backs, go to the cantine, order a whiskey and a black coffee - one sugar. Lightheaded, I would go upstairs and write about my previous night.

[heydoctordoctorplease]

una chica en mi barrio

Hay una chica en mi barrio. La veo siempre en una esquina de la Gran Vía y una carretera pequeña. Esta leyendo. Siempre. Y creo que es siempre el mismo libro. Siempre. Me paso a lado a menudo y esta allí siempre, con un vestido y un flor en su pelo. Siempre. Pero no me mira. Nunca. Y no tiene colores. Ni su libro ni su vestido, ni su flor en su pelo. Y no se mueve. Nunca. Y es de bronce. Tal vez, por eso no me ve.