סקיצות מחיים דיספונקציונליים

Was Ms. Hide Ms. Hide before she met Dr. Jackass?
If she is hiding from him why does she write it in his language?
Dr. Jackass does not speak Hebrew. She tried to teach him one word once and he sounded so funny when he said it...
Coming to this forum was the only place that seemed to fit the parts in her that loved pain.
She hoped it would be a good place to hide it, among others that loved the same pain
Pain of mental anguish and torture…
She came to write and not make friends
She had too much pain inside to let in anyone new,
But still… she appreciated your words,
The kind ones, the not so kind ones, the ones that suggested
That she capitalize her letters…
This is art goddammit. It’s a wabi sabi kind of art that is also my life

I told her,
“I have this animal inside me
I don’t know what it is,
What it wants,
What can I feed it with, so it will be satisfied…”

And that night I dreamt…
I dreamt of my animal.
Oh, I imagined and hoped so much that it would be a tiger or a lion
Roaring primal roars and running lonely through the desserts
In the moonlight
But it was a cat.
I never much cared for cats,
Always thought they were selfish and egotistical.
But nonetheless it was a cat
A white street cat with an ugly orange patch
A patch, a stain, that prevented it from being pure white and beautiful.
Its fur was also very dusty, it looked almost gray.
But I wasn’t even a fearless street cat
killing mice and navigating the urban jungles,
narrowly escaping from being killed myself
I was a street cat that lived at an apartment building entrance.
I fed of people’s scraps and attention.
I waited for people to come in and out of the building
And when they did, I stuck my head in the palm of their hands
As their hands were dangling as they walked.
Some people were startled and moved their hand away
Some people pushed me away
Some people looked at me with pity,
And if they were really in a kind mood
They let me move my head under their hand
so I could pretend that they were stroking my head.

Five days after my initial email requesting a consultation meeting
and 12 hrs after I called you to follow up on it…
And still no reply…

Shame on you, you curmudgeon.
I will not disappear if you ignore me
And I don’t believe that you are so incredibly busy
Too busy to even tell me that you are too busy,
and to tell me to fuck off.
You are unprofessional
You are playing a stupid game
You are only punishing yourself
You may treat me like shit but I won’t say a word
I will just be more angry inside and cold and silent to you
Which will give you great satisfaction.
But you will only lose me as an allay and a friend.
You did it before, and even joked about how you failed to ignore me
And that pushed me too far, and I lost my temper and I retaliated
And you were impressed and full of new respect to me afterwards,
And you even spoiled me a little, and tried to make up for it…
But not for long.
Because at the end you get the last laugh over this rebellion
Because you show me who is the master again.
You control the rewards, the letters of recommendation
And you remind me of this by doing as you please and ignoring me again
It’s your game. You win. Happy now?
But it will be a silent victory for you this time.
You will not provoke me to lose my temper again,
And one day I will have enough, and I will demand to switch you. Permanently.
And you will regret it-I have the feeling,
Because with all your puffed up ego and narcissism
You need the support of your servants and slaves.
Even ill tempered mean masters like you
rise and fall with the support of people.
Especially you, who likes to flirt and taunt,
give and withhold attention and praise at whim,
you love and need to see your impact, the painful result of how you behave
But maybe I will teach you something,
that even you cannot be too cruel to your slave.

Only with you a work meeting ends up feeling like a date
You have an office. Why in a coffee shop?
But I wanted to see what you were up to when you suggested that
And indeed you delivered-like I knew you would.
You came and sat next to me on the long bench.
Yes, it was to look at the material on the small table in front of me,
but it was very very close
With no other man it would have been a comfortable distance.
But you took a stance and you sat. Like it was your right
And fuck-I guess I gave you that right.
And it pissess me off that you know it.
Two people sitting so close, looking only at each other for an hour
Our knees bumped once or twice,
The glass windows were huge,
Anybody who would have walked by
If they were to look, would have said-they are a couple.
But I didn’t much care.
The though that we might seem like a couple was exiting.
I guess you didn’t give a damn yourself.
Only later came the tormenting combination of passion and guilt.
Why did I let you do that to me.
Or did we do it to each other?
Of course you know what you did
But of course we didn’t talk about that either.
We never talk about it.
We just act out slightly
And then pretend business is as usual.
Or maybe it’s in my head and I am delusional?

When I heard you had a new girlfriend I was so mad and hurt and angry. The pain was unbearable. Could it have been me if I were not already with my good master? I was enraged just imagining that she gets to be fucked by you. And I wanted to tell her that I knew your dark side and I wanted to tell her, you poor soul, run from him. Run. You are too good for him and he will be bored with you in no time.
And I saw the flowers on her desk-probably from you. Mr. Color coordinated by season. You started wearing mustard colored pants lately and the flowers were brown and yellow. You even had some new shirts on. I knew she took you shopping, that’s what I would do too. I wanted to throw the flowers dripping in her face. But then I saw her stupid smile, so kind and so naïve and I just walked away. Tomorrow I will see you walking by, saying a quick hi, with your stupid new pants and an aloof smile, of a guy who fucked his new girlfriend last night.

My good master
He’s better then you,
He’s more handsome then you
He loves me like a real man should do,
Is that why you punish me too?

Sometimes when I wake up
and remember all of yesterday’s pains,
humiliations, vices and misgivings.
I lie in bed and think
Fuck, I need to do that again??

Wabi Sabi in Japanese means the love of that which is imperfect,
Like the shabby piece of furniture we keep in our house
despite the fact it fits nothing else…

In her dream Wabi Sabi was a deep yellow powdered spice
She tried to buy it in Africa in the desert
from a Bedouin merchant with a wobbly little stand
They haggled for a while and couldn’t agree on a price
And then the merchant left,
And she grabbed the spice and ran.
She ran and ran with the little jar,
Into the horizon.
But the horizon was just a painted screen of a horizon,
Beautifully painted,
And she ripped through the cardboard
and fell into the unknown.
Fell into awakening.

You are so ugly, that you are already beautiful.
Your facial features are such a strange combination,
Strangely they somehow work.
Your presentation is so collected,
so cool and calm and tucked together
that your real personality,
all your own vices and dysfunctions
seep through the cracks
you will be surprised
how much I know about you
Sometimes I want to prance in front of you with my laciest bra,
and my skimpiest thong
let you see what you desire
and see what you will do

I sit and I write into the day, into the night,
I write what you are going to read.
And when I finished painstakingly laboring over it,
I send it to you, only to get no reply.
When I remind you a few days later,
you look at me with this passive aggressive lazy look
and you say “I might get to it tonight”
“It’s good stuff” I say.
“Yes?” you ask.
Your eyes light up and with a sparkle in them you ask “is it like good bedside read?”
And you give me that intense look of yours
and I wonder if you can read my mind and see me imagining
you in bed curling up with your laptop that night.
Curling up with my writing. With me.
I imagine you have an immaculately clean house.
Everything cream and beige and white, even your sheets,
everything except the pillow you lean on as you read,
it has some little pattern on it.
Dots or graphics, it must have something on it,
maybe some funny print, because you must have a flaw,
something to teach me something about you.
A graphic pillow will do.
But I bite my tongue and I just answer to you
“I don’t know” and I shrug my shoulders.
But I do know, oh I do.
Because you will have spent hours with my writing,
checking every word as usual
I can see it in the times you inserted your comments.
You must have taken a break in the middle.
It was a lot of work for you,
just as it was a lot of work for me,
because I write it brilliantly every time-you see,
just to get it back all red with comments.
It’s like you have a special red ink bottle just for me.
Boy I dread the red.
But that’s our arrangement my master
That you are the master and I am your slave.
That even though it is littered with red
You will say again how good it is already,
And that you have “just a few comments…” for me
And again you will say how good I am, and that the others should write like me,
But this one still “just needs a little more work…”
And I will do the work- you see,
just to have you say that again and again
How good I am
And my punishment for being good would be more work.
so we will fight relentlessly, me adding comments to yours
and you commenting to me…. We will go at it several times passionately
Because this is our mating ceremony, I am sure you see.
It will only end with you pushing me against the wall and closing in on me
Making me accept your comments and your ultimate word
Before you agree that it is finished already
and that you can safely add your signature next to me.