Home-coming away from Home.
What's that? I can hardly remember what is it like thinking and reflecting about my day. Perhaps I should re-kindle that, a home-coming, ironically in New York, and so far from home. Perhaps it is that very distance, or perhaps the anti-consumerism magazine that I was introduced to today "Adbusters". Perhaps I was earning for that one thing that kept me being me.
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Orange blouse and sketchbook in a metalbox.
She, in her orange blouse, very short denim shorts, sexy legs, mixed-blood heritage, sat next to the last door of the carriage, that metal box the screeched through the bellies of New York. She had a nice diary out, one of those without lines; I like those without restricting lines. She was using a purple pen.
Scribbling away, not caring about the rushed in-outs of the metal-box's commuters, all fatigued from the rushing of day. I was one of them. I took my seat across hers. Then I started to see her eye-shadowed eyes moving up and down. She was taking quick glances at the man-with-a-book. She kept the glances. Up, down, up, down; she was sketching the man with the book, and I was sketching her with my mental strokes.
Then he got up and left. And that intensity in her eyes left her too. She never saw me see her see him.
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The Cat and I.
I awake, startled, by mewing. And as my eyes adjusted to the non-dream reality of the room's darkness, I see the cat on my belly. It wanted to play. It was 3am. I shrug that reality conveniently away.
Again, I was roused, this time more subtly but I couldn't really put a finger on the reason. But I didn't need to put any finger on the reason as it become quite apparent that it was my nose that was on the reason that got me awake; the cat's nose was on mine. It wanted to play. It was 4am.
Living in the house of this lovely couple, the experience came along with having 4 cats in the house. Not just any cats, but ones that were flea-struck and now being quarantined in the house. In rebellion, they shit everywhere, peed on my suitcase (very much smells like overnight rubbish in the streets on a summers morning, but just that it lingers far longer on the fabric of my luggage) and disturb you at odd hours.
But somehow, just somehow, I can't bring myself to get angry. The cat is looking at me now with its emerald eyes saying: @#%GHHYTim &*&(kk *U
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My first..."they were at MY table"
Since I'm at work on weekdays, there is not much to share. Awaiting the weekends where I can put up pictures as well and do things that I have been daydreaming about the whole week.
But Clarins so far has been a pleasant experience. Had dinner with 2 fellow interns this evening at a french restaurant Cafe Charbonne. One of the best meals in a long time. And for the first time, a dinner with 2 very beautiful French girls.
And yes, these French ladies were actually eating with me, not at the neighbouring table, as its been the case all other dinners in French restaurants. We all get our firsts.
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"Corporate Mindfuck" everywhere. Beware.
Quote of the day: We all need to pull out of the "corporate mindfuck" that advertisements, corporate pimps and consumerism has plunged us into. Lest our mindscape becomes a total desert.
