Monday to Sunday

Monday's child is fair of face.
Tuesday's child is full of grace.
Wednesday's child is full of woe.
Thursday's child has far to go.
Friday's child is loving and giving.
Saturday's child works hard for a living,
But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day
Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

- by Mother Goose

Silence vs. Honesty

I am feeling so cold and hot at the same time, still overwhelmed by tiredness and exhaustion. Waiting for the perfect time to cry, I’m amazed that I can still hold it. I thought that I would be free soon and that I could leave everything and everyone behind and start a new chapter again. Wrong. It is the first time that I actually realized that things don’t always go my way and that I can’t have them as I wish. I never thought that I was so selfish like that. The thought of being stuck here is depressing me. It’s just a matter of time how long the others will stick with me. I’m not sure whether I’m ready to make any more effort. If I could only just shut up and leave for good. I’m not even telling my sister any secrets anymore. Don’t think she’s interested. She doesn’t even seem to know me. And my parents’ attitude towards me has changed, too. I act like a wandering ghost and they don’t recognise me anymore. What am I talking…it’s my attitude that has changed. My family knows nothing about me except my past uncontrollable anger and bad temper. How I just use their money for my own advantage.
I wear Saturn on my back and Rorschach’s signature on my wrist. I have so many horrible things to say, but I can’t spit them out. I don’t want to hurt anyone and I don’t want to lose any more people that I care about. Having lost a good friend is bad enough. If I open my mouth now you will all turn away afterwards. And I can’t let honesty do this to me. Not this time. I don’t know why everything has become so hard all of a sudden.

Elephants on acid

Back from the Hurricane Festival, which I claim to be my last festival ever, but I don't often believe what I say to myself anyway. Sometimes you shouldn't either. Here I again feel challenged by the future. Well, however, I wonder why I make such an effort for people whom don't give a shit about me. Suffering rain, cold, noisy drunk arseholes that piss outside your tent! Anyways, those people supported me with the music they make. So I let them off. Just not sure whether I'm ready to pull the same thing through again. Being around extreme party animals is a big issue for me. I get scared when they scream and when the alcohol begins to talk through them. What I find sad is the fact that they think they are funny, they think they are causing good moods. They just don't know how ridiculous they are. Ordinary people. Boring.

Three days no proper sleep. I was close to hallucinating. Severe tiredness is like being on drugs. Feels funny. I want to see what happens if I don't sleep for like 4 days (with no naps in between). There was a psycho woman in late 19th century who tried to keep her puppies awake for almost five days. They died. If this had interested her so much, why didn't she try it on herself? There was actually someone in the 70s who managed 266,5 hours without sleep. So I think 5 days without sleep would kill me instantly. I can't imagine why that person didn't even faint during that experiment. I mean you cannot force your body to anything. If your body is tired, it's tired. And it would force you to fall asleep by making you unconscious, wouldn't it?

I'm getting more interested in experiments. What's wrong with trying this and that? See how far you can go. I know my limits, but not all of them, not all interest me much. Only those who seem extraordinary.

I need the book "Saturday" by Ian McEwan. If I only could concentrate on reading nowadays. It used to be three books a week and now it's one every two months.

I have fallen in love with Saturn. Mainly with what this planet symbolises. It's the planet of my favourite God from the Greek Mythology - Cronos. Yes, the father of Zeus, the one who ate his children, the father-castrator. He is the God of Harvest and the origin of the Grim Reaper. He carries the sickle of death and destruction. My connection to Saturn? I was born on a Saturday. Never knew that the number 6 had a meaning in my life. 6 and 9 (life path number). 6 and 9 form the symbol of the astrological Cancer sign. Why is this freaking me out so much? I should stop getting myself paranoid like that.

Kiss this

Extremely stressed. Don't need this shit. Need mask for the day. Turning into my masked anti-hero. He never compromises. I never take party. On no one's side. Not even on friends'. Proved to myself. Of being a bad friend. Don't need this anymore. Sociopath. At least not fake. Can't keep mouth shut anymore. People agree and disagree. People sue you. Gone soon. Nothing holds me back. Except dear family. Only precious. Though they don't know me. No one does. Ain't important. Tears of anger. Water flowing like emotions. Drying up on the skin. Sick of being. Sick of listening. Keep door shut. Let no one in. Smooth-talkers and counsellors. They know shit. Want my body. Want my soul. You ain't getting any. Kiss this.

Farewell is nigh

I forgot how to dance – like the bird in the evening sky. I see nothing around me except rational perception coming from people’s mouths. Uninteresting. Everyone sees things differently and thus is unable to connect himself/herself to the one he/she feels attracted to or the one he/she loves. I don’t tell people that I know how they feel. Why lie? Just to make them feel better? The phrase “I know how you feel” is not just overused, it is also not a true statement.

My shadow on the wall is my biggest imitator. No one knows my moves as precisely as he does, except for the person I see in the mirror. That person can predict your very facial expression. How fascinating is this? That person helps you in getting to know yourself. Those who wear masks like my anti-heroes are in self-denial unfortunately. They don’t want to be who they really are, because they are scared of who they really are.

North Korea is threatening with atomic weapons. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The last thing I need is prejudice against oriental looking people. The Iraqis and Pakistanis had been in a tough time in the last eight years. Now all governments are turning more and more right-wing. On the one hand it’s comprehensible, but on the other it is scary. I can see the racism from the 60s reoccurring.

Two more months and I’ll be leaving. Not many even know about that. And I’m tired of the question “When is it you’re leaving? When, when, when?” Cut it off…I’ll let you know a day before I go. A heartless statement isn’t it? Isn’t it enough to know that it is going to be SOON? To hell with last minute meet ups, I got better things to do. Time is now. Sometimes it suffices to just be remembered. You couldn’t ask for more.

Hurm

There are less and less spoken words each day, because currently each sentence lacks of meaning or I just don’t get it. So it better remains unspoken, before they even lose more meaning. I’ve grown very detached from conversations; therefore I’m not looking forward to going to doctor’s this morning. He will talk everything that makes sense to him, which however will have no meaning to me or my perception. I need a REAL teacher. I hope today’s going to be my last visit. Well, it IS going to be my last visit. Just want to go and tell him that I quit the tablets about three months ago and that I’m uhh doing fine. What does he care anyway… There is just one thing that bothers me. I have trouble breathing again. Shall I go check for asthma (again?!)? I remember back in England I went to the doctor’s three times just to check whether my lungs were alright and each time my doctor said that I was fine. That was when she presumed that I was suffering from panic attacks. I couldn’t tell at that time, because I’d never had those before, not until I was 22. Back then, I got pulled asunder and this is how I’ve put myself back together. I wouldn’t say that I’m suffering from panic attacks now, because I’m quite relaxed. At least I think so. Hope so.

How come only I can see how I’ve aged? A freckled worn out face, thin hair that lacks of volume and weird body curves. Ah yes, I’m no longer 21, I forgot. I will remember next time.

Have you ever noticed that silence doesn’t exist? It’s in your imagination. Peace doesn’t exist either. Tranquility or quietude…all an illusion. Nevertheless, we see it as some kind of a condition. To Simon and Garfunkel silence is the biggest disturbance ever, it creates tension and interrupts. It’s like thousands of words exploding in your head, but nobody knows except you. But to me silence is still waters that run deep.

Last week I ate an old peach. After three bites the whole core broke in half. First I noticed the mould in the core and then the earwig, which appeared to be dead. At that time I hadn’t quite realized what was happening, until I suddenly saw its antennae moving. It was alive. So I put the peach back down on the plate and wondered whether I should put my finger down the throat or simply scream. In the end I did none of that. I was trying to divert myself by thinking of the dead animals that I eat. They surely screamed. Also I was thinking of people in China who eat insects, so in a way it is actually normal. At the very end it was just pointless for me to scream or feel disgusted. I would have another peach now, but fresh please.

My latest story is exactly 4000 words long. My syntax and style are original, but they don’t make sense to many people. It was the same at university, so I don’t want to know what it reads like now, because I’ve not been speaking English and I’ve not been reading many English books lately. So it is obvious that I need to get back into writing fiction. The latest story “The bystanders” deals with the bystander effect – simply watching people getting hurt whilst doing nothing but watch. And yes it was inspired by my biggest comic hero (even bigger than Batman now). It’s always the ruthless anti-heroes, who do this to me. Their mystery and torment are so intriguing that I immediately fall in love. So I start romanticizing about those who try to hide their identities and then fantasize about them opening themselves up to me, only to me. Showing me what it is like to be trusted, because I don’t know. Many real life people don’t tell me much. But then I’ve always been the one who refused to be the best friend. I’m drifting away from the topic… Well, certain comic fans will probably hate my story, because “my” Rorschach compromises for love. I have actually ruined his ideal and purpose. But in the comic Rorschach talks about lust and sex, he watches how a naked couple is about to make love and he had an obscene dream about his mother amalgamating with a man during sex and he had dirty feelings. If this information doesn’t imply something, then I don’t know. I know he was able to love, that’s all. I wasn’t necessarily trying to change him.

Weird noises outside. Makes it hard to sleep with windows open. I try to avoid going to bed at 4am, because at this time there would always be two crazy drivers around. One of them would stop outside my neighbour’s house for a while and the other would dash from one drive to the other. Never actually saw him coming into our drive. Still scary. Then another night I heard a man scream. It was hard to figure out whether it was a scream of pain or what. There was no second scream, though. I just don’t want to hear those two cars tonight.

Hurm

There are less and less spoken words each day, because currently each sentence lacks of meaning or I just don’t get it. So it better remains unspoken, before they even lose more meaning. I’ve grown very detached from conversations; therefore I’m not looking forward to going to doctor’s this morning. He will talk everything that makes sense to him, which however will have no meaning to me or my perception. I need a REAL teacher. I hope today’s going to be my last visit. Well, it IS going to be my last visit. Just want to go and tell him that I quit the tablets about three months ago and that I’m uhh doing fine. What does he care anyway… There is just one thing that bothers me. I have trouble breathing again. Shall I go check for asthma (again?!)? I remember back in England I went to the doctor’s three times just to check whether my lungs were alright and each time my doctor said that I was fine. That was when she presumed that I was suffering from panic attacks. I couldn’t tell at that time, because I’d never had those before, not until I was 22. Back then, I got pulled asunder and this is how I’ve put myself back together. I wouldn’t say that I’m suffering from panic attacks now, because I’m quite relaxed. At least I think so. Hope so.

How come only I can see how I’ve aged? A freckled worn out face, thin hair that lacks of volume and weird body curves. Ah yes, I’m no longer 21, I forgot. I will remember next time.
Have you ever noticed that silence doesn’t exist? It’s in your imagination. Peace doesn’t exist either. Tranquility or quietude…all an illusion. Nevertheless, we see it as some kind of a condition. To Simon and Garfunkel silence is the biggest disturbance ever, it creates tension and interrupts. It’s like thousands of words exploding in your head, but nobody knows except you. But to me silence is still waters that run deep.

Last week I ate an old peach. After three bites the whole core broke in half. First I noticed the mould in the core and then the earwig, which appeared to be dead. At that time I hadn’t quite realized what was happening, until I suddenly saw its antennae moving. It was alive. So I put the peach back down on the plate and wondered whether I should put my finger down the throat or simply scream. In the end I did none of that. I was trying to divert myself by thinking of the dead animals that I eat. They surely screamed. Also I was thinking of people in China who eat insects, so in a way it is actually normal. At the very end it was just pointless for me to scream or feel disgusted. I would have another peach now, but fresh please.

My latest story is exactly 4000 words long. My syntax and style are original, but they don’t make sense to many people. It was the same at university, so I don’t want to know what it reads like now, because I’ve not been speaking English and I’ve not been reading many English books lately. So it is obvious that I need to get back into writing fiction. The latest story “The bystanders” deals with the bystander effect – simply watching people getting hurt whilst doing nothing but watch. And yes it was inspired by my biggest comic hero (even bigger than Batman now). It’s always the ruthless anti-heroes, who do this to me. Their mystery and torment are so intriguing that I immediately fall in love. So I start romanticizing about those who try to hide their identities and then fantasize about them opening themselves up to me, only to me. Showing me what it is like to be trusted, because I don’t know. Many real life people don’t tell me much. But then I’ve always been the one who refused to be the best friend. I’m drifting away from the topic… Well, certain comic fans will probably hate my story, because “my” Rorschach compromises for love. I have actually ruined his ideal and purpose. But in the comic Rorschach talks about lust and sex, he watches how a naked couple is about to make love and he had an obscene dream about his mother amalgamating with a man during sex. If this information doesn’t imply something, then I don’t know. I know he was able to love, that’s all. I wasn’t necessarily trying to change him.

Weird noises outside. Makes it hard to sleep with windows open. I try to avoid going to bed at 4am, because at this time there would always be two crazy drivers around. One of them would stop outside my neighbour’s house for a while and the other would dash from one drive to the other. Never actually saw him coming into our drive. Still scary. Then another night I heard a man scream. It was hard to figure out whether it was a scream of pain or what. There was no second scream, though. I just don’t want to hear those two cars tonight.

The bystanders

July 8th 1967, Saturday

Yesterday was Kitty Genovese’s birthday. It would have been her thirty-second. I turned twenty-five yesterday and spent the entire night working at the bar, listening to old men babbling about President Johnson whilst playing poker. One of them was Michael Voorhees. He is a sixty-three year old fellow whose wife died last month. They say that she died of cancer and never went to see a doctor about it in first place. I wonder how she had managed to hide her pain from him. I’m sure there is no true love evident behind all this. Voorhees lives in the same neighborhood as Fred, which is in the Bronx. That is why I know about him. Fred brought Voorhees along to the bar that evening. He even decided to open the bar a little bit earlier than usual, because Voorhees was in a very bad state and needed some cheering up. I was actually hoping for an early night at work, so that I could go spend the night with Fred in the Bronx, but I already gave up on that thought when I noticed that Fred seemed to care more about that old man. I told him last week that I wanted to spend the night with him and a bottle of red wine. After all we were having red wine at the bar together. However, there was no “happy birthday”. I’m sure that one day I will get to the point where birthdays are absolutely meaningless to me. I remember being scared of the heart dying; that the child in me would eventually grow up and wither. I think losing the enthusiasm in one’s birthday is already a serious symptom. My mother used to value her birthday a lot and gradually I’m beginning to wonder why. When I saw Fred laughing at the table with Voorhees, I knew that the old man hadn’t had such a good time in ages. His cheeks were burning red and it looked like his cheekbones were about to burst out. For some reason I couldn’t look at them any longer and I went to clean up the glasses in the kitchen. We left the bar at around 4:30am. All of them appeared to be kind of sober, which was impressive. It must have been the morning light, I guess. Fred knew that I am unable to sleep when it is bright and the fact that he has no curtains in his bedroom really infuriates me. He fell asleep within minutes and turned his back on me. “You’re an idiot, Fred Myers!” I whispered sharply and hid my head under the blanket. I couldn’t sleep well and left his apartment three hours later. I took the subway back to Queens. I went to grab some groceries before I went home to prepare some breakfast. Something weird happened in the grocery store. A middle aged man with pitch black shades was observing me from the produce department. He had short dark blonde hair, which shimmered red under the horrible fluorescent lights in the store. Even though he only looked at me for about three seconds, it seemed like much longer. But I must have been paranoid because of those shades, as everyone would feel looked at. He had no reason to fear his actions, because no one was able to see his eyes. Strangely, I was not afraid of him. My guts told me that I was safe and that there was no need to worry. However, the moment I stepped out of the store, I heard someone firing a gun inside and I let go of my shopping bag. I screamed, bent down and placed my hands on my ears. I didn’t dare turning round to see what was happening. I knew that I was safe because I was outside. I saw cops from across the road hurrying towards the store. Immediately I grabbed for my bag, left those apples on the path and walked away with frantic steps. People had their eyes glued at the store and all their mouths were open like that of a nutcracker. Witnessing crime scenes usually scare the hell out of me and bring me to tears. It makes me want to shout at President Johnson “Is this the Great Society that you have dreamed of?” I knew that man was up to no good. All of them looked up on Truman, who, in my eyes, was nothing but a bomb planter, who thought he had created peace. If peace comprises millions of deaths, then it’s non-existent for me.

July 10th 1967, Monday

I’ve not been sleeping well lately. It has been incredibly hot and I’m constantly getting head aches. I am tired but when I go to sleep I would wake up an hour later because my throat is too dry and then after that I would wake up again just because I need the toilet.
There was a little article in the New York Times about the heist in my local grocery store. I was relieved when I read that no one was harmed. The criminal got knocked down by an unknown person who had violently thrown salt into the culprit’s eyes. Before he could fire his second shot, the stranger had broken his hand with a single kick. Each hostage was saying something different:

“The man was moving so fast you couldn’t see a single thing!”

“He used his elbow to break the robber’s wrist! Each of us could hear the crack!”

“He broke the criminal’s hand with his knee, upon which the gun fell onto the floor and slipped against my face!”

“…The next moment I looked up the stranger was gone. He must’ve left through the backdoor. The robber was lying there unconscious.”

It was an incredible story and people didn’t bother publishing this piece of news with the other major ones, but instead it was placed on the page after the obituaries. I am aware of the fact that robberies happen daily, but this case is different. We have a hero here and nobody seems to care. Finally we have someone more useful and braver than the cops, someone who stands up for justice, but to the people out there it was nothing more than a one-off show. They are all ignorant and apathetic. Or maybe the atomic bombs are at fault that we have become so indifferent and torpid towards life and death.

July 11th 1967, Tuesday

I had a fight with Fred last night. So I refused to spend the night at his after work. He must have thought I would take the cab home, but I didn’t. I was too stingy to spend my last ten Dollars. Besides that I needed to cool my head. I thought it would be safe anyway to walk on the main road where a few off-licenses were still open. It does not matter what kind of clothes you wear in New York. Certain people will always notice you; even if you only wear casual clothing that normally wouldn’t draw any attention. I always pay heed to what I wear anyhow, as I’m a woman. I don’t wear skirts, because they make me feel vulnerable. Femininity causes nothing but trouble in this world; not for the men, but for the women. I was thinking of Miss Genovese whilst walking home and how she must have suffered. Did she wear a skirt? The thought of her made me feel even worse than how I had felt about Elizabeth Short. I must have been about seven when my parents talked about the murder of a woman in California. All I knew was that California was far away and that we were in no danger. It’s different with Kitty Genovese, because that murder happened in my neighborhood. There I was walking home in the dark and suddenly my guts were sensing something very unpleasant. I had to change to 26th Street, because the main road was closed due to a severe car accident. It was enough for me to have seen the two crushed cars: a Chevrolet Corvette and an Imapala. Several people were standing there, gaping around whilst the cops were investigating the situation. I couldn’t take it and rushed into 26th Street. My heart was racing and for one moment I wished I was elsewhere; it didn’t really matter where. I just wanted to be out of New York. The street was dark and brittle, but you could tell that many people lived there. There was light coming out from nearly each window. But suddenly I heard whispers coming from the corner. It must have been some kind of an alley, but I couldn’t quite detect it. The street lights were very dim, though still bright enough to recognize faces. I followed the smell of urine and the whispers became clearer. This time I even heard someone cry, begging whoever to let him go. I heard water flowing down and the cry got slightly louder, more mortified. When I reached the alley, I saw a group of men urinating on a half Asian boy. He must have been in his early twenties and was surrounded by four tall men dressed in black. They were calling him names and then one of them boisterously punched him in the face. Another hit the other side of the face. They had gotten louder than before, shouting racist names and I saw a few more lights going on. Some people were looking outside, but not for long. There was this man who had immediately switched the lights off as if nothing was happening. From another window someone shouted:
“Shut up! And get your business done elsewhere!”
The Asian boy’s face was covered with blood and all of a sudden one of the men pulled a knife. I swallowed hard, took a step back and then began to scream my lungs out. Across the road was a man whose face I couldn’t identify. I took more steps back until I stumbled on an old man who was holding a hunting musket or a rifle of some sort.
“Where’re these fuckers?” he mumbled with no teeth. The four men came out of the alley and immediately put their hands up. The old man was seriously ready to shoot at them, but before he could do that, I stepped right in front of him and said:

“No!” He pushed me aside and started firing at the group, but they had escaped.

“I shoulda let you die, shouldn’I?” He threw a very resentful glance at me, so that I felt too intimidated to thank him after all. The old man went back into the house and left me standing there on my own. The man who was standing across the road was gone. I was looking up to all the windows and saw how several lights went off; one by one. I rushed back down to the alley and saw the young man lying there, unconscious. I dragged him all the way back to the main road, because I didn’t know what else to do. My clothes were covered in blood, my fingernails were bloody… I was so close to crying. The veins in my head were thumping like crazy. The cops were still there investigating the car accident. The gaping people noticed me first and started pointing at me with their evil forefingers. I couldn’t deal with the adrenaline rush, so I sat myself down to catch some breath. It’s been a while since I had my last panic attack. My hands were bloody that I didn’t dare touching my face. The cops drove me home in the end and told me that they’d get back to me about the incident. However, they will not. I don’t know about the young man’s condition and I’m not sure whether I should try to find out. There is just one thing that I’m not sure about. Should I have let the old man kill those criminals? What if they do the same thing again elsewhere, but this time with success? People in their homes will only switch the lights off as if they hear nothing.

July 15th 1967, Saturday

I haven’t been to work for five days. Fred didn’t call me until day two. I never answered it. I’m sure he thinks I’m still angry with him, but I have no intention of telling him the truth about what happened days ago. Maybe I fear that he would lack of interest or maybe it is simply something that I want to keep to myself. To be honest I haven’t quite digested it all, yet. Already the thought of the blood, the smell of the urine and the old man’s musket terrify me vehemently. Sometimes when looking at my hands I see blood. Instead of washing the clothes I wore at that night, I threw them all away. The nights are harder to get through now. Despite of the heat there are other worries that prevent me from having any good night sleep.

July 17th 1967, Monday

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I read the New York Times today. Four criminals were found dead in 26th Street, Queens. All four got brutally beaten up and died of internal bleedings. In the article they write about innumerable bones being broken, but nothing got stolen from them. I went totally numb after having read all that. They were previously convicted for robbery and rape. The cops presume that there had been a gang fight. Apparently the people living in that area had heard nothing. Usually they would at least admit of having witnessed something. Surely it couldn’t have been a silent fight. Little by little I’m starting to wonder whether the word “justice” is more than just a word. The Asian boy appeared in my dreams again. This time I saw him dead.

July 20th 1967, Thursday

I nearly faced death on Tuesday. It was late at night when I was taking my trash out. There was a black Chevrolet El Camino in the middle of the quiet street. The lights were dim and it was too dark, so I couldn’t see into the car. Shivers were running down my spine when I opened the damn trashcan. But before I could sense the danger in my guts, I was suddenly feeling two hands around my neck. I made choking noises and attempted to set myself free by kicking and elbowing the person, but it didn’t seem to hurt him one bit. It was a stranger with a lunatic expression on his face. The way he looked at me gave me the feeling that I had done something that made him angry. His eyes were glassy and his teeth yellow. I saw my face in his eyes, which ultimately made me believe that he had eaten my soul already. I couldn’t take it any longer, so I tried kicking him again; this time between his legs. Finally he released me with a loud howl. I fell against the trashcan and then onto the bottom. My cry for help was useless. I knew that people heard me, but I saw no one coming. He called me a bitch and pulled a knife. He said he would cut me into pieces and feed me to his dog. Tears had come before I had noticed them. He threw himself over my body, whereupon I began to scream. I was holding both hands in front of him and the knife went through my left hand. I screamed again in pain and was close to losing my consciousness. Before I was able again to perceive the current situation, someone had torn the lunatic away from me. I looked through my tears and saw the man with those pitch black shades fighting the lunatic. Each punch and kick was blaring. His fists were both firm and enraged. “Go”, he told me with a deep coarse voice. It took me a while to take that in. “GO!” he said again, angrily. The lunatic’s eye was squirting blood. I acted under his demand. I was running up the stairs back into my apartment. Something inside of me told me that everyone knew I was in danger, but they did nothing except for looking through their keyholes. Again there was blood on my hand, my own blood this time. Even though it needed treatment very badly, I couldn’t think of anything else except for what was happening outside. Was he the one they mentioned in the newspapers? The one I saw in the grocery store? About ten minutes later I heard the ambulance outside. I would have expected the cops at least, if anyone had bothered calling for help. It didn’t take very long until the ambulance men were knocking on my door. They took me to the hospital and I ended up staying there for the night. A sleeping pill helped me to sleep; however the sleep consisted of multiple nightmares: Starting off with the fight with Fred, the robbery at the grocery store (with me present) and the attempted rape. When I woke up on Wednesday I was more exhausted than ever. It felt like having had a mental breakdown or something. The moment I looked into the mirror I didn’t recognize myself at first. I looked like thirty. However, I didn’t feel as bad as I should have or perhaps I was only repressing all the emotions that you would consider as psychologically normal. But no, the truth is that I had someone in mind and this person needed to reveal himself to me.
I saw the man with those pitch black shades after leaving the hospital. He was sitting in a coffee shop on Roosevelt Avenue. His shades were glaring at me and I knew that he was observing me, probably waiting for me as well. I went inside with no hesitation. His face showed no expression. He was wearing a black leather jacket and a black pair of jeans. It was the same dark blonde hair that shimmered red in the light. I sat myself down, although it didn’t look like he would have asked me to.
“Who are you?” I asked. His cup of coffee was still untouched and there was no steam coming out of it anymore. I noticed a little smile around his mouth; a tantalizing smile that already signified that I would not learn about the truth. Carefully, but elegantly he took off his pitch black shades and placed them silently on the table.
“I admire your courage”, he said with his hoarse voice. I couldn’t say a word, because I was examining his deep blue eyes. I saw myself in there and felt relieved that I still had my soul. Those blue eyes made him appear slightly younger than I had expected, thirty-nine maybe. If his face didn’t appear so worn out I would’ve guessed thirty-five.
“What did you do to the man?” I asked.
“He got what he deserved.” He sounded firm and determined.
“I don’t believe in killing, you know….” My voice was trembling when I said that. He smiled again, as if he was going to laugh at my statement.
“Justice is not just a word.”
I cautiously laid my injured hand on the table. “But I’m not dead, am I?”
“You would’ve been”, he explained.
“So what makes you think I’m courageous then?” I wanted to know. He lowered his eyes as if he wanted to put his shades back on.
“You are no bystander. You take action.” It sounded like a compliment, but I didn’t want to go deeper into that, because I knew myself well. I was there to learn more about him.
“What’s your name?”
“I’m Joe.”
“Joe…what?”
“Just, Joe.” He put his shades back on and was ready to leave.
“Please don’t go! I have so many questions.”
“I’ve said too much already.” He stood up and walked towards the door. I grabbed hold of his arm and asked him quietly:
“Will you stop killing?”
He shook me off.
“That’s not the idea of justice. You can’t be serious!” I shouted.
“Sometimes you have to drop a bomb to show how serious you are.”

The feelings I have for Joe are so ambivalent. On the one hand it feels like I’ve been talking to Truman and on the other there was Joe’s idea of moral absolutism. In today’s New York Times I read about the murder of the necrophiliac criminal Jason Krueger. He had strangled five women to death in Brooklyn and was found dead in Queens. I recognized the picture of the lunatic.

July 21st 1967, Friday

I met Joe again today. He suddenly appeared on my balcony. I don’t know how he managed to climb all the way up to third floor and how he knew which apartment I was in. I was looking at him through the glass. He was not wearing his shades and therefore refused to look at me. I opened the glass door to let him in, but he wouldn’t move. His lips were motionless, so was his entire body.
“Joe?”
“Too many innocent lives have been annihilated, but no one is endeavoring to do anything about it, except me.”
A long pause followed. I wanted to say something, but I knew he was not yet finished.
“I was in love with Kitty Genovese…”
I stopped breathing for a while.
“But she never knew. You bear resemblance to her…”
He finally raised his head and looked at me.
“However, this is not the reason why I saved you. Murderers will deal with death and all other felons deserve life-sentence.”
“Is this your idea of a Great Society?” I asked.
He then asked me back: “Do you think peace exists?”
I began to shake my head tentatively.
“There’s your answer then. But it doesn’t change the fact that I faith in my city. I spill vermin’s blood and watch it flow down the gutter.”
“Will this bring Kitty back?”
“THIS IS NOT ABOUT HER!” he shouted and seemed to regret having told me all that. Quietly he carried on: “You can make justice happen with your own hands…You encounter this moment of bliss. Unfortunately it doesn’t last for long.”
There he was vindicating himself and I could do nothing except staring at my hands, which for one second were full of blood again. I turned around with arms folded; trying to think of a way to persuade him.
“Do it for me!” I suggested and turned back to the balcony, but he was gone.

July 23rd 1967, Sunday

I can’t deny the fact that I feel safer now, as if Joe is keeping an eye on me, wherever I go. Last night I was overcome by fatigue, I didn’t even bother responding to Fred’s call. I lay myself down on my bed and fell asleep immediately. I dreamt of Joe lying next to me. When sleeping, he appears to be very delicate and slightly vulnerable. I knew that if I touched him, he’d immediately open his eyes. When I woke up this morning, I noticed that I was covered up by a black leather jacket and my balcony door was open, but Joe was nowhere to be found.

July 25th 1967, Tuesday

Today they finally mentioned Joe in the New York Times. Of course no one could identify him; they portray him as “lithe and lissome, but strong as hell”. His shades are “as dark as the night”. Though, these are the words of the criminal who got arrested. His name is Pat Bates, a triple murderer, someone who in Joe’s eyes would deserve death. According to the newspaper, Pat Bates, during an attempt to kill a helpless foreigner, got beaten up severely: broken rips, arms and nasal bone, two black eyes and internal bleedings. The ambulance arrived just in time to save him. I smiled.

By Paula Cheung
Inspired by Kitty Genovese and Rorschach.

With a thousand words to say

No more words of the past and no more regrets to pull you back. Forever buried in oblivion and keep the unconscious free. Was the experiment a failure or a success? I am not sure myself. But this is a new page. There is no time for suffocating lies and misleading illusions. Eyes wide open and ears sharp. Talk when necessary and touch when it does no harm. I've spent too much time in bed, writhing and staring into the dark. Then I realised that forming attachment is something scary and dangerous. It brings you to the verge of destruction; if not self destruction, then the destruction of the world around you. This is how you feel when you are scared and confused at the same time when getting close to somebody. Sometimes your body is in need of frenzy and you begin to take risks. Sometimes you do it for the sake of adventure, but most likely it is for the sake of the experience, which is ok. But it includes plenty of naivety as well, which means that your head is not clear, whereas your heart is brimming with excitement, titillation and sensation. But there is this disquietude and apprehension which you tend to ignore, which is NOT ok, because your head is talking here. And here I've learnt something. I have proved my foolishness to myself, but I'm not going to warn anyone. Aren't people designed to do mistakes? Sometimes the same one twice? Words are no use here; it's the event itself that counts. Once you've felt it yourself, you will know what I'm talking about. You cannot stop people from doing something, which they will regret in the end. They will not listen, as they are audacious and frivolous, especially the young. You can only talk about naivety and inexperience with the wise and old and have a good laugh. At least they will understand you to some degree. But nobody needs to understand you fully. Nobody must understand you fully. I mean you don't want to give yourself away, do you? A kafkaesque mind is what you need. Then no one will ever manage to destroy you. I hope it makes sense to you, because you should not make sense at all. The incomprehensible mind is your army and you use it to defend yourself. Despite of my honesty, I do have barriers built in my head and my army is standing right in front of it, watching out, even more attentively now. In my last blog entry you can just find confessions and maybe some self-pity, but I hardly tried to explain anything to you, because there is no use. I tried to keep my feelings to myself. You won't understand them anyway, even though you might have gone through something just as similar. Anyone that approaches you wants to either help you or destroy you. Unfortunately you cannot always tell at the first sight what someone really wants from you. Often they don’t want to destroy you, but they want their pain to be inflicted on you, whereupon you ultimately become a part of the misery. Their cry for help makes you want to do something. Once you fail in helping, you see yourself as nothing and the world around you begins to fall asunder. It’s an anguish of mind. The thought of having “tried” is no motivation either. These aren’t the words of a pessimist, these are my words. For me “trying” is an obvious thing to do. It’s not something that’s supposed to make you feel proud of yourself, though. It’s your job when you want to live. You try to enroll to a university and you try to become a better person. Some people would give up before trying. And those people are a fucking waste of my time. They are already dead in my eyes. “Trying” should be more natural nowadays. People don’t realise that trying is hope. It’s a reason to live. And you may mourn when you fail, because you didn’t get what you deserve. Elsewhere they will you give you another try. These aren’t the words of an optimist, these are my words. People who afflict you with their pain are no good. You might as well help them stand back on their feet and then leave them without doing anything more. They need to learn to shovel their own shit. I will carry on trying until I’m sick of living. Once you have achieved all your goals, you may retreat and that is when trying will have come to its end. Hopefully then you will be happy with no regrets. But one day all those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain. Nobody will remember you or even know of you. So your job is trying to change this as well as you can. Why do we remember James Dean, Goethe and Dali? I think this is quite obvious and needs no explanation in greater depth (I can’t be bothered anyways). Self-fulfillment is the word. If your only aspiration is to get married and have kids then go ahead and leave me alone. Don’t bother inviting me to your annual barbeque. I might have a totally different view on life, but like all ambitious people I’m simply rolling a rock up the hill and I’m ready to run anyone over who wants to thwart me. I’ve made too many stops on this journey and I refuse to admit that those were necessary stops. Now I will only stop to ask for the way or for water. Anything else like seductive eyes and gentle hands will just attempt to lead me astray. Right now I’m too exhausted and scared to continue this journey. There’ll be a fresh new start this autumn. For the time being I will prepare myself. There will be no more foolish games. Trustworthy people are those who make an effort for you and don’t take you for granted.