This is part one of a long excerpt from my journal. Part two is already up.

Recommended listen for this piece: I’m listening to a lot of Geese and Cameron Winter stuff, really falling in love with their minds and completely addicted to them. I’ll be listening to it while writing this and putting some lyrics of their in the middle of it (also because the text is really long, you deserve a breather). The lyrics won’t really have anything to do with the text, I think, but they are all things I relate to, heavily. Highly recommend all the songs I put here. The name of the song will be below it.

Since I was born I’ve heard the voice of the Father
Goes in the one ear, on out the other

Geese’s 3D Country

“O gelo queima”, my grandmother said to me. She was explaining something to me about some frozen food we had, what she said meant “the ice burns”. I can’t remember now what she was talking about, I just remember thinking about that phrase for a while. It is an empty, contradictory collection of words, much like a human being, stubbornly meaning by its existence, never letting go of its own body in own wake. Or am I just… Speaking nonsense now?

I was about to leave my grandma to spend my weekend with a friend of mine, the whole weekend away from her. Me and my friend planned it a bit: There was going to be a couple of movie screenings we had to go to and then the weekend would be made of conversations at their house. I had to cancel one of the screenings, so we ended up only watching one movie, an old movie and one of my favorites. Before that, a couple of beers.

They were waiting for me, upset that I was late, but also happy to see me. The streets were busy with the cars yelling through the tight road, the night was awakened by the artificial lights and we were on the eye of the hurricane. A lot of memories flooded me at that time. I drank very little and very slowly, trying to remember every detail of that night as if I knew I would be soon transported to another land, trying to escape from my mind where it would never look.

I wrote something on my notes while I was waiting for them to return from the bathroom. It was incomplete, but it was something like:

Pace, cover the hunger me, die
‘Tis the taste, lover to lover inside
Bawling honey, sit and sink, then pause
Gore in mine, the simple nibble cause
Face, cover the hunger me, go
Don’t the grace, felt tonight the hoard
From all the devil’s whores, you wish
The body the corpse, the fiddle the fish

I knew what the first part meant. I liked it. I struggled to understand the second part, though. But it would be clear with their presence returning to the table.

As the moon felt closer, there was a necessity on resting the mind on an uneasy rhythm, to speak in the tongue of a problem. Luckily, I had my friend to keep me company, away from a blue loneliness that tried to match the tears of the moon. We talked about a lot of things, and I soon discovered they were also feeling a bit crooked, perhaps in a cup-half-fuller way. They were swollen from the empty bite of the clouds of empty days, running from themselves inside of the minds of others.

Just as I do, they hide their spirit from their mind, but they went too far and now they have no idea how they feel about what hurts them; it is encoded in the subconscious language, such as my previous poem-or-whatever-the-fuck I put above. I can’t teach them how to understand that language; at the end of the day, each subconscious has its own language, since it lives in its own little country. The only way you can try and understand a truth from your body is either through a violent shake or a tender trail. You can force the language to be clear — usually through some trauma — or you can just keep talking and soon enough you would have so many conversations in that language that you know the approximate meaning of the mess.

But who would like to do that? It sounds fancy, but you’re just talking to yourself. You’re expanding in only one dimension, I guess. That’s how most people would see it. You need the other person. The other creates a tension, and I guess minds are chemical reactions, they just can’t sit still on their own body idly living to the bone. I looked at my friend. They seemed like a person who didn’t knew how to be alone. In many ways, it’s like they always had too much company in their lives, always surrounded by an eye or the other. I looked at myself and saw that I didn’t knew how to be alone. I was a person I avoided my whole life, and now that I am comfortable in my own skin I feel like I don’t know what to say to myself sometimes. I used to think my mind was a villain, a separate entity designed to make worse of situations. Tell me, eyes of the other, how can you call another person to your house like that? Who is left to leave the love to the other when the mind is lonely in hate?

Your familiar eyes, I know what they cost
Born into the sea, swimming on your own
Between giant fires, singing for the long gone

Some people are alone forever
Some people are alone forever
Some people are alone forever
Some people are alone forever
Some people are alone forever

Geese’s Mysterious Love

We watched the movie; I love to watch movies with them. The movie was absolutely beautiful, it was a sort of remastered version. How do you call remastered movies, again? Anyway, you get it. The colors were so beautiful. I loved their remarks on the movie, as I always do. I confess I was terribly sleepy, but I was so excited that it was their first time watching it that I had to take it all in with them. They ended up liking the movie a lot. I was glad.

The night was looking a bit lost by the time we left the theather, so we just went to the subway station. It was curious to see that part of the town at midnight, as I was always used to walk through there in the mornings with my college friends. It was all empty and full, much like a human being, greatly underlucked and forcing its hand to the praysayers of the world, so far away in their sleep, the divine love they believed in couldn’t wake their violent indifference. But they were kind, as all are, and they were all asleep. I wished to sing for humanity to sleep one day. I wished to lay down in the bed with humanity, dream with humanity and wake up with humanity, filling up the way to the subway station with voices I would never hear, and let those voices sing me to sleep my death away.

The subway was a bit too full for midnight, but we didn’t mind. We were talking and laughing a bit loud, maybe, but not worried. I was filled with childlike wonder going to the slaughter, in the trance between the sleep I didn’t have and the times I spent awake and dreaming. All the people on the subway would be my friends for that moment, and then they would be gone and we would never see each other again. Their existence was violent to the world, and then the world moved on, until they destroy the world with their death, and the world will have to live dead for the rest of its billion years.

Dying and dying and
Dying and dying and
Dying and dying you used up your dying day
Dying and dying and
Dying and dying and
Dying and dying you used up your grave

I see where you’re going
I see where you’re going, babe
I see where you’re going, babe
I’m going too
Baby, where I’m going I can’t keep anything
I can’t keep anything, not even you

Cameron Winter’s Can’t Keep Anything

I won’t speak much about that weekend. Or I guess, I should. Some sweet moments.

My friend borrowed me their bike! I rode a bike! For the first time since I was a child, I was so afraid I could throw up, but I was there! You should’ve seen me! I felt the wings of my wingless arms against the wind, pushing the air around me so my body could tell it this story of mine. I saw my friend with the skate they brought to make me company, their hairs were flowing like water and drowning me as they dove down the slope. They were scared of how shitty they still felt, even though we were having such a great time. I didn’t have anything to do to their suffering, and I didn’t know how to keep them with me at that time. Or maybe they needed space. Or maybe they had too much space. And to the skinless words I said, maybe we were made to fill each other’s hearts with something golden and cheap. It was enough, though. They enjoyed me being there, and I loved the trees of the park and the lovely wind.

The bike, sadly, was too heavy, and my frail little legs couldn’t ride them for too long. We sat down by a tree and talked about life while I pretended I wasn’t almost throwing up. They explained me better what was hurting them. As I expected, I couldn’t do much. Time had to heal their wounds, even though I never heard of time healing anything. Time to me seemed like a destructive force, and happiness and fullfillment happened despite of time. Or maybe… Not. Seeing my grandmother so old and so cute with her all-white hair, do I love what time did to her? Or do I hate time, since it will take her away from me, like all I loved? Maybe it’s why every person I love, I always seem to picture the end of our thing even in the beginning. Time will do its deed, you will be away and I will shake still in my pocket.

I look at my friend and compliment them. I felt like they needed that. I’m good with words… Sometimes. Sometimes I just don’t know what to say. But I often don’t know what to do, so I say, and hope it’s enough. Words are weird weapons, how they hide cowards and motivate the brave and start wars and create peaceful times. I was tired there, but I wished to send the message that there is a small creature inside me still kicking, and that it would never stop as long as I could see people I love, like them, being happy in the wild of the day. As a day tender as the night is cruel on the sleep, reality was designed to imprison bad creators, the salt for the snails, just in time for the creatures of love they harvest in them grow up with the world, unbothered by time like time itself.

Love will call
When you’ve got enough under your arms
Oh oh, mama
Love will call
Love will make you fit it all in the car
Oh oh, mama
Something will take you
By your pants, and
Swing you over his head and kick you back and forth

Watching the bells
Watching the lights
What I want is far away
Talk to the moon
Flatten her down
Make her watch the wind all night
She can wait
Lonely as hell, walking around
Without moving, I’m not here
Watching the moon, writing it down
Love takes miles,
(Love takes miles),
Love takes years.

Cameron Winter’s Love Takes Miles

We watched some shows when we got home. We played this card game they had, they were begging me to play it with them for ages now. It was actually really fun and OH I FORGOT I fucking won on my first match, dude. L my fucking MAO off, am I the greatest or what? They were even trying to cheese me with some fucking lame strat and I accidently broke it because I’m a dumbass and they got left homeless and lost. Like go suck off a fucking lemon, do you know who you talking to? You’re trying to cheese the greatest to ever live? YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED, MY FRIEND.

Sorry. Back to the pretentious writing.

There were plans for a movie, but we didn’t make time for that. The rest doesn’t concern you. It’s more interesting to talk about how I got out of there.

I didn’t even lunch there, because I was really wanting to go visit this CD store downtown, so I said my goodbyes, hugs and all, and left.

Actually, I remember one thing. My friend’s mother said goodbye to me, and she was very nice. She said: “Tell your mother that you are a very good, very polite boy! She should be proud!” My friend was kind of embarrassed, because their mother didn’t know my mother passed away a few years ago, but I actually almost teared up with that. That was so sweet, it was one of the nicest things anyone could ever say to me. I was even a bit insecure, thinking I was a nuisance to them at their home or something. And then she says that and I’m filled with love, so shy and red I was a kid again. Such a nice lady.

My love takes a long time
Longer than a lover can survive

Geese’s Getting Killed

I left the house and went to the subway. I was the only person to get off the train at this subway station downtown, and I thought this was super strange. After about an hour of walking around, I discovered why. Where I live, nothing is open on the town center at sundays. Not only that, there was not a single living person on the streets. I was walking through gigantic empty streets, getting swallowed by the innards of the world, trying to find the store and then, once I saw it was closed, trying to find where I could get a bus back.

The buildings were enormous. There was this feeling of walking around the inside of the belly of a dead beast, as if you could only see the remains of the life that used to be there but not the life, only the shadow by the light but not the light, tangled with strings of water in the drought of the stone jungle. I feel very confident walking around alone in the city where I live. At that moment, at such an absurd loneliness, I wondered why. “That’s easy!” I said to myself, “It’s because my guardian angel is with me”.

Since my mom died I always saw her as the guardian angel that protects me from the evils of the world. A month after she passed away I was in a car crash. It was a bizarre one; the brake weren’t working and the car started to slide in the road. The driver started screaming and everyone else was silently shocked; I was with all my siblings there. It rained that morning so the road was slippery, too. But here comes the kicker. The car only did that when we were entering a tunnel — if it had done that any time before or after, we would probably be dead, because we were in some sort of highlands and the car would’ve just drifted off to the hills with all of us. Not only that, but we were in a sort of crowded road, too. But at the time the car lost control, no other cars collided with us or even passed through the tunnel — the road was filled with cars as soon as the accident was over. So the car just turned around and around and crashed in the walls of the tunnel.

After that day, I’m still a bit scared of cars that go too fast. But I like to think my mother protected me that day.

So, as long as I wasn’t an idiot, she could look down to me and see that I wouldn’t be in any danger at the town center. After all, someone said she should be proud of me!

Sadly, to the hurtings of the mind and the heart — I don’t think her soft hands could do anything to the deep transparent scars.

All that’s left to say about that weekend is that I told what my friend’s mother told me to my grandmother, since she is my second mother after all. She was happy to hear it.

Oh, cancer of the fingers
And the hands of a beginner
Songs are meant for bad singers
I can’t reach cancer of the 80s
I was beat with ukuleles
Oh, songs are a hundred ugly babies
I can’t feed

Cameron Winter’s Cancer of the Skull

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