Wednesday, November 25, 2015

Lyrics (Band:Daughter)


Throw me in a landfill
Don't think about the consequences
Throw me in the dirt pit
Don't think about the choices that you make
Throw me in the water
Don't think about the splash I will create
Leave me at the altar
Knowing all the things you just escaped

Push me out to sea
On a little boat that you made
Out of the evergreen that you helped your father cut away
Leave me on the tracks
To wait until the morning train arrives
Don't you dare look back
Walk away
Catch up with the sunrise

'Cause this is torturous electricity
Between both of us and this is
Dangerous 'cause I want you so much
But I hate your guts
I hate you

So leave me in the cold
Wait until the snow covers me up
So I cannot move
So I'm just embedded in the frost
Then leave me in the rain
Wait until my clothes cling to my frame
Wipe away your tear stains
Thought you said you didn't feel pain

Well this is torturous electricity
Between both of us and this is
Dangerous, 'cause I want you so much
But I hate your guts. I want you so much
But I hate your guts.
Well this is torturous
Electricity between both of us
And this is dangerous 'cause I want you so much
But I hate your guts
I want you so much but I hate your guts

Monday, November 16, 2015

Thought Starters


I listen to Mark Knopfler whenever life seems dull and uninviting. Something’s gonna happen to make your whole life better. It reminds me of summers when I was a kid and vacations with my parents at the seaside made life glamorous, that kind of glitz only the start of the nineties had. It’s the kind of song you’d play at 5 am, before the dawn of a brilliant summer day, when birds cross the sky and you know life will be good. People start walking on the street, cars start moving, you hear whistles and heels battering the pavement in the city morning glow, holidays look ahead, boats and trains and planes, and the air feels warm and windy, your typing machine is filled with lust of creation. Lovers walk together side by side on the street, friends come for vodka lemonade at seven and your red coat hung in the door from last winter reminds you you’re still in a not-so-far but so different time and age, when all of the above were possible and normal. A time when people still loved, loved better. Still had the stars in their eyes. Like Kate Moss and Johnny Depp who met at the Cafe Tabac in New York City in January of 1994 and openly admitted to a first sight mutual crush. There was no better time for everything to talk about passion: music, movies, records, style.

    - Loving someone today seems almost an obscenity.

As much as I would like to call it profusion, we’re facing a sort of confusion with the ascent and nerve of a TV drama series. When I look around, I feel that people of the same age divide. I could actually point them out and divide them myself, like Moses did with soup. I mean water. My point is: there are those who decide to put a ring on it once they hit mid twenties and the rest, who decide to hook up more or stay indoors more (depending on the monthly booze-tobacco-expensive footwear-pasta-books-mascara budget), lose weight, make a diy business, go to Africa or hit the therapist (not in the face, but some might also consider that after their cash withdrawal receipt failed to match their self esteem boost).

We don’t need to be teenagers to become confused, and I for once know there wasn’t so much confusion around back in ’97. It’s floating around, it protrudes through the torn sleeves of your shirt, it itches your skin, it melts in your Starbucks latte. It’s responsible for your bad breath, bad habits like smoking 2-3 packs a day, exchanging walking with cabs or intentionally forgetting to say hello to all the friends that you hate because they’re happy. It’s in the mindless sex you have only for the sake of  f e e l i n g  something better than tequila. In the plane tickets you buy wishing you didn’t come back.  It eventually makes us go on Facebook and like that sappy sad page “My friends are getting married; I’m only getting drunk”. Coke, bikes, beer, drunken girls in at 2 am, top 5 easy ways to get in their pants, post hipsterism, electronic vibes, Florence and The Machine on the rocks, riding in cars with boys, Urban Outfitters. The labels of a an artsy fartsy world filled with confusion.

    - Stupid takes it all.

We use the confusion to be hype. We glamorize it. We totally dig it, it gets us free drinks in bars at 3 am and looks  a m a z i n g  with a Prada purse. It’s a good excuse for taking candid street shots of yourself in underwear and socks and posting them on Facebook AND a successful pretext for looking  jaded and intangible with a cigarette in the corner of your mouth and a washed out smelly t-shirt at 4 in the morning in clubs, like a cheap reproduction of James Dean.

Yes, we LOVE the confusion. It reminds us we’re an exclusive circle of fucked up people, with a certain agenda, a vibrant lifestyle and a preference for teenage girls or just girls who sing in bands. It reminds us we’re amazing, popular, happy, lost and, well, incredibly lonely.
Illustration by Sara Andreasson

We think about love once in a while, because it’s nice and it’s warm and it was sometimes fun, before that bitch or that tosser spoiled it. Then it just didn’t matter any more. My friend A. thinks we’re not set to have a successful relationship unless we’ve just gotten out of adolescence or we’re late close to our thirties. Because it’s then when we have the purity or the maturity necessary for love to thrive…what’s in between is just confusion, she says. Being there, now, being part of the universal confusion makes it feel like a post teen despicable adventure where looking for “something” is at times intertwined with looking for “someone”. There’s always a craving that pushes you back in your seat when the girl from last night’s party who’s sleeping next to you wakes up and amazes you with perfect coffee and there’s nonetheless always another craving when you think you’ve seen a guy too much and failed to get attached.

    - I belong to a generation that lives by the motto “Let’s just have sex, cause love, love will tear us apart, again”.

There’s nothing good about getting older-absolutely nothing-because the amount of wisdom and experience you gain is negligible compared to what you lose. You do gain a couple of things-you gain a little bittersweet and sour wisdom from your heartbreaks and failures and things-but what you lose is so catastrophic in every way. – is what Woody Allen told Interview Magazine back in 2009. And I couldn’t stand more up to it. I mean, look at us. We meet people. We get involved, we fall in love. Then we fall out or apart and carry on looking for something or someone else. Sometimes by free will, some other times as requested by events. And the worst part is, we don’t ever get better. We are scarred, from every romantic mishap or life punch. We get all dramatic and shit because we are afraid to get close to anyone, and anyone is not getting any closer either, so we end up playing a major difficulty missed connections themed ancient computer game.

And tables have turned. I hear this thing a lot, that girls today are more of a man than of a woman. That we treat guys the way they treat gals. That we have more of that and less of this. The irony in that statement is not far from truth though and Lena Dunham could put her finger on it. I was never the hopeless romantic type, rather the hopeful, realist, indecisive romantic. I was split between the longing for being in a healthy, amazing relationship with someone and the urge to break loose from that commitment and indulge in my loneliness or engage in different kind of liaisons that didn’t resemble or cultivate stability. I like the part where wit and sarcasm intertwine in conversation only to make it juicier or to pull out reactions in people. I like the distance. I grew attached to being alone as much as I grew fonder of friendships and less interested in the love math. Because it comes packed and fully equipped like kitchens from IKEA with bumps, breaks, issues, arguments, landmarks and other things that tie a knot that eventually strangles you some time later and you spend double the amount of time you invested in that cuisine sweeping the floors and wooden doors from blood, sweat and memories. I know, however, we all need sometimes the good old patterns in order to function.
Photo by Alina Noir

Which reminds me how my good friend Julie once pointed out in a bar over Margaritas that male behavior is so ’80s and all we get now is a bunch of pretentious pricks who start whining once you stop answering your machine. I’m not saying men are turning into pussies or emotional train wrecks (I think that’s a word Perez Hilton or any socialite/celebrity gossip magazine would use right now for this matter), but I am pointing out that we don’t play our parts any more like our forefathers did.

Meanwhile, how are we supposed to feel when everything seems to fall into place without further amendments? How are we supposed to deal with situations and people that could be right for us, yet, we are attracted to all that drama, to all that misery and heart consuming aching that love and life brings when it doesn’t work out. When it’s relentless. When it looks complicated. That just sounds sick in theory but we always end up doing it in practice. We choose sadness allegedly because it helps us get better, wiser, brighter, more creative or smart and the only way to do it seems to be through it. However, it also makes us poisonous, creepy, cynical, judgemental and uneasy. It makes us run from what’s good, makes us go for the perfect disease, and we all know The Wombats agree.

    - In reality, the age we live has little to do with commitment. Attachment is spam.

We got friends for that, sometimes still parents. We’re more attached to jobs, GIRLS TV series, Hazelnut Toffee Latte, our wallet, our drinks and our diet plan than to a person. And when we get attached, it sucks, and we have to run with scissors. Because we start  f e e l i n g  and feeling means positively hurting, it means loathing and it also means intercourse, but it still sure means exclusiveness and in the end, fighting.

Then we’re stuck in that chair at that class reunion/wedding/party where everyone we used to know is coupled and our skin starts to itch from all the “love is in the air”. We go home, crack a bottle open, sit on the couch and let the monsters creep in. Loneliness is awesome. We only wish we knew how to get rid of it.

Ioana Cristina Casapu is the Managing Editor of Art Parasites Magazine. She likes Brian Eno, airports and never says no to a good old Gin&Tonic.


If she asks you
If she asks you who I am, tell her. Tell her
because she is not starting a fire for an explanation but a confession.

If you tell her I was just a girl you dated
for a couple of years, she will only give you a hard time.
The hundreds of photos tagged in your outdated profile and the stack
of books with our names written will be her allies.

If you tell her I was an old friend, she will only hear
half of what you say. She will recall how you looked at places
with a tinge of regret and a shade of nostalgia. She will remember
how you skipped a certain song ― a reminder of something you’ll find an excuse
not to tell her every time the car radio is on.

If she asks you who I was, lie a little,
because she is not crossing the line for answers but for assurances.

Don’t tell her how our lips played with poetry and how we dared
to dream under the light of the taciturn satellite. Skip the part where we
fought dragons together and how we named each other’s scars.

Reserve the fact that you still keep the letters, notes, old restaurant receipts under
your drawers and some tearstained thoughts at the back of your pillow. She doesn’t need to know
why you reread past conversations or why your mother mentioned me at the family dining table
just to ask you what I have been up to.

Finally, if she asks you who I was to you, tell her you love her. Put her in the limelight
because she is testing you to pull the trigger pointed at her
But you won’t. Instead, you will tell her she’s beautiful to compensate
for the words you never had the guts to tell me. You will tell her she’s a keeper, for the hell of it.
You will tell her a poor research about human cells being replaced after seven years so that one day,
I will leave no trace on your body.

She will then forget that you mentioned my name while sleeping. She will wash the lipstick stains
on your bedsheets and remove the extra toothbrush in the shower. She will ignore the way you twitch
every time you hear a familiar author or my favorite curse word. She will fill the spaces
of your fingers and plaster kisses at the holes of your chest. She will replace every scent of me
with her own promises, insecurities, and mistakes.

She will do this. She will, because when she asked you about me,
she knew I was the ghost of the house. And at the back of your head, you wanted to tell her
that the damned no longer need saving. But by all means,
darling, she can try.

A. A. Dizon

This reminds me of you. Is the sky purple where you are?

The first time I slept in his bed,
he asked me if I liked the smell of lavender
and since then
everything that calms me has been purple.

But if I could name this feeling, I’d call it
the road home is longer than it looks.
I’d call it, plane tickets and loose change
are caught in my throat.
I’d call it, screaming skin and my heart
taming its wilderness in you.
The first time I slept in his bed,
he asked me if I liked the smell of lavender.

I do now.

And if I could name this feeling, I’d call it
memories of my week with you.
I’d call it, asking the cards ‘what the hell am I supposed to do
with these now?’
I’d call it, there isn’t an answer, only sore lungs
soaking up an aching heart.

The first time I slept in his bed,
he told me the distance between us might be louder
than anything we have to offer.

So I wrote this poem in his sheets
and it isn’t going to silence my skin
or bring my heart back

but it will put my hopes out into the universe that one day
we will wake up to the smell of lavender
in a town we both call home.
- Alessia Di Cesare

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Before You Fall in Love with Me, Caitlyn S.

“Stop. You can’t love me because you’re lonely, or because I am the only one who doesn’t piss you off. I want to piss you off, I want to get on your fucking nerves. I don’t want the responsibility of always being your rock. I will try, but I’m a mess, too. I lie, I sleep too much and I don’t like children under the age of 6, really. I don’t even know if I want kids because I’m selfish, and mothers can’t be selfish once they decide to carry another life.
I’m always looking for the rain to come so I trip over my own feet. I know exactly what the air smells like before a storm.
Before you fall in love with me, I want you to know that I cry a lot because it feels good, and I masturbate at least 4 times a week, and you might fall out of love with me before either of us are ready for it.
I have no experience with this. I’m trying to be brave and smart but its almost impossible to be both at the same time.
You can’t love me like a fire escape. Sometimes I will be the match, or the smoke under the door. I don’t know what I’m doing, all I know is that we all catch fire sometimes, before we even get warm.
Before you fall in love with me, I want you to know that there’s a 50% chance that this won’t work, that one of us will wind up hating the other. I will try to keep your head above water, but sometimes I’ll need help, too.
I can’t be your savior, and I don’t expect you to be mine. Just watch me unfold and I’ll watch you unfold, too. We’ll get drunk and tell each other everything. I know that’s cheating but maybe it’ll be alright. Maybe we won’t wake up embarrassed.

I am going to fall in love with you, too, feet first. Maybe we’ll slow dance off a building together, maybe we’ll have forgotten each other’s names by this time next year. I don’t care, the sky is gray with or without you, so I’m not going to look up anymore, I’m going to look ahead .”
—Before You Fall in Love with Me, Caitlyn S.