"If I gave you the moon, you'd soon get tired of it"
...and a few other ground rules
SCRAP, a mental hygiene of Love
We will cross each other, but under what conditions, according to what rules? You will come. We will overlap. I'll go sniff you out.
There'll be your scene and there'll be my scene. On yours, you will be free to go up and down, to execute the performance grids provided, to utter insults or Verlaine's stanzas, to reveal your soul or your buttocks. You can even steal the spotlight from me. C'est la vie, I'm not here to order you to be or not to be. That may be your question; it won't be mine. Be welcome, but don't you dare join me in my den when I take refuge there.
Wobbly romance doesn't make sense
After you get what you want, you don't want it. If I gave you the moon you'd grow tired of it soon.
"After you get what you want, you don't want it » | Irving Berlin (1920) | performed by Marilyn Monroe in 1953 Walter lang's film There's no Business like Show Business
Who? When? When?
No, it's really just "need or no need," that's all.
The whole of humanity is a negligible quantity for my senses from sunrise to sunset. It is a trace of mauve modelling clay embedded under the nails of my child's fingers; it is a chewing gum stuck under my sole, the presence of which I won't realize until the morning of the day when I go to see the hole under my shoe.
Nylon wig thread or real hair, what does it matter? After all, we all know that MM was an alien who came to Earth to make movies. Since no one exists here.
Then I will look at you, sticky dough, and get rid of you again like glue until I forget you again until the morning of the next day. And why shouldn't I? Dear humanity to such humanism! A concept without any reality! Differentiated worlds fit together and crush each other like nesting dolls, all called to look at each other like extraterrestrials, without ever recognizing each other.
Love, for the Great Human Smell-a-Doodle-Doo, is SCRAP!
I sent you a message. But you didn't come.
doesn't mean anything.
is just our dirty footprints on the carpet of an endless corridor. A fingernail clipping, crushed chewing gum, the milky white of a fried egg that fell on the floor.
is just a silly random acronym that could mean "Seriously, it's Failed To Present".
A shadow hovers over our little daily mythologies ... it would not be a question of forgetting our roles.
Golden Rules | "Scrap" | Photo © David Noir