:: Witold Riedel :: NYC :: Yet another mysterious and perhaps almost meaningless entry entailing my parents, a mental institution and some almost nudity. Oh yeah. ::

«About an old voice recorder and how it made me resize the world when I was a little boy. | Front | Recently in the Arts section of the Brooklyn Library. (Yes, they are blurry and there is overlap, but do you sense the incredible adventure and danger?) »

February 12, 2005

Yet another mysterious and perhaps almost meaningless entry entailing my parents, a mental institution and some almost nudity. Oh yeah. My mother called me the other day, her voice more frustrated than the tormented one I grew accustomed to over the years. My father had printed out some pages from this site and asked her to translate some of the entries for him. He noticed that the last entry started with "My father..." and so he really wanted to know. Neither of my parents speak English, and so my mother called me after having managed to get through the first paragraph. Frustrating stuff. I love my parents. They are a bit like the two chambers of a giant heart. Hmm, just thought about all the analogies this could entail... and no, my father never beat me. I am glad I do not live on a lower floor. I guess the police would come to get me after seeing me polish the floors in not much more than my underwear. An old sock in one hand, a paper towel in the other. Definitely a case for some special treatment. A patch in the middle of my living room is very shiny now. My shoulders are sore, I am ready to get some rest. I have been burning several ends of a candle for the last few... hmm... months... polishing the floor in the morning is a very nice way of fixing some mental misalignments I guess... I am dressed now. The apartment is airing out. The windows are open. I can not adjust the thermostats on my turn of the century heating system, and so I feel about as powerful now as a driver of a red hummer. Yeah, watch me waste all that energy. I am probably wasting about as much as a hummer driver by just looking at his giant vehicle... The gurgling of steam sounds like the soundtrack of a very blood thirsty horror movie... (I do not have a car, I never watch horror movies, how do I come up with such strange analogies?) Remember when I was able to leave little entries here that seemed like little bursts of thought? The simple, not so elaborate observations of faint reflections of the barely visible? Let this be one of those entries. I do not think I want to write more right now... silly... oh well. About time.

Witold Riedel | 12:09 PM

My mother called me the other day, her voice more frustrated than the tormented one I grew accustomed to over the years. My father had printed out some pages from this site and asked her to translate some of the entries for him. He noticed that the last entry started with "My father..." and so he really wanted to know. Neither of my parents speak English, and so my mother called me after having managed to get through the first paragraph. Frustrating stuff. I love my parents. They are a bit like the two chambers of a giant heart. Hmm, just thought about all the analogies this could entail... and no, my father never beat me. I am glad I do not live on a lower floor. I guess the police would come to get me after seeing me polish the floors in not much more than my underwear. An old sock in one hand, a paper towel in the other. Definitely a case for some special treatment. A patch in the middle of my living room is very shiny now. My shoulders are sore, I am ready to get some rest. I have been burning several ends of a candle for the last few... hmm... months... polishing the floor in the morning is a very nice way of fixing some mental misalignments I guess... I am dressed now. The apartment is airing out. The windows are open. I can not adjust the thermostats on my turn of the century heating system, and so I feel about as powerful now as a driver of a red hummer. Yeah, watch me waste all that energy. I am probably wasting about as much as a hummer driver by just looking at his giant vehicle... The gurgling of steam sounds like the soundtrack of a very blood thirsty horror movie... (I do not have a car, I never watch horror movies, how do I come up with such strange analogies?) Remember when I was able to leave little entries here that seemed like little bursts of thought? The simple, not so elaborate observations of faint reflections of the barely visible? Let this be one of those entries. I do not think I want to write more right now... silly... oh well. About time.