Tag Archives: Art

Driving Cadillacs in Our Dreams

In this empty, Bob Dylan’s music-filled room, the sound of doors being knocked drowns… My sharp ear manages to filtrate the irregular tact that interrupted swinging tune. Senses, now alerted, give me an ecstatic goosebumps, yet I decide to wait for the next characteristic course of action to take its place.

Humans and their patterns are easy to predict:

After a short pause interval, the sound of doors being knocked appeared for a second round. Stronger. Louder. More aggressively… Like a prostitute provoking her’s or his (no discrimination) correspondent to react.

I grin as I still manage to read the ifs and buts of the typical behaviour ahead of time. But who couldn’t? We are one way or another the children of society where habits are expected and normal almost as inherited vice. I wonder If the person behind those doors wouldn’t knock twice with much more ‘passion’ would I consider him or her abnormal?

I slowly get up from the ground and before I reach for the handle I pause.

A nerve-wracking wait for, currently, a stranger behind the wall.

Another knock materialises.

And before finally opening the old wooden doors I smile victoriously.

Acts of philanthropy only flushes my pride along the driveshaft. So I just continue to drive  Cadillacs, even if it’s only in secret.

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Confessional: the chase

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The first time I saw Maya was in the rundown Camel pub, close to the sugar loaf walk passage. It was one of those weird sights and I surely don’t know why I stopped chugging my Brandi and looked her way.The girl wasn’t anything in looks, yet somehow appeared charming with the way she was carrying herself. Even if I make this sound as a breath-stopper, really there was nothing exceptional in the scene. Her tied-up brown, greasy hair and drab pants combined with the hoodie, of course, non-lighten roll-up in her mouth and head facing down, left me perplexed up until the moment she approached Adam for a lighter. She didn’t even look at me properly, simply said a hurried thanks and gave a short glance. Nothing happened, but it left me staring her way. I was smoking at that time. Vanishing second in a row Marlboro red, when Adam has never even taken up the habit. Her approaching him instead of myself, made me question. It made me think about trivial subjects as whether that was an issue of confidence or something else,  as arrogant is to admit, I am more aesthetically pleasing than my friend.

That was it. The first meeting just left these queries which disappeared not long after another few glasses. Later on I found out that she never even remembered our first exchange of glances or even second, in fact. For a self-loving human like myself it was surely a stab in the gut; surprisingly it didn’t make her less charming, on the contrary, she became all the more.

I continue to pray, Romeo

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Here it is, my British, nihilist naturmort, I thought when he opened the doors, but only spat the tedious:
-Hey.
He was silent. Then shortly after taking not the most pleasant bath in my eyes, he began to suck the rest of the content. I started to feel as poorly as his face mimic, which pretty much reflected the ‘eh ‘ rating. He appeared to just have jumped from the bubbly, marble one to a public, covered in mold. Cursed hippocrate, he is not that … OK, I confess this rotter was hollowed out by the God himself, while I, or rather my face, is in the fourth Dante’s hell ravine. Well, you just can imagine the impact I felt after realising the differences of our worlds.
He left me in the doorway and went towards the record player like a goddamn deer… I have never seen a creature more graceful than this one, right before my eyes. In the middle of the process he seemed to remember me and an invitation to come in followed:
– Busy while waiting for a miracle? – Murmured, without turning around.
-What are you, bloody Dorian Gray? – Jealousy has taken the form of words.

The guy turned around and showed  puzzled  ‘I found myself ambushed’ type of smile. It was better than the 1/8 of a sneezing orgasm. I swear at this time I was going under a criminal case  and although I sentenced my heart for a death penalty, the head started to hold forth about democracy and rights, – all the boring dung, which acted as an antibiotic to the electrified hormones.
– Will it be? – Interrupted the inner case to offer a drink.
I took quite some time to digest the information, but did not fail to seem undeterred:
– With the ice. Fill the glass up to the end. – I threw a challenge.

He turned back and showed a slightly different smile, initiating curiosity and again his actions forced me to compare bottle-opening with the Victoria’s Secret show. He kept his gazes on me, I did too. For a second, I forgot to breathe, blink, swallow the saliva and just watched him watching me, that I watch him. He did not stop staring even when the liquid hit one millimeter to the excess point, he just knew when to stop pouring. This man was frighteningly skillful.

– Lynx – he says with a slightly hoarse voice. Me, still being reflex-less creature, tried to understand what this mystical creature is doing on Earth.
– Leo – takes the prepared drink of mine and his own,  while maintaining the eye contact and now starts massing towards me.
– Wolf – says, while shoving liqueur, contained in a quite luxurious looking  glass, to my face.
– After all, missus asked for an introduction, right? – as if explained the strange string of words and clearly satisfied with his reply he went straight back to the window.

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At this point JK Rowling’s world of magic and invisibility cloak, started to slowly disappear and the poison ceased to take over my body. The hormones, gave into the Penal Colony and now only my brain was left on the minefield.

– And you? – His tone suggested the lack of interest in my existence.
– I am Beatrice, but friends call me Deila. – I showed one of the best, sneaky smiles I had in my compartment. Buddy, it takes two to Tango. (lynx, leo, wolf and Beatrice are the characters from Dante’s “Divine Comedy”)

The guy starts to chuckle and I join.

-You read?- He put his guards down.

-A little bit. Dante just happens to be a personal favorite.

– I am surprised that you followed my remarks, but I guess I knew  it will go that way when you dropped the character name from Oscar Wilde.

-In fact, before this  game of words, I was thinking about the poem and that’s why I seemed undeterred.

-Kevin. Call me Kevin. – Slightly nods his head. Enchanted by his manners I did the same. Then I cursed myself. This man is none other than coquette. Demon closeted in a perfect body. What is his height? It seems roughly about 1.80-1.90 meters, can not exactly handle it from the couch’s perspective. Medium length hair,  directed to the back that reminded me of 1984 New York  trends. Rather a solid build, and a two-day beard, frowning eyebrows and long eyelashes, so tuned into the French fantasies I usually have. Plump lip tip with clear lines … one of those with pointy ends that kidnaps gaze. He wears a black Armani suit and slightly unbuttoned shirt exposes the delicate collarbone …

He must be joking. Such people should be driven away from the society, they pose a threat to the maintenance of a healthy mind. Coo, am I in traps, coo did the poison actually worked, Romeo?

I continue to pray for my heart to remain under the bars.

On the other side of the wall

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Yellow elephants and blue mouses were dancing together between colored balloons in a bit unusual tea party. I saw them from afar and got the urge to join this interestingly suspicious crowd. Just had to climb over the fence into their garden, paved with the green grass, marble dining sets and the most cyan swimming pool my eyes ever witnessed. It looked so surreal, perhaps even too much, as I could almost smell the plastic or somewhat pink, if possible, odor coming over from that side of the wall. Physics stopped there and left only the animal bourgeois dancing graciously in between the millions of balloons dawdling in motion. The lack of reality there didn’t scare me, I confirmed with myself as I watched my grey, colorless hands shake slightly. It didn’t scare me at all, I kept convincing those hands to grasp a little bit stronger as there were few meters of the climbing left to overcome. Not even a bit, I whispered it less assuring after seeing the grayness from my hands spread out onto the wall itself. I could see with the bare eye, the molecules diffusing with each other and spreading the black and white colored scheme as a virus and the fastest one at that. I didn’t let go, nor I freaked out, at the end I was the only one aware that the reality here is surely far from real.

I continue to climb. It took me long, as the more I climbed the longer it got, so at the end I am not even sure how long it took me as time and space is really messed up here and doesn’t work the way I am used for it to work. I only knew three things and those were that my body started to change, that the world turned grey and that the fence is far from over. Sometimes I would look back and only see myself swallowed by noir and nothing more and even regret wanting to join the carnival at the first place. Sometimes I would end up being scared about missing the party, but then the vague space-time continuum left some hope. And I would always think like that during the journey and once I stopped spacing out I realised that those grey hands of mine are not shaking anymore. And besides it, they turned old. God, how much time has passed?  I wasn’t sure. What was I chasing? What did I leave behind? Those were the questions I no longer knew how to answer. The irony hit me and I realised that somewhere in between the journey I was only missing the past or wanting to reach the future. I wanted it so much  that I forgot about my beautiful, beautiful grey colored palms that now had wrinkles and became weaker. I started to think that the color itself wasn’t that bad after all. And then it hit me, I just reached the top. I no longer cared but what I saw shocked me. The skinniest elephants and fattest mouses were lying on the floor, on the pavement, next to a drained, dirty, old swimming pool. As if it was a concrete desert, they were all dried up and lifeless even though they continued to breathe, to exist. The bourgeois status ceased untraceable, it vanished or more like there was none to begin with. Was I too late? What happened to the balloons, the colors, the tea and all the dancing I wanted to join? I started questioning, but got interrupted by a deep, low husky voice:

-Hey You! Aren’t you that classy neighbor with the bluest pond and the reddest flowers out there? What brings you here?

Finally a question I could answer came up, but the only thing that came out of my mouth was this spasmodic old man’s laugh.

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Post-Valentine’s confessional: growing James Dean’s balls

(Lips drawn by Gabriele Gumu, Poster by me)

Yo!

Let me begin by expressing how pissed I am. It’s quite the norm in the blog, in case you haven’t noticed, douchebags. Why? Oh, well, I don’t know… MAYBEBECAUSE Valentine’s is already gone!!! Let me explain myself, as I am not one of those extreme fanatics who are secretly tickling the taco (wink, wink) because off some random day in the calendar. No, no… sending myself flowers under the name Leo, Tom or Robert? It is too bold, even as a joke, for such countryside girl as myself. 

My Valentine’s agenda, if written on a paper, would be entirely empty (sadly?). But, thankfully, a little something ended up in the repertoire. That is a prank. Trust me, Valentine’s pranks are more cruel, but at the same time priceless.

This is the moment when I enter a metaphorical confessional. With my keyboard… (Have I mentioned that blogging is super weird sometimes?).

So, me and my little Russian bandit (read about this legend here) decided to prank the shit out of our close girlfriend. Wrote around 6 love letters under the names of 6 different guys she fancied at some point. Bitch is so affectionate,  easily likes or dislikes a person, depending on the mood, basically. We changed our handwriting styles, wrote some poems, made some drawings, we even considered the importance of different layout and typography approaches. Pretty genius, just saying…

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Oh, before judging, let me point out that mailbox of love-letters was our University of The Arts’  idea. Donating money for children with cancer was also an option. And we did put all of our coins in. BAM – cruelty justified. Classic Karmic good action annulling the bad one. Anyway, our victim has received an email, saying that she got those love letters and has to come and get it. Obviously, being a girl,she started to timidly brag and ask for advise.

-‘Do you think this is spam?’ – she asked. I swear, I saw a little grin on her face.

-No, not at all. – I tried to hold in the laughter. It was hard, but I handled well.- Oh, I remember there was this thing at Uni. I think you should go and look it up.

Yadda Yadda Yadda.

-Do you think wearing red t-shirt on Valentine’s is too obvious?- She was now self-conscious.

-Sincerely, i don’t really give a flying fuck.

-I really mean it, can you tell me?

-I really meant it too, i just don’t give a damn fuck.

This and that happened, then Russian mate was a true secret spy, master of the lies, the top right hand of Vladimir Putin himself ( let me inform you for the sake of Sochi’s fiasco – she is not anti-gay). Pulled the whole scam off like a pro, with a straight face, confirming all of the lies I fed to the little bird. This started to look good, but the end result has not met the expectations. Unfortunately, due to a lack of time on the busy day, the girl, could not go and receive the letters by hand.

This would be the part of the confession when I say I am sorry. Or guilty…  Shit, how does it go again? 

We had a great lough. All of us, the masterminds and the victim.  So, my metaphorical priests, what I am pissed about is not that the prank did not end as planned. I am sad because there is that big of a ruckus on the date itself: people throwing chocolates, flowers and panties around, but only a mere Sahara of post-reactions, on the day after. A shameful walk with messed-up hair coming from singles and poor ‘let’s invest some time into this relationship’ breakfast from the couples in the shitty dinners. Even extreme cases of cake overdose or just neutral series-watching marathons is better.

I want as much love on any day!!! Pardon, my keyboard just vomited rainbows. But,indeed, It sucks that there has to be the day in the calendar to remind us about the necessity of attention for the loved ones. Any kind of attention is great, actually. Even a prank would do. Just grow yourself a pair of James Dean’s balls and rebel. Sometimes for a cause too.

Keep it UMC, UMC, UMC, babies.

Winters make me fat. A tribute to food

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I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage.

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There is no sincerer love than the love of food.

The cronut redemption

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