whale language

I was lying in my bed, having an intimate wordless chat with insomnia. After a while I chose to focus on the pace of words bubbling out into the darkness through the wormhole thoughts you are not even aware of, on narrators voices, thoughts merge into as if they were softly caught in a chant, thoughts can fly in a low pitched voice to share simple sensations. Deep within an almost hypnotic state before I fell asleep somehow I felt the hold of your fingers on the top of my fingertips. As if our palms would have smoothly slid one over the other and fingerstalls remained clung, resisting separation, flooding mind with images. Your images, their taste and colorful smell, the feeling of seeing someone filmed through water, speaking with long and muffled sounds like the whale language in finding nemo. I wish I could have this language translated into a visual alphabet. Fluid. Able to reach you out. This would be the way to tell you more. No, not more. Only longer.

Photo: www.husseinchalayan.com/‎

Stroke of light

It was a bookstore café. And beyond the vanilla and cinnamon, it was a very subtle but persistent scent of paper and ink. It was not the place I had in mind, but I liked the purple flowers in a transparent bottle, the bright light green and royal violet of the cushions and the turquoise blue of the candle holders. It was cozy and colorful and the whole atmosphere was matching well with an ice café latte and the piece of white paper in front of me.
I was never good at writing letters. I was unhandy and sort of awkward with words. In the end it was a bit ironic to try writing a letter by hand in a bookstore’s café. The best letters I ever thought of have never been written. Those soliloquies refused to cope with paper. Life of such words is shorter than usual. Seconds. Imperceptibly the earworm had changed. A different tune with a different beat residually floating. “I remember”. Maybe if I would be able to transform the beats into the Morse code, what would I found out? What should I remember? But that letter was written and sent. It crossed the town to find a post office opened on Saturday late afternoon. Going back downtown in that yellow cab I had the impulse to look back. It was nothing in particular to see but a gray stripe of asphalt left behind. No marvelous sunset, no breezy sunrise. Nothing but a hot quiet summer afternoon in the suburbs. So, I did not do it. I think I have seen a shooting star on that late summer night, when the Perseids appeared on the northern sky. I was waiting for the bus. A short stroke of light hit my peripheral vision. I knew it was a shooting star. Few weeks after, in a small village near the sea, on a wild remote beach I saw it again. There’s nothing more soothing than to sit on the sand listening to the sea and watching the night sky. Big dipper. Tail of small comet maybe. North star. Contours of stars clusters. Sound of waves. That night I’ve seen you in a dream. You were sitting on a bench looking at me. I saw your dark hazel hair in that austere almost colorless church-like hall. I was so startled. My feet froze. I just saw you standing up and leaving that hall. I watched your silhouette fading away and my voiceless please don’t go was never heard. I knew I should follow but could not move. My heart pounding hard woke me up… please stay.

Photo: http://areaofinterest.com/post/38728828907/michael-chase

Crowds (II). De-void

I was thinking to sit on the floor while she was reading, to rest for a while and listen to the music leaking out of her computer. Some sort of old music I used to listen when I was in high-school. But I continued to stand up near the bookshelves, looking at the old shabby roofs in the neighborhood, buried into dust and noise. She kept reading attentively then raised her head and said calmly: you tend to push all the pronouns out of the sentence. As if you are pushing people away. That’s really interesting. You bring aloofness to a new level. A very subtle level. You tend to omit “you” and “me” is altered to “be”.  A nice Freudian slip I might say. I didn’t even notice. As many other things that probably I have never noticed. In a world of so many vocalized “me” I’m taking glimpses into the islands of an equivocal resort to the self. Thus, the two structures collide in a game between implicit me and unspoken you, contextually diffused. It’s the quadrant mingling into the core.

I remembered the words I was told “do you remember the song it was played back then, because I guess it might be the key of the whole story”. I was looking at him completely unaware of the importance of the message. “I don’t. I guess it was the second or third song in the set list”. “Find out”. And I did. That feline should have had some feathers armoring its slim hazy body. The angel of love was upon me. In the end I don’t know for sure what song was playing back then, how people were breathing or how the sound was crawling on their skins. But I know how my mind felt it and I would tell you about these things.

 

Photo: http://www.paranoias.org/2012/11/dancing-colors-by-fabian-oefner/

Crowds

In a huge bowl full of strangers I was listening to their music. In fact I was not exactly listening. The sound was so distorted that half of the tune was restored from my imperfect memory. I had no idea deep inside my brain the details of their beats and solos are so thoroughly stored. So I was simultaneously listening and recollecting the deep harmonies of the tune. For few seconds I had the impression the song was a semitone lower and the tune itself sounded somehow strange. Distortion faded away and the melody continued its acrobatic dance with the rhythms, among the claps and murmurs.

A dark cloud was moving across in a gentle slow motion looking like a slim runaway feline. A song away the feline was dissolving in the dark blue evening sky. Suddenly I was remembering the dream I had a night before. A person shaving its head with and old razor, and then washing its head with a bottle of champagne. So, in my dream, I was thinking that maybe I would have seen it before, and somehow my subconscious was dealing with the weirdness of the fact in its own way. By putting in a dream. Third layers of reality playing hide and seek with my sleeping mind. It seems that all sorts of things and ideas are dissolving then crystalizing in my colorful vivid dreams. But no matter how desperately I long for, you are never there. Once only, in a black and white dream. You were sitting alone at the wooden table looking at me, surrounded by many people. And I was in a hot air balloon, looking at you, knowing that you were there waiting. I was ready to jump when I looked at the rift between us. Then my brain cut the power and send me back out of dream, not before analyzing what would have happen if an idiot like me hastily jumped the balloon basket. Maybe a part of the answers came like wire-worm in an email with pictures, some sort of quotes, funny, kinda foolish, but innocent and fairytale-like. The legend says that on the nights when you cannot fall asleep, probably you are awake in somebody else’s dream. Somewhere in a corner of my mind another musical phrase is playing in loop. If I could close my eyes then I might fall asleep. And I might fall down to the ground in the same slow very slow motion changing the orbit of each sound in this bowl full of strangers listening to music. Fall asleep and disperse myself into different realms of dream. I might find you but do I have the force I need to break into your dreams?

 

 Photo: Bruce Berrien - Breeze via www.culturainquieta.com

Cartomancy

I was looking at the map. The place you are now makes the distance between us shorter. So short that in a different layer of time I would have probably jumped in a cab and run to the airport. So, I wouldn’t have been so many miles away. I would have been there. Walking among flashes and lights that would have been carved their places within the chemical reactions of what we call remembrances. While I was looking at that map “me” in my head was smiling. The very feminine me,wearing a large brimmed hat, was smiling. And the long hair was blown by the wind while gently covering and revealing the jawline, edge of neck and the shoulder; and the fingers smoothly keeping the hat’s brims. As if she was posing for a fashion magazine. That image residually remained in my visual cortex for long. She was being me, while I was watching myself.

 

photo: http://www.millionlooks.com/images/woman-wide-brimmed-hat.jpg

Insomnia

I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts were running to and fro. As if they were following the annoying electric buzz that I could hear into the dark. I opened the TV and I absently watched an episode of a series I used to like. Insomnia. Velocity of random thoughts. People don't learn; people don't change. But you did. You're a freak. Yeah. But me. I’m just one of those idiots that got some insight about themselves [...] did nothing about it. That’s who I am. Sometimes, you sleep with tigers but that’s not a deep sleep. No, it’s just resting close to the inner demons. When you think you’ve just tamed them, their teeth are deep on your skin. But scratches are too deep in the flesh of mind to touch them and caress until the pain is gone. Stray dogs kept barking outside. What were they barking about?

While I was lying still on the floor I remembered. Any woman should walk barefoot 10 cm above all the dustup. Any woman should have an imponderable connection with this deceiving world. Apart and within. And all the other words of that page I read some time ago started wonderfully flowing out and running. Out of my house. On the staircase. Out of the block. On the streets. I looked up within the shelves of my hyperkinetic mind, I recalled and enjoyed. I might talk to myself. I wish I could to talk to myself. It would be a wonderful pleasure: to open my mouth and utterly tumble myself out of it. Such a strange feeling. As if, I would have been reborn from a conceptual womb of vowels and consonants. Totally new, totally different. With a new path embedded within the skin and cells. Coming out into sight through the nerves’ texture. So I raised my hand. And my index finger started growing long and lean up to the ceiling. Getting through it, shifting the pattern, dissolving it into large window. There are fuzzy clouds. And the air is dense and foggy. When I turned my head I could see your eyes closed and I felt your breath near my shoulder, your waved hazel hair all over the pillow. And I’m so heavy and thick that every little move may cause an earthquake. I just stayed still and confused, looking at you. Wasn’t I on the floor… ?!

 

Photo:

http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mcbwsukS1J1qcx5duo1_500.jpg

Haze

The fragrance of a dark coffee. And the rain that is weeping down the large window, somewhere up, above the city. The warmness of the coffee cup buried in one palm, the coldness of the window’s glass painted all over the other. Her breath hazed the window. She smiled and wrote few words with her finger. Then stepped back amazed to see the same words being written backwards by the hand she remembered so well, on the other side of the glass.

blowing snow

 

I want to capture your vivid dreams and project them on the blowing stormy snow. To see them falling down from above, colorful, cinematic. As clear as I can see your face line, and your closed eyes, and the curves of your eyebrows. And silky texture of lips, and tantalizing contour of neck. And roundness of shoulders. All merged in 3D holographic fused puzzle, bubbling down and up, resembling a displaced Picasso-like painting that fell in love with the Rubik cube. A blowing snow bringing out tiny bits of you. Snowflakes imprinted with your metadata lying sensually on the frozen ground, reconstructing a different you in an evanescent piece of concentrated water and light. So, as I was listening to the swirls of wind and the music coming along with night and dreams, I saw it. And I closed my eyes to see it better. Your fingers, my fingers. Your ribs, my ribs, your neck, my lips. 

wormhole bloom

It was snowing that afternoon. Big, fluffy snowflakes in a free falling towards the ground. A silent pillow fight of bluish clouds. There, inside, the words are floating around deaf and aloud. Indifferent. Odd. Cold.

It fitted a place that looked like a haunted bughouse, with bleak days and white lies, tight waistcoats of useless dry words. Shapeless, meaningless, lost spoken words. No one listens. It’s just a dreary mimic of listening. As long as you never listen, you’ll never hear the sound of a door being closed.

Over this senseless world, it is still snowing. In my lifeless cubicle, instead of the monochrome indifference a colorful field of tulips will unfold all over. If I would take off my shoes I may walk through this a golden carpet of tulips caressing palms and feet with their soft stems and petals. To stand in a startling explosion of colors and imperceptible floral scents, that seals in sounds reset and re-programmed to bear sense and emotions. A flying carpet of tulips powdered in soft glittering late snow. Like a wormhole, that opens up a world away, somewhere else, on a paved street flowing down to the ocean, among red bricked silhouettes. Wrap up your shoulders with the smell of salty winter. Embrace the cold sun. The wind is gently combing your hair in a harbor at the other end of the world. No one remembers your name. And no one sees the fragile transparent being that keeps dreaming, hidden deep inside.


Photo source: http://annaschuleit.com/bloom.html

Irene's winter tale

Within a bleak gray room, she was telling a colorful winter story.

It was Friday afternoon. A cold afternoon, close to the end of the year, we were all caught in an accelerated count down until the end of the day. Maybe the end of the week. Most likely till the end of the world as we sensed  it.

While I was recalling the colors of the story, some other voices jumped out of silence, and made themselves comfortable. The brilliant, fulgent details of ordinary life should overwrite the dark side of almost everything. Therefore, it was a young snowfall embracing an old resigned December. Like a re-writing of hues, within the game of overexposing the significant fine points.

My imperfect memories of story teller's voice have reshaped an alternate narrative; that very moment of her slowly driving a car through the invasion of snow flakes like small dandelion florets, chimed in with my awkward slide down from one layer of possibility. An utterly contingency. I was standing in the middle of the deserted boulevard covered in fresh untouched snow, looking at the Christmas lights hanging all along. In those cones of lights projecting their contours of the street the snow turns out blue and green. Sometimes turning into soft faded tones of red. In our commonly shared slice of universe you are stripped in primary colors. While I am covered in primal fears.

It was a Friday winter night, neatly wrapped in a hot blanket, assorted room coated by the scent of jasmine tea and sweet citrus and a complementary play of minds enclosed in a movie. Some other voices make themselves heard to convey some sort of message for those willing to believe in. I have heard them while I was almost asleep. I assumed it is true. People find their paths in the strangest of ways. Even if they do not know yet.

 

Source: http://static.flickr.com/62/368532221_168c730bf5.jpg

Frozen

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor. From the screen, those words were leaking down.
She could almost feel them flowing towards her legs.

But, you ascribed meaning to something that was not there. You saw what you wanted to see. You believe what you wanted to believe because that’s what your emotions do. They ascribe meaning to something that is not there.
They fool your perception as to what is real.
I can ascribe whatever meaning I need to keep myself alive. Whatever stories behind ugliness that changes perspective about lights and shadows, whatever signs to boost hope. Whatever remnants of the sense and sensibility long dead. I see what my mind needs to see. Otherwise, I may go blind.
The skin remembers what the mind forgets. My eyes are wide open when closed. And, those words leaking down the screen got frozen.
Other voices were whispering in distress that feelings are getting extinct so like dinosaurs once. But, I clinch tightly on such obsolete useless details of what I feel because I’m afraid my soul will end up barren and dried. That’s why with each expansion my lungs scribble on the wall of my rib cage There are no limits, except for those that we impose on ourselves. Open your eyes.

Open, open.

 

Photo: http://chloenelkin.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/resized-hiroshi-sugimoto-lightning-fields-168.jpg

 

words in a box

It’s incredible. You make a crappy railway station look like Hogwarts. And she smiled like a child. Somehow, she conveyed to the outer space the image of that Hogwarts she was thinking about. It was that simple to make it come alive. Then her Hogwarts was overlapping mine. Multiple sets of visual coordinates synchronized in colorful stereoscopic imaginary land. Rounded arches, shadows, brick piers, sun rays and volatile walls, paved platforms wrapped in vanilla and sandal wood scent. High and low voices and clatter, metallic sounds, and vintage long coats running through that picture randomly. The puffs of black steam iron-horses, but no ticket booths. No schedules. No time-tables. It looked like a challenging solitary quest. Where I could find the perfect object to born a magic wand? First step: suppress logic, and then enhance poetic insanity. Choose state of mind. After that, pick up some necessary clothes. I’d like something flavored, sweet, to match perfectly a gorgeous coffee. The pier of the closest arch changed its consistency. A drawer opened up smoothly. Many items, small odd things, few spots of red. A pair of scissors is always welcomed to cut off unwanted strings attached. A small metallic box hiding within all kinds of feelings. I can see the wide puckish smile of Miss Hope sitting femininely cross-legged on that box… well, I’m curios who’s left behind now. That old piece of paper written in ink may keep inside some secrets. A white uncoupled heart holds itself on a ragged book with no boards. The queen of diamonds disguised herself in white vestal gown of Juliette, singing low an old French chant. The weed hook I may have, to catch and braid the strings and threads of world. A story like spider-web over naked skin. Almost invisible, roughly delicate, incredibly close. On the Hogwarts’ third platform from left to right, near the second pier of the third arch the time is sent away.

By the way, when do we measure the curvature of space, while travelling back or forth?

Photo: Ina Popa (c)