dance flows in you

From a place far from the sea and close to clouds, she wrote: here, the moon looks like a wide bright smile; the great bear is really big. Hence, close to the horizon. The towns are like fantastic bazaars. It gave me the feeling as if I have travelled back in time… Wait for the full moon… when the frenzy outlandish dance begins.

My left ear listens to the rain. Calm, persistent, soothing rain. I feel like cold velvety water is running down on the left side of my neck, drawing invisible pictographs along my spine.

It is a strange black and white combination I can see while listening to that song evanescently overlapping the sound of rain. A large window caught in a gothic arcade, and the moonlight coming through like delicate arms wearing a pale translucent fabric falling down the wooden floor. There is nothing to touch but the soft texture of piano sound. The more I listen the more I feel the dance deep within. A dainty mesmerizing dance caught in a rolling camera view. Motion blurred shadows, sharp reflections, and geometry of footfalls on wooden floor. The subtle, almost inaudible sound of cloth flapping like butterfly’s wings. Grace and full moon, one jump, two jumps and the arch body lays down on darkness, painting elusively with light and shadows some incredibly short stories of delicate, never spoken love.

Original photo:  http://th02.deviantart.net/images3/PRE/i/2004/099/8/c/Dancer_in_the_Dark.jpg

Fullmoon stories

Who are you? I do not know. I think I am the white queen. Step on board game and wait. The pawn unfolded the paper and read: It seems that this world around is less jaded than our small inner world. It conveys messages and cues to a few who would write poetry yet– somehow recalling that Coke bottle fallen on a Morse code generator, in Kramer’s On the beach Did you inherit any traces of poetry? I can feel the sand under my skin. I can connect it to the subtle vibrations of the tunes obsessively running in my mind. Soft and persistent earworms. In the end, that vibration I can hear is like a silky, smooth piece of fabric. I can paint on it. And words are enough. But now, all I can remember of that alchemic combination of sounds is the meaning of I want.

The knight of right leaped over. The horse snorts and poaches the ground with its hooves. In this game of skill one must have above all else, Patience. The board changes, but very slowly. Then the horse pranced and the knight disappeared whilst cantering away. How many times should the linden tree bloom until you or I can come back? Just breathe and step forward. Inhale the sweet smell of linden flowers and mown grass and salty smell of ocean. Do you hear the wind? It is winnowing all the noise. Your jasmine mornings are waiting. And so, I kilt up my whites of fresh snow I crossed the nine seas. Ring the bell and think of your most important person. The message will be sent across the waves. I hope you will hear my song. The rook came closer. Deep inside you, there is a weird but passionate imagination, a lot of courage, self-preservation, gentleness and great cruelty. Give yourself more and you can do more when you grow up. Otherwise, you end up running…. I spent too much time here, too much, since I have been captured. I am no longer white but saddened and gray. The only thing I do, is watching you smiling, while I cannot. The art of chess, the art is knowing when a piece is most valuable and then, in that very moment, being willing to sacrifice it. I will sacrifice then. For in the vacuum created by the loss of what is most precious, opportunity abounds… Who are you? I am the white queen… and desire becomes destiny. On the game board, I am the wildest thing. And I have always known. The place where I shall return is there where the color of your sound is played.

Original photo http://www.hdwallpapersarena.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/05/3_chess-wallpaper-3d-03-392846.jpg

pieces of light

Sounds cause images to unexpectedly fly up. Like triggers. Cunning frenemies, they act like mines and blow up linear coherence. In the end, it’s some sort of visual music that I feel.
Somehow, I kept recalling a visual choreography. What a view... me sitting on the top of a building, with my hands on the knees completely lost in colors and frames. A long and mind-twisting trip, while the music on my IPod was flowing through my ears.
Re-wiring paths. Re-collecting fragments.
Re-designing mind-soul connectors.
A wonderful inner-city view; almost alive. Come with me, let's try to change …. It was changing with every blink. Lights and shadows, contours. I was chasing warm bright colors and light vowels. A maze. When I think of that place, it’s like going back home. Amazing. And if that feeling is real? I wanna believe… so common, break through. I only have to follow the (heart)beat. The images are flowing apparently in complete disarray. But I know their sequence is no longer bizarre. Coincidences, she used to say. Maybe. However, what if I hold my hands… and get the real thing?


Photo: http://www.flickr.com/photos/aatemu/5019702133/sizes/l/in/set-72157624757756265/

Dew

And I spent some time reading in a bus, flying from one word to another and touching the soft and subtle skin of words. Deep textured brocade, embossed feelings, embroidered fragments of the past.
It’s a tricky dangerous dance with words and fears. What is the taste of deceit? It tastes like a cloudy autumn afternoon, with a palpable touch of tiredness, sadness and defeat.
People change. We’re strange creatures that go on changing minute by minute and hour by hour.
And then I felt stronger than ever, that I miss mornings. I miss mornings as much as I miss winter and snow. I miss the cold fresh air, its smell of blossoms and dew. I have never felt dew under my feet but I want so intensely to feel that cold warm sensation, to touch with my fingers the delicate film of light violet mist and let myself breathe in the raw light breaking through the last haze of night.

Photo: http://hwaairfan.files.wordpress.com/2010/04/morning-dew.jpg

caress

I feel it… synesthestetically overwhelming. Spice and heat and bracelets clinking on the delicate wrists of a woman. Hot pavement, bare feet stepping fast in the sun through a crowded noisy bazaar. A sweet enticing oriental temptation to craziness. A rhythm that flows like Ravel’s bolero. Haunting sounds of drums as someone’s gasping for air…more and more and more. Unexpectedly it triggered to my mind the image of your red and shining blue kimono. How you smoothly let it fall down your arms. And that finger pressed to your red lips…shhhhhh. It’s the drum effect I guess. Those shamanic-like rhythms that interfere and overlap bouncing me back and forth into the geometry of sounds. The sounds of picked chords blended into the hiss of a sword… melding into a short and intense slow-motion focus of your fingers touching a hand… delicately unbearably tender.

sliding blue

Sometimes I’m there on the seashore. Sliding from one consciousness to another. Which part am I on? And so I recalled the smell of your hair, felt its touch on my face, the sound of waves, the curve of your shoulder leaning onto mine and line of knees, the sand and the sun veiled into the light bluish breeze. You dream almost every night… yeah almost. Sometimes I don’t remember. Sometimes I don’t dream at all. I may have been tired of running off the surface of reality and I just rested somewhere. I don’t know exactly where.
I feel the sand under my feet and the music playing in my ears. Sounds are guiding me. I widely spread my arms and take a deep breath.
I’ll be waiting. So will the sea…


Original photo: http://thumbpress.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/07/sunset_011.jpg

winter stories

There’s so much cold and winter in your posts, he said. Almost everything in there is cold, sharp, nearly motionless. An unconscious way of expressing how I feel, I thought. You are…two. Two different beings. We are. I am inhabiting her as much as she is inhabiting me…living both of us at the edge where our lives are inseparably interconnected. Antagonistic and irreconcilably different. I don’t know if it’s me or her humming. The more we meet, my heart feels as if… I just sensed the sounds coming out, chasing down the husky voice whispering in I don’t know exactly whose ears. There are no longer words, but simply music. And lips, redder than any winter before.

Original photo: http://cdnimg.visualizeus.com/thumbs/14/0a/people,winter,close,up,girl,portrait,snow-140ad00075dfdee5d30ef834ec1137ac_h.jpg

talking about nothing

And she drives her car and we both listen to that dark cabaret music she loves so much. Smooth rain, winter moon, and a voice drilling inside the darkest corners of the mind.
It’s Tiger Lillies. Yeah, I know…your musical obsessions.
They sing in their clean and tough British accent and neologisms dance in their mouths in their grotesque clown-like outfits. Harmonica and subtle harmonies. And my ears randomly pick up words: severed limbs. lacerated. A little deranged…

I’m running like a refugee to find a place to hide beyond my limbic system. Good, good night.
Morning and coffee. Same place. Same time. Same. Same.

And then I clicked and read. Images are motion blurred: I’m just behind you and I captured those images you didn’t, heard the music and smelled the fragrance you missed writing about. Un bărbat tânăr, creol, îmbrăcat într-un tricou negru si pantaloni lărguţi, trece pe lângă mine în paşi graţioşi de dans. Se priveşte în vitrine, are căşti în urechi şi repetă nişte mişcări ample şi studiate. Pluteşte cu graţie printre oamenii de pe trotuar. Mi se pare că doar eu mă opresc şi întorc capul să-l mai zăresc o dată pe dansatorul neaşteptat. O clipă, atât a durat spectacolul său solitar, până când l-a înghiţit nebunia oraşului. Paşii săi elastici n-au lăsat nici o urmă pe asfalt, iar gestul meu de turist care vrea să scoată aparatul de fotografiat a rămas suspendat în aer.

So many movies and acts. A fine blend of colors, taste, scents and textures. Ideas. They come and go keeping in their translucent syntagmatic hands small fragments of phrases randomly taken out subject to an algorithm I have no idea about. And they clearly look like kites. Loooong long tails and thiiiin, almost invisible thread keeping them down to …never mind. How many languages can you speak? Seven…. Wow seven languages…mystique number. True. I can say I love you dearly in 7 ways and each time those I love yous bear a different meaning.

Ssshhhh, don’t say anything. Focus on the music and dream. Or dance. Or think. Either way you have to choose. You can imagine being a child. Or just be the child that draws a pencil with its finger, and then takes the pencil and draws a door. Open it. And follow the line. It’s the simplest and smartest way to escape. Or…. remain silent in your cage doing stupid, incredibly stupid useless things.
When reading your lines I feel like a voyeur. I smile and close the door gently. While I was thinking that’s really funny. Somehow painful and funny.

The world I draw is…….. [fill in the blanks the first idea that comes to your mind].

Photo:
http://desktop-wallpaper.org/wp-content/uploads/RainbowKiteWallpaper_14DE4/RainbowKiteWallpaper.jpg

trip aside

And smoke comes out through her lips… then words rolled down gently. They saw the world as resting on the turtle's back. Shell, symbol of the heavens. And she smiled.

Then she turned to the desk as images popped out almost instantaneously… that dark inside cracked letting the light get in. Her fingers start running at full throttle.
That curved geometrically imprinted armor started gradually transforming: curved spine, head bowed forward and arms wide spread. The hexagonal totemic tale of shell re-written in the delicate and knotty calligraphy of touches and overlapped renders. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes. So many lines for such a short word…
Vectors and shadows, and a sensation of warmth increasingly intensifying. 3D velocity, and matter does not matter anymore. As her eyes caught all the frames his materialization; the mechanics
of bones and muscles that cause him arising and standing up. She saw her fingers shyly enfolding his cage of ribs and going up on the chest. Heart-touching cinemagic… The fabric of his tattooed shoulder blade rendered into billions of frames…that smell and taste remained ingrained within her lips, the slow move while turning his head toward her, line of nose and upper lip, shadows and details of his waved hair. And those white transparent wings opening out and smoothly covering her shoulders; that strange silk-like sensation spreading along the nerves of her arms and that overwhelming panic when she felt echoes of heart bumps into her palm …

Damn, she smoked again… and slept here. All the mess on her desk; the monitor throwing a blue cold light on her sleeping face. He bent and looked at her, puzzled. Have you somehow tattooed your lips?

Under the moonlight

And she is laughing and telling me a story about obsessions. And I listen to her with my eyes, while my ears are listening to the moon. Bewitching dance, a beautiful temptation. Immersed into harmonic sequences I grasp that strange feeling that sounds and thoughts are travelling along expanding the edges of space with the pace of the heart beats. Hold me close even when reborn. Just follow the soft touch of those round vowels, hence held tight by the gentleness of whispers …. sssshhhhh…
under the moonlight




Photo: http://mo-rich.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/moonlight-becomes-you.jpg

pas de deux

Bare foot in the middle of water, two foggy silhouettes dancing with autumn. Balance. Rhythm flows with the gentleness of falling leaves. Intertwined. Perfect sync. Breath. Heartbeats. Turn. Hands like delicate wings touching each other’s back. Another spin. Perfectly arched contours… Flow like a river. Touch like rain. Hold like moonlight.

Photo: http://eastasianfilm.blogspot.com/2010/09/isle.html

Fragments

This hall is silent and covered up in darkness. Seated on some stairs holding my knees, I close my eyes, rise up my head and listen to the sharp and whispered, almost transparent sound of violin.

I feel like floating in green clear water, and smooth fragments of music are bubbling up out of my mouth… one spin, two spins…

Low and intense hum.

Five cellos, five layers of reality.

Sitting on the fence in a small paved square near the sea; the cold and round touch of metal. It’s so much sun. My eyes engulfing all the bright light around. And you close in, so close… and your scent recalls the frost and spice. So close that my head rest on your chest; your breath makes this thin film of colors and scents vibrates. Paaaaaaaang! Deep and heavy, the echo of drum shattered the light and pushed me back into the dark. These stairs I’m sitting on are gently rippling. I’m trapped back.

Original photo: http://cristimurgu.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/104_09732.jpg