Pillow Talk

I have been looking through the window into the garden the whole morning.

Do you remember that white bird with violet-green collar? The one that flew over and perched on our south facing windowsill one morning.

Oh, my. I do recall it so so well. And when you turned away with boredom I stayed. I listen to what it sang to me. 

A secret. 

And do you know what? I should have listened to that bird with my heart and not only with my

ears... 

Decisions that you make while drunk on effusive dreams kick back with horrible moral hangover later on. You can then pretend to be so into making that perfect shape of your nails or organizing your wardrobe by colours. And after by the length of each dress.

It does not work this way.

Chaos created by the same dreams do put everything in order. As paradoxical as it sounds, it truly does. Just start counting those minutes, hours, days.. But what the hell do I know, I do only have perfectly shaped nails.

The affairs of the courtesans and the lustrous pearls on their necks make you want to taste their inglorious trivial round. No decisions to make and no dreams to have. Pillow talk.

So I indulge in my own vanity fair. And I wear pearls and diamonds to make the dreamers entranced.

And it works.

Just as the violet-green collared bird once sang.

Amber Eyes

Oh dear, oh dear --


feels like summer. and so we build those sand castles at the seaside. they are fragile, they are. here comes a wave -- and gone. we then build again, even more precious ones than before. like if we could live there -- with no imperfections and flaws -- us and our minds. just next to the sea.

The Carnival of Underworld.

What if I hide there, let's say...

Forever. 

Not alone, of course.

With all the glitters and shabby glamour. 

To walk those streets like I don't even know another world

Exists.

Only care about flooded streets.
And feathers.

Join me.

Sarah Jaffe - Clementine

   

  Venice, January 2013

Rainbows were invading my little world.

When the nature lacks of colours, one can be satisfied with the artificial joy.

Usually, I do not get along well with anything that involves the obsession of cupcakes. You know, cupcake shaped teapots, inspiring posters saying 'keep calm and eat a cupcake', cupcake patterned bed sheets with cupcake shaped cushions and so on and so on and so on. A world of cuteness is a place to be happy.

Anyway, rainbow cupcakes are bloody adorable. The excessive enjoyment of eating and starring at them is equal to the process of making those little villains. 

So I promised to myself - this guilty pleasure (I mean a trend to be uber sweet and mushy) is going to stay behind the walls of the kitchen and will not occupy any other activities of mine.

Canary Collar.

While the cynical weather was still flirting with this endless winter, birds inside me were getting hungry. I didn't have any food to make them sing. Thus those birds, that once were colourful and even had glossy feathers, started eating me from the inside. And yet I cannot find the way to make them stop. 

It is one of those situations -- you spoil what you adore. Too much. You don't feel the limit or hazard at first. And after some time it turns back to you. Like a monster that you raised under the bed, feeding it with your veiled fears. 

But why can't you make it work for you again? I am asking to myself. All that matters is me, I am the centre of it all. Music that needs words to get the vital spark.

'You can't rely on other people to make you happy', they say. And they are being correct in this and all of the other meanings.     

The Material World

'Be careful, do not step on the broken glass', he said. 

That Soviet cut-glass vase was my favourite -- it's gracefulness and modesty reminded me of one lady.

Practically, I should say an old lady, but the power that she had inside herself had always veneered her real age. Not a single person was interested in that: she used to keep everyone wordless and numb wherever she showed up. It always seemed to me as she was hiding that sparkly fairy dust in her tiny red vintage bag and was secretly strewing it in front of everyone's eyes just to make them happy. She wanted those eyes to indulge in the real beauty at least for a moment. 

Strangely enough, I still feel this hedonistic spark in my stomach every time I remember her. 

I adored that lady because she looked like she had gotten out from the fairy tale - the one with the perfect world and perfect people like her - yet got lost here and could never find the way back. 

So as my vase. It used to keep my flowers and thus myself alive in there. Carnations, sunflowers, roses, but most of the time lilies -- my beloved ones.

That misty morning white lilies were sleeping next to the broken glass on the floor. Inglorious and full of guilt. However, I could still feel that perfect smell which drowns my sorrow every single time. It drowns me into the state of  weightlessness...

-- But he made her get down to the earth. She could have stepped on the crystal glass and feel nothing. That same fragile state that belonged only to her for so long moved to the new context. To the new hands. --  

[ Let me share some extraordinary instagram photos of the joyful and inspiring day spent feeling like I'm a real hipster. ]

                           

   [ And for the sake of procrastination - if we ever meet during the apocalypse of zombies. ]

Magician vs. Charmer

What a glorious start of a day - to find a headless dead bird in front of the house door, not to mention all the guts and feathers around the place. 

Ignoring the symbolic meaning of this spectacular view I take a step outside. I can immediately feel the rigorous wind warning me not to expect spring soon. Winter will not last forever -- stop taking a piss, dear. 

Nonetheless, it is not that I care. The warmth that I've been receiving and sharing keeps me far far away from reality these days. It shouldn't be interpreted as my daily life being totally oppressive though. It is just a power of society and existence of dreams that lead us to cheat on everyday tasks that we have to tick off. 

Facing reality is fun. I've tried and it works indeed.

At first you feel scared, especially if you get time to evaluate all the outcomes. Then you swallow all your possible emotions and pride. You try to find the right words for such pointless situation. Like talking to a kid about his Herculean labours and looking as serious as possible still hiding the smirk deep inside. Like an adult. 

At that very moment I understood most of the tricks that wise men use. I realized that I had been chiseled out at this point. Even though I was sure I figured out their set-ups.

But now I know, wise men do it just right. They make you think you are winning without recognizing that it's only a lie portraying in your own petty world. And that's how the magic works.