A man standing on his head on the beach with legs spread up – “Ce frumooos, ca o floricica!” – is NOT a flower. In spite of the apparent anatomically correct disposition of parts.
Fingerblushing through his hair. One should’ve got to her on the spot. There, in the dust of time. But then again, maybe he did, just there. The venalia of fingerprints chem-changing their blood to and fro in that simple gesture between them.
The damnation is in the hand of the painter then (and the dogmatic norms of representation). No surprise. But then that’s where my aesthetic preference lies. In the smears of paint and overlapping of forms, intrusions. The transgressive forms in Gerhard Richter. But isn’t that more human?
I handbrush a car, a Volks, no shine, so cool! Watch out boys!, there’s a new mat in town – the New Orleans finish! The abouttogorustymust! (prespălat like the jeans) What you don’t wanna start, the rain will definitely finish!!! hahahahhahahaha!
Hugged for long with Erica (the actors made us 🙂 ) – a lovely girl a coté – lived in Ldn, just moved to Paris. Kept taking notes hiding away in her diary. Curvy but sexy. 27ish. Jeans cut mid-thigh with black embroidery in-threaded partly covering the cut. Open face. Not so much body posture way tho. Pitty 🙂
My eyes sink in it and I disappear into his words. Can’t lift my eyes. Can’t hold onto any self sense… and I stand like a stone. Like a vanished stone, but still one. Weightless, netherless.
Who’s this guy? where does he get his hope from? Seems more at the end of it than me! I pass by the stash of discarded things the next morning. He’s right. There is still some, left there on the bottom of that pandora box – a trace of humanity.
De cand presupunem ca spiritele/sufletele sunt mai putin oarbe ca oamenii? Tot oameni si ele! Vantura Dumnezeu stie ce lumini si umbre, ne mai ingemanam din cand in cand unii cu altii nedumeriti printre perdele. Ai reusit sa iesi din pestera lui Platon?, si dincolo tot oglinzi?
A new scenario for a film about dying quickly comes to mind. One where I’d go and get him out of bed, exhausted of hope as he is. (…) and dance myself extatic! Get him to dance with me to the edge of life/love. “Se a cabo” style.
The dust of faith, the disappearance of the men in the boat, the transcendence of hope. A feeling of sorrow and lightness flowing together. A presence.