011. Not unlike the waves

Nu ma intereseaza ce se intampla in spatele cortinei, unde totul e obositor, incurcat si onomatopeic. Nu vreau coruri cu note grave si adanci, pierdute. Pier in deznodamanturi si morminte de eroi confundati cu pesti fara oase. Am inmormantat corpuri de pesti ce vorbeau si ma certau. Le-am astupat gura cu pamant, pietrele au cazut pe tesut, au obligat ce era viu sa se predea. De aceea, in spatele cortinei, esenta e moarta. Esenta e-n frunze ce zac sub aschii sub pamantul dintr-un ghiveci spart. Esenta e ingropata adanc in frunze. Si frunzele nu mai sunt gasite de nimeni. Pentru a suplini si o anterioritate iminenta: nici nu le mai cauta nimeni. Moarte secata din toti stropii de ploaie ce le-au udat.

002. I wanna jump to this jam until we see the sun [...]

Melodramatic feelings carving the insight of all the things I see. I make no sense, there is nothing to hold sacred or to let go. And you know it’s funny, since I have been longing for so long for a reason to give everything a soul would pursue and believe in. But it seems that the universe has been waiting for its own reasons to give in. To throw me to this deep void of untitled madness which I will never figure out alone. Carving deeper to what is left, to songs about cuddling ballerinas fulfilling destinies of those who hate art, I realize that I will never be able to write again. These passages, words, phrases remain floating in vain. Once in a blue moon will I read them again and I will constantly say to myself don’t look back, don’t look back, no pointing fingers at you, no, not now, save it for later…. Ironic enough though, there is always a detail to remind me. And I’m aching, crying for the times when it was perfect and artistic, with cloudy days that seemed warm and cozy, never cool and dreadfully hostile. Now they are the ones pointing fingers. I scream I surrender but they would never listen. Chairs breathe through the peaches that slipped from the table and remained on the same old chairs. Some peaches are on the ground. Intoxicating the floor with redemption and lost gestures. Well they were funny once, tender, withdrawing every drop of skepticism. They are now poison flooded with regret, the type of regret one will never know until helplessly trying to deny it in order to keep sane and lucid. There’s a blue moon outside and so I read these again and the peaches rot suddenly, turning to ashes of shadows from the early past. I hate you, beauty of form, Art, I hate you forever and you will never foster me again. In the end, it doesn’t even matter, does it? And right now you’re laughing. Aren’t you?

001. Don’t play dead, ’cause maybe some day [...]

05.03.2011 – early afternoon…2:45 p.m, in a moment of artistic decadence

Fluturasi intrati la apa, ventilator improvizat, iepuras nebun cu ochi de rubin si neoane pe pereti, tapet industrial cu dungi argintii si dungi cenusii si alte dungi negre, putine scaune dar suficiente pentru oamenii ce nu intra acolo, mereu e muzica ce urla, ritmuri alarmante si alarmele politiei, sirenele ambulantelor, postmodernismul spontan al locului, fum din nimic, fum peste tot, chiar si fumul urla, bijuterii crapate in jumatati se oglindesc in podeaua tare, calda si opaca. Iepurasul se ascunde sub cele doua mese, doua mese si mai multe scaune, cam putine dar suficiente, iepurasul fuge si i se aud picioarele blindate cu metal pe podeaua calduta. Oricum nu-l cauta nimeni dar le e frica de el, teama sa nu-i muste de picioare si de maini.

Fluturii au fost spalati si reimplantati in peretii netezi. Acum par mai mici. Se miscoreaza cu fiecare spalare. D. se asaza intr-un colt, langa un scaun pe care e un difuzor scuipand muzica cu tipete, pe care Amelie o prefera in surdina. Isi aprinde tigara, se sprijina de peretele crem cu visiniu, luminat partial de lumina portocalie ce bate spre rosu carmin. Amelie langa el, stand turceste, cu tigara aprinsa in mana stanga. Priveste precaut in jur, dupa iepurasul nebun. D. se intinde, scutura scrumul de pe camasa neagra deschisa in jurul gatului, isi da parul negru din ochii de zgura, isi intinde buzele intr-un rictus mimand un zambet scurt.

- Te ascult.

© Astrid Bolea 2011