time flowed from the end to the beginning of life (Dictionary of the Khazars, M. Pavic)
there are only the ghosts of spiders from that corner in our balcony, that corner where we used to listen to the town’s urban dogs and cats and where we smoked our evenings out before going to sleep.
There’s only the smell of the neighbourhood’s smokehouses and of our spoken, sometimes written words; the smell of paper.
The blackness of our garden and our silence, fear digging up the ground; the earth, our roots digging themselves up amongst bunches of poppy flowers and spring onions, fresh garlic waking up its leaves with a sound so strange (like a howling), this green werewolf.
Our roots, our insectariums, our herbarium – a systematically arranged collection of dried plants.
we all started out life whole and vital, eager for life’s adventures, but we all had a perilous pilgrimage through childhood. In fact, some wounding took place in the first few months of our lives. Think for a moment about the ceaseless demands of an infant. When an infant wakes up in the morning, it cries to be fed. (…) It signals distress the only way it knows – with an undiferentiated cry – and if the caretakers are perceptive enough, the infant is fed, changed, held and experiences momentary satisfaction. But if the caretakers can’t figure out what is wrong or if they withhold their attention for fear of spoiling the baby, the child experiences a primitive anxiety: the world is not a safe place. (H. Hendrix, Getting the love you want)
the world is now a safe place but sometimes the world is not a safe place here comes my love of books hiding in the attic reading the never ending story Bastian Batlhasar Bux
that green door opening every time your heart beats. wondering is it love? if it hurts. how do you like your women? rare medium rare.
when I came back to London, the sunset wasn’t on my side. All of its red, pink, orange and purple were sneaking in through the opposite windows. I wished I could have seen it, I think. Or maybe not. There was this blue on my side. Blue was ok to begin with. Green door on the other side. When I think about it, I see myself inside my mother’s womb and trust me, it’s not my fault I want to find that happiness again. With you, the Eros. The vital energy. Door opening and closing. Baby food. Spooning when we’re sleeping. Dead birds and cats and dogs; all the pets I had as a child disappeared like they weren’t even there. What’s on the other side of that door ?
when your mom wraps you up in a cozy warm blanket, puts the warmest wool hat on your little stupid head and dad takes you on a sleigh ride. It’s dark, it’s freezing, it’s only 7pm right before dinner and you’re going on a snow adventure. your nose is red and cold, interesting, you always thought red goes with hot. your breathing stops for a second looking at the bluest snow ever and it sparkles everywhere. it sparkles and it squeezes under the sleigh, under your tiny stupid little feet. you’ll never forget the snow. You were born on a Monday. Was it snowing? You don’t remember, you’ll never remember.