Saint Laurent's tears or the Perseides expedition

We had read the Perseides were going to shower the skies that night and thus decided to find a place out of the city's light pollution to watch the precious St Laurent's tears.
We - me, the professor from Paris and Sarajevo - met at the Opera house at midnight on the dot and were to drive some 20 minutes to Kalmthout natural park.
Maybe the meteorites confused the notions of time and space, or maybe we were too busy telling funny stories and trying to name the movies matching with the famous film themes we were listening to, anyway, somehow, we got a bit lost in various diversions and entered Kalmthout only an hour later. The streets were empty as in a dead city and the tune that just came up was "Twisted nerve" whistling...spooky!
We drove around  Creepytown in search for a person that could show us the way, and it seemed completely deserted, until we finally found the only opened bar with a woman and two men standing outside. We stopped and kindly asked for the way to the natural park. Was it for the time of the night? was it for us? was it for them?  they looked at us three as if we were ugly aliens and first answered with another question : "WHAT are you going to do there?"
The three of us thought of saying the same thing... that we were going to dispose of a dead body there...but they didn't look like people with much humor, so we innocently said we were going to watch meteorites (isn't that obvious???!) so they seemed satisfied and indicated us the right direction, but kept on looking at us as if we were insane - or highly suspicious.
We finally arrived on site, parked the car, took out the blanket, the Cava bottle, the glasses that Sarajevo had brought (that girl is always prepared for everything) and headed to the forest entrance. Trees on the left, trees on the right, a small path in front and darkness all around. Sarajevo had also a good light on her front head (the one she used as the Slugexterminator, but that's another story) so we had no problem at all and stepped on the path. We didn't even walk three meters when we heard a crack in the obscurity. We stopped dead and switched off the light, our three pair of eyes peering into the blackness. A light flashed for a second in front of us. We flashed back. Flash again. Made two steps forward and three steps back as we saw two shades quickly approaching. Even the professor had lost her assurance as she whispered: "des militaires!" Sarajevo only repeated "des militaires?!".We were tempted to run away but eventually held our position strong. Two men passed us swiftly, hardly looking at us, equipped with crossbows. We turned round and watched them walk out of the forest. WTF? We should have asked them how far was the first clearing. Brave as ever, Sarajevo ran behind them saying "hello! Sorry!" and it seemed they were walking even faster as she was chasing them. She managed to catch up with them and they even answered that we had to walk 5 mn to the first open space. And right after that they jumped in their car and hurtled off on full speed. 
What the hell were these two guys doing with crossbows in the forest? Were they the only ones? why did they look so scared of us? After all, we, three normal girls, were only carrying a bag with a bottle of Cava and glasses in a forest at 1 am...Were they hunters? what were they hunting? rabbits? in the middle of the night? Were we about to be the accidental rabbits of some weird hunters if we went in? 
We decided to stay where we were, arguing the cloudy sky had just cleared up above our heads and going further would not help us. We were not scared at all, no no no.
So we opened the bottle,  laid on the ground and were rewarded for all that effort and all these little fears. Every now and then we tripple-echoed an enthusiastic "OH! did you see it too?!" when the stars were crossing the night sky in clear bright rays, magical.
The night was cold though, so at some point we agreed on leaving right after seeing all three a last shooting star. I needed to pee though so I walked away and I just heard: "No way, keep on looking up while you pee so that you don't miss it, or just pretend you've seen it too if we shout!"
It was too late though, already half past three and the clouds were slowly taking hold of the starry heaven again.
Too bad, for if Saint Laurent was watching us that night, I'm quite sure he must have been laughing to tears.

the monster made of eyes & the drunken boat

Men grow too old for love, my love,
Men grow too old for lies;
But I shall not grow too old to see
Enormous night arise,
A cloud that is larger than the world
And a monster made of eyes. *

The monster  made of eyes
Up there the skies were infinite and the clouds hung at our feet. The days were hot, green and translucent, the nights were cool, deep and sparkling. We were gathering on the hotel terrace after every concert, they were telling jokes and we were all laughing to tears echoing far in the surrounding stillness. We had some beers, smoked a bit, I felt like a little walk and went down the terrace and turned right toward the church. I wanted to look at the sky. Past the second house was the last lamp, a bench and the beginning of a little path bypassing the hill. Past these, a curtain of darkness. I walked a few meters  and  disappeared behind the backdrop. I was all alone, and looked up, in the uncanny silence of the witching hour. My eyes were probably mirroring the countless glitter of the night, and I thought of that strange old woman wrapped in mystery that had told me once, years ago : "the most beautiful I have seen in the Sahara desert was the moon reflected in a dead donkey's shining eye". Stars, everywhere, all around, shining still, or crossing the  magnitude in a swift ray...Was it a solid firmament  sustained by the strong shoulders of Atlas or a colossal tenebrous living creature?  For I couldn't remember who, of us two, me and the night, was watching who.

A thrill of thunder in my hair:
Though blackening clouds be plain,
Still I am stung and startled
By the first drop of the rain:
Romance and pride and passion pass
And these are what remain.*

The drunken boat and the storm
That boat was getting nearer and looked almost as if it was drifted towards us. We were sitting approximately 6 meters above it on the waterfront and I was not very comfortable with having my legs hanging so high above the water level, but the cool breeze at dusk felt so well, bringing the sea to our nostrils and freshening us from the sticky heat of that summer day. 
The barge, already heavily loaded and looking close to sinking, started doing strange moves, going sideways, back and forth, and we, well we were being watched and watching, hypnotized by this weird ship who, most certainly, like the piano, had been drinking,  until it made us feel sick and ready to join the party by dropping down. Luckily, before we jumped in the depths, we looked at the the silver lit port in the distance and noticed  the setting sun had disappeared behind a wall of clouds. In the vertical clouds hanging there, beautiful lightning bolts started flashing here and there. As the wind suddenly got to the edge we were sitting on, blowing stronger, I could almost see Zeus standing in the clouds, half upset half grinning. It was time to leave the battlefield to higher powers and ride into the night for another kind of pleasures.

(Street art by Sam3)
*Poem by G.K. Chesterton

have you ever seen a flying horse? orelse summer in Antwerp

Summer in Antwerp is like summer anywhere else... just perfect. 
Life unfolds in soul caressing sunny mornings and late warm sunsets, peaceful evenings mirroring in the Schelde unless it's in the beer you're having on a roof while listening to strange birds making even stranger noises. (In fact I think they're flying monkeys thinking they are birds, or the other way round. don't ask me what they're doing in Antwerp, I didn't ask them. I just shouted "f*** you!" when they were too noisy --which, as I was said, is weird too..)
Summer and its storms that catch you on an open air festival evening. Sarajevo laughed at me when we hit the road between the corn fields and headed to Sfinks festival because I had flip flops on, whereas she had a pair of brand new sneakers to avoid wet feet...well when we came out of Anderland (the music box) after a great set of Acid Arab and all that was around was mud, I couldn't help from having an evil smile on my face as I took off my flipflops to walk happily barefoot. Rain,water, power cuts and thousands of people dance walking in some kind of apocalyptic vision that gives you though an immense sensation of freedom and relief. For one moment, you are perfectly free to wade in mud like a kid (or a pig) and it's amazing!
My smile faded away when I got home and found out my legs were brown up to my knees and realising that it probably already was so when I was proudly dancing on the box next to the djs.. (sexy dancer in a nice dress with legs covered with mud.. hmmm)
Summer and its working days when everybody is melting on their office chair in the middle of a meeting and someone has the great idea of getting some cakes and fruits and have a break because no one can think straight.
Summer and its naked sensuality, while you cook in your kitchen and first hear, then see a couple making love in the frame of an open window opposite yours and you suddenly realise you're also exposing yourself in underwear in an open window.
Summer and its magic mood that makes you dance and sing out loud hoping no one is gonna complain about it, and no one actually does because no one cares. Even if you sing about a flying horse.. by the way have you ever seen one?- a horse that flies? 
For I have. I may even tell where..but you can only see it in summer...

Just one of those days - (nothing personal)

Sedlákovi umře nejdřív koza, potom kráva a nakonec i manželka. 
Zničený sedlák si sedne na mez a běduje: "Panebože, co jsem provedl, že mě takhle trestáš?" 
Zjeví se mu pánbůh, škrábe se na bradě a povídá: 
"Já ti vlastně ani nevím, ty mě prostě tak nějak sereš."
(A peasant first sees his goat die, than his cow, and finally his wife passes away.Hopeless, he sits on his porch and starts crying and complaining. "Oh God, what did I do to deserve this?"
God appears in front of him, scratching his head and says: "Well I don't really know, nothing special, you're just kinda getting on my nerves." -Czech joke - it really makes me laugh)

One of those days

Just one of those days when, at some point, everything starts to bug you, for no reason, just brutal mood change with no rational motive. Day was pretty good... but insidious, the flower of carnage first starts with feeling like bitching about any extremely positivist post you see on Facebook. All this universal love bullshit (yep far from the days I post this kind of rubbish too..)Then you start arguing about futile things with anyone just to contradict them. Then it seems the whole world is blind and can't see the horrors that are happening (Are all these people really blind? - keep on talking about universal love you morons.). Then obviously, you get some news that doesn't make you any  happier. Or you don't get replies that you expect. At work, from your friends. And finally, it seems the whole world has been conspiring against you. And everybody seems damn stupid, of course. (stooopid!)

That's most probably the consequence of having had too much of a good time the previous days, the days I was high on alegria and so full of love for the whole universe. It doesn't last forever this flying high, gotta have a slight downer. And I really had a great time, but I don't even want to tell about it now. (you wouldn't get it!).

No matter how I try to rationalize it, it doesn't really help and I'm quite happy I don't have anyone in front of me to start a fight with. And you can be happy not to see my face and be exposed to my wrath. Well at least the idea of that situation makes me laugh. muahaha

Oh yes,  just one of those days when everything is kinda getting on my nerves and I'd storm the world with flashes coming out my eyes.

Just one of those days. Thanks whoever (maybe the one who's most probably today, as any other day, away on business!) there's still music. But I don't expect you to get it. Tomorrow is another day.

There's a cat in the courtyard, that keeps on saying "halloooooo".

There's a cat in the courtyard, that keeps on saying "halloooooo". as if it was answering a phone call and didn't hear anything. The cat is invisible. Always hear it, never see it.
I disappeared, too. Well, from my blog. 

It all started with a new job I enjoy, serving beauty again, how lucky. Moved into a great new house which decoration makes me feel I am in a retro movie every time I step in. Summer comes and goes but the occasional sunny afternoons spent with friends on my roof in deck chairs seem to be endless. I fell two times of my bike, but also managed not to fall off my bike while I was outrageously drunk. (it was my birthday, is that enough of an excuse?). 

That was a fun night, with an even funnier ending. Being a bit "tired" as we were riding home around 5 a.m., me (sideways) and the violinist (scared of seeing me fall and taking a nap on the side of the road anytime), I of course forgot to take the right turn to my street and got a bit lost. We stopped on an empty avenue to take a look at the map and find our way back, when, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, appears an orthodox jew on his bike too, wearing his fur hat (with a plastic bag on it to keep it from the rain), around his fifties, apparently sober. He first comes to us and asks if he can help. So we show him the map and ask him the way, but he appears not to know where we are at all and we say, thanks, we'll find it. And then he says, just as naturally as we asked him the way: "Could you please come and spend the night with me?" 
We were just looking at him, wide-eyed, blinking with disbelief. Then we looked at each other but he started again, nearly begging, "I really need you. Please come sleep with me".
All my wittiness or usual reactivity to such ridiculous bids was gone. Speechless, I was so shocked I didn't even think of telling him off, not even wtf????. Suddenly sobered up, I realized where we were and where we had to go, and just thought of leaving. 
Obviously, when we told the story to our Antwerp friends, acquainted with the usual attitude of orthodox jews, they could hardly believe us. Yet it was true. Some people are apparently hopelessly frustrated and I start getting used to bizarre encounters. 

Anyway, I went to Prague as well and had a wonderful time. Especially after a couple medical checks. Before that I had breast cancer (or lived with the idea of having one). Since I got a medical confirmation that I didn't, that I was all right, I only had to get rid of a possible nascent hypochondria. So I celebrated all that with the Flower lady,  the  fashion designer (who -normally - doesn't drink) and Nils, who had abandoned his wild geese somewhere in Vlams-Brabant to experience wonderful adventures with other wild animals in Prague. We were so happy and danced and partied for so long that we were tempted to blame it on some added extra substance in our drinks. But why do so, since they can always blame me if needed. (It's ok, as long as I'm blamed for really good parties).

Today started gloomy, but the sun finally came out, I took a train to Brussels, had a meeting and it seems I'll get another nice job soon. 
My life's not all sorted yet. New starts are never easy, that's maybe why they're so cool. I have great people around me, even if some of them are physically a bit far and I wish I could have a live laugh with them and hug them more often.

Meanwhile, this cat in the courtyard... it still keeps on saying "halloooooo". 

Flying bums and the little red riding hood in the fairy land of Antwerp

Bursts of laughter. "Dupka lata", meaning restless -literally "having a flying bum". It was the witches night after all.
Coincidence made we met on a Tuesday again. Me, the pianist and the composer, tacking between four languages. Them two laughing every time I answer their Polish in Czech, me, although a bit under siege, repaying their laughter with mine. Our mutual  mother tongues understanding was getting better as the bottle of Zubrowka gradually emptied, even if English and Spanish still dominated the conversation.

I had met her - ethereal creature with intense sparkling eyes-, in the South, late at night, and our first Czech-Polish (almost) fluent conversation about Albrecht Dürer and Günter Grass had sealed our friendship.We did consequently share several breakfasts by the river, many beers, a few friends, a couple of all night long walks in Seville, a mattress, and even found out we shared ...but that would be too much information.

I had met him - thanks to her but in her absence -, two years ago in Prague after a beautiful show featuring his not less beautiful music, and after a long day walking around the town on a beautiful summer day, we ended up in a curious bar, ordering a beer and being asked if we were already eighteen. We had to celebrate that!

Now we three were here, sharing our split or bilateral memories and building new common stories out of our shared nomadic fate. We' re especially good at bitching about people who are too "full of themshit", at cooking and comparing similar Czech and Polish specialties, baking weird sweets that end up tasting like matza bread, inviting our childhood friends Czarna Reka (Black hand) and Krvave Koleno (Bloody Knee) to our table, arguing about the name of Jesus, and foremost we're good at laughing, laughing to tears.

And as we ran out of drinks and decided to go out, the pianist put on her red fur jacket with a cap and off we were into the night. As I was looking at her from behind as we crossed the center on bikes I suddenly understood why the fairy tale was called The Little Red RIDING Hood. Charles Perrault or the Brother Grimms would have been surprised, but in Antwerp, everyone, even fairy tale creatures seem to ride a bycicle.

the daily life of an almost normal household's inhabitants

We had to paint the bird cage for the white room, and this is how we discovered that the purple horse had disappeared. The horse had escaped and was hiding somewhere among the stuff waiting to be ordered. Only the turquoise ribbons had stayed on top of the cage, they obviously couldn't run away (they could fly, though, stupid..). 
Renewing the cage with white spray paint on the terrace was fun (I felt a bit like a street artist every time I heard the pea while shaking the can) except I underestimated the wind, and found out suddenly my hand was all white. I didn't care much though, since daydreaming  under the spring sun was a much better thing to focus on. 
When the paint was dry, we looked for the horse, but that was after she came home and asked me if I had changed the tire of my bike- which I hadn't done yet - since it was not flat anymore (If I didn't, who the hell did? Devil knows..). 
We found the horse eventually on the sofa mingling with little elephants, (which seems weird but well, what would you expect of a purple horse?) and we convinced him to get in the cage, providing the door would always be open of course.
And yet it was time to take care of the deer, already pawing the ground with legs it never had,  or were long forgotten, because "the white frame, he said, would look very nice around his neck." 
It does look nice actually. 

the multiple uses of an aquarium

I jumped off my bike in the street right by the cathedral for a more than necessary coffee and waved back at the one who had once decided his professional career would be "blowing down this tube and making noises", which made him...a musician. The coffee was good, the cigarette too, but the wedding party going on inside, together with the cold that was hitting us outside made us quickly move to another place to have another coffee and lazy Saturday morning chat. We somehow ended up talking about our fathers who seemed to have some sort of similar mania: fixing it all themselves, leaving dismembered machines and devices of all kind in the sacred place of the house called "woman-don't-dare-to-touch,-order-and-don't even-think-of-throwing-away-anything-you-find-here". Rings a bell? 
My dad loved to go to flea markets on Sunday afternoon, we would call it the "bric-a-brac" and me and my sister equally hated going there. Old stuff, from electric wires, car pieces, furniture, stuff, stuff , books, records, stuff. Seems what my dad loved most was the "stuff" part. 
One day, somehow, my dad brought something he hadn't consulted with my mother, which was a piece of furniture with an aquarium on top of it. My mother asked what for, and he answered as if it was the most obvious thing on earth, that we would put fish in it. The only little problem was that the aquarium glass was cracked, so no water would stay there. But my father would fix it....
Months later, the aquarium was still there, empty, whereas the storing space beneath it was already full of stuff (cables, plugs, screws, and other non identified (not yet flying) objects. But my father came with another surprise: two live chickens! 
My mother was to ask again what for, and the answer was just as obvious: well to eat of course, for these were farm free range chickens, bought on the road from the airport, thus better quality of food. And again, there was only one slight issue: who was going to kill them? My mother flatly refused to be in charge, and my father didn't comment it, he just mumbled that he would fix that...too. 
Now he had to do something with the two wiggling chickens, so he put them...
in the aquarium, where they lived happily for about two weeks.

No need to mention that we never ate the chickens.
My father probably hasn't given up yet the aquarium fixing idea, since it is still stored somewhere at the back of his garage.

Recommend an ex.Orelse wtf

Today I came across this article a friend posted, about a website called "Recommend an ex". 
The principle is simple. You broke up with a person but you think this person is great (which is exactly why you are not together anymore) and you want to ... help? be fair?  piss off your ex? so you post his/her photo with a link to their Facebook profile with a couple of sentences describing how cool this person is and why. I just noticed the website is meant mostly for the ones who dumped their partners, for it says : 
"Now you have the chance to transform the guilt or remorse of that kick in the ass into happiness."
So first of all, when you break up with someone and  feel guilty there's indeed no better way to  fix things up than  charitably recommending the very person who was not good for you to another victim. Are you serious?!

Right.Whatever. Let's say the person who recommends his/her ex is totally honest and broke up for other reasons than his/her ex partner being a hopeless socio, psycho, or other "paths".  Who on earth cares of knowing the good side of a person, since this is always what you get served first by the person itself? People want to impress you and showcase their most charming faces...Wouldn't it be better to have an insight on the person's bugs right from the beginning? If not to run away, just to be prepared; a friendly ex (who is over her/his ex) of your current flirt, is a blessing to have around. A chat with her (I say her for I don't know if this happens between men too) is extremely useful, precisely because she can point out, in a smooth way, the less brilliant side of the sunshine you're in love with. The problem is that you usually get to an open discussion like this far too late, when you are already getting to similar conclusions and solutions like hers before you.
But the good side of it is that you can make friends. That happened to me more than once. You can even  hang out with your ex and the exes of your ex and have a really great time. By the way, thanks to some of my exes for the beautiful friends their exes are to me now :-)

Back to the website..and to all these exes. The meaning of the latin word "ex" means "out of". So why on earth should you keep interfering in the private life of the person you've just chucked out of yours just to get away with some (justified or unjustified) remorse of yours... You don't do that sort of condescending shit. I don't get it.
Well as far as I'm concerned, if any of my exes had the weird idea of "recommending me" this way, he could be sure to get the same treatment, except I'd definitely make sure noone would ever want to date him again.

Les jeux sont faits. Rien ne va plus.

There was this sax player who took a pair of dice out of his pocket after the concert and made us play. Without any kind of stake. Just throwing dice. I was the first to give up, and went to dance for that, at least, made some sense to me. 
"Les jeux sont faits."  
I remember the one and only time I somehow ended at a roulette table in a casino. I lost the twenty euros left I had in my pocket straight away and decided I was definitely not going to try playing ever again. Just made sure I'd get my money back on the free drinks and cigarettes the casino was offering to its guests and left the place. 
I do like the aesthetics of the roulette wheel though.The sound of the ball spinning. Surrounded by the silence of expectation. The ball rolls and rolls and you can only wait to see where it ends. No matter if you played big or nothing at all, you just get into it. There's always this ultimate moment when you let go because you placed your bets and.... "Rien ne va plus." You are not in control anymore, watching is all you can do. 
Just as in certain life situations, except the life situations sometimes look like but end up in a less glamorous style than Monte Carlo.
Anyway, I was feeling rather easy and relaxed these days since the ball of one of my personal roulette-like-situation has finally popped out, bounced and hit a number. I was relieved to be freed of tension, at last. (It is the exact same feeling as when you realize that the splinter that had made its way deep under your skin has just worked its way out of it on its own.) It was not the luckiest number that was hit but who cares, for in roulette, it's always the same sentence that comes next: "Mesdames et Messieurs, Faites vos jeux." 

the existential thoughts of a ladybird

We were just finishing our dinner in the red room, the room that always made me thought a cat was missing there. Not really because of the occasional visitors from the zoo across the street (the mice, not the giraffes), just because the room had this coziness and elegance that a beautiful moving feline would only enhance.
While Sarajevo, the owner of the non existent cat, was dipping a last piece of bread in humus, a ladybird appeared walking on her plate. Moving from the center to the edge of the plate rimmed with red dots, with a rest of chick-peas paste on its  back leg, the ladybird started circling around the plate's edge.
We were so surprised to see it there, that we followed its movements, mesmerized: one circle, and then another one. How boring!  So we thought, does the beetle know it is moving in circles?
We decided to help it out of the plate, and even to clean its leg of the food stuck on it. Moved it onto the red circular place mat. It went straight to the glass and started to make it's way up. Sarajevo was not happy with it, for as she said, the ladybird would fall into the water, start to drown, and she would have to rescue it. Not willing to play the lifeguard in mineral water, she made it fall down. Do you think a beetle gets hurt, when falling from a height comparable to a second floor for us ?(proportionally to its size, of course)
Spring was knocking at the door, no wonder ladybirds appeared, but like this? out of the blue? in a plate of humus?
As it had decided to abandon the table mat and was strolling on the white table, Sarajevo came up with a strange question: "do you think it feels lonely?". I had it clear, no, ladybugs did certainly not have this kind of problems. However, I was concerned about its presence on the table, for various reasons, like I didn't feel ready to find it suddenly in my plate, or my fork, on the way to my inner labyrinth. I thought it would be much better off in one of the plants. So it was first moved, like a princess, on a flying napkin, (as if it couldn't fly, lazy bug!) to the banana plant, where it refused to get off. I almost heard an angry miniature voice screeching "Not the banana you morons!!"
So we tried another plant, and another one. The ladybird would stay on the leg of the pin up girl printed on the napkin. We concluded the beetle didn't like plants anymore, traumatized as it probably was from seeing a member of her family being devoured by a carnivorous plant. I didn't know by the way, until we raised this possibility and I checked carnivorous plants on the internet, that these bloodthirsty flowers have lovely names such as Darlingtonia Californica.
Well, life's not easy being a ladybird, since you can end up abandoned, feeling lonely,  falling in a plate of humus to be finally thrown in what resembles the monster who massacred your family. Not mentioning the weird fact that when you speak to a ladybird in Czech and want it to fly away, you always tell it that its house is burning (since when does a bug have a house? wtf?).
No...you don't want to be a ladybug, believe me. Seems a hell of a life!

Creepy on the flipside

“But would you kindly ponder this question: What would your good do if evil didn't exist, and what would the earth look like if all the shadows disappeared? After all, shadows are cast by things and people. Here is the shadow of my sword. But shadows also come from trees and living beings.
Do you want to strip the earth of all trees and living things just because of your fantasy of enjoying naked light? You're stupid.”

Woland

While some, after a long day of work, bump into an Angel Gabriel lying on the ground, fat of all the messages it carries, while some see  people who are long gone to the flipside, all the time, I do encounter black cats behind windows or  even Devil's Elbow in a wine shop. It is no cheap buy... must be devilishly delicious!
I left the bottle there, thinking I should first investigate how and when the other transubstantiation happened - the one that transformed the blood of Christ into Devil's Elbow- before drinking it.
But my mind stayed occupied with all sorts of spooky stories I heard of or talked about recently. I like these, just as I like the monster in Guillermo del Toro's "Pan's Labyrinth"  ("El Laberinto del fauno"), the one who's got eyes on his hands. He could be less ugly, indeed, but he's meant to be a scary creature. Now how beautiful is the metaphor of having eyes on your hands. It is even better than having the eyes of a fly, because it certainly looks classier than having your eyes covering half of your body. Creepy? well I know at least one person who also enjoys pondering on this kind of things.
The "living dead dolls" we saw in a window on a Sunday morning while waiting for our brunch were less of my taste. I still wonder who are these freakish bloody dolls with a severed hand and a a livid face designed for. We decided to finally go get our lunch at this pop up restaurant, went in, and found the decor was lovely except a rather creepy detail. On the walls,  two black and white photographs of  children were hanging, nice pictures, aside from the fact that the kids front head was bleeding very red. Bizarre... Nevertheless, we totally enjoyed the food, especially this outrageously decadent plate of Tiramisu with brownies made of Pierre Marcolini's finest chocolate. Too bad it came last and we were so full we could neither finish it, nor even eat more than a few mouthfuls of that delicacy. Devil knows we can hardly resist to temptation of such sort. 
Sunday had more surprises in store, for at a birthday party I met, among English gentlemen telling camel jokes and stories of a noble grandfather lost and found amidst obscure family secrets, a  musician who told me the scary story of a friend whose father had killed her mother with a hammer, a lady who was stolen all her money while on holidays in Sevilla and thus decided to eat in the best restaurants and always run away without paying, and a French bulldog called Jazzy who looked like a short legged cow,  grunted like a pig and was wearing a red hoody. 
That day, I think wouldn't be surprised if I had also met Behemoth, or else the chess playing black cat. I guess he'd have said "Actually, I do happen to resemble a hallucination. Kindly note my silhouette in the moonlight" and when asked to be quiet, -for who on earth ever saw a speaking cat?- , he'd go: 
"- Very well, I shall be silent, I shall be a silent hallucination." *
Maybe like the cat I saw behind the window a few days ago. Who maybe had something to do with the bottle of wine that took all my attention..Devil's Elbow. but...what the devil does he want?




*in The Master and Margarita, Mikhail Bulgakov

The art of killing it

Brussels on a cold Valentine's evening. I had made it to my favorite bookshop while I was killing some time before going to cinema. My hands were itching at the look and the touch of all these beautiful books, but since my wallet was painfully empty, I had to leave it for another time. On the days of my other Belgian life, I used to spend some Sundays at the librairie Filigranes , and loved leaving, feeling slightly guilty, with a much bigger shopping than the one book I came to buy. My visit on that Thursday was quick, just to check the shop was still there, for my future Sundays. I walked downhill and found it, this amazing independent-to-the-bone cinema, one of these magic places that make you wonder how on earth they manage to survive in this rough commercial world of ours.A must visit, if not by going there, at least here

I had been invited by my fellow AB to see her friend's (Sabrina Calmels) documentary "The Grand Scheme", following three painters from New York and San Francisco. I have to say I am suspicious as soon as I hear about a documentary... It seems every intellectual wannabe who doesn't have anything to do and has a vague notion of filming starts making documentaries. Most of the time they are pathetically boring and aesthetically nerve-racking. But I trust my AB's taste, so I went and was not disappointed. The movie is a beautiful tribute to creative process. We get into the universe of "The Goldmine Shithouse" : three artists, six hands, sleeping together, waking up together in one open gallery for two weeks to create, paint, carve tirelessly on the same wooden canvas. "Try again. fail again. fail better." If the painting is not good enough, they "kill it". No matter how much work has been spent on it. No matter if someone found it actually great. When the painting is not finished and resists, well you gotta kill it and start again! The film is full of art, paint, and humor. Its main thought, focusing on the process rather than the achievement (this is no success story, we are not given the chance to see the actual vernissage, neither the full exhibition) could be applied to any form of art, and from a broader point of view, to our life process - one needs to kill it sometimes, or else let go, and start again. Inspiring documentary! 

I'm not very good at "killing it". That's most probably why you get to read this post. But I learn, I promise!

U-turn

My mission was completed as I found the flamenco artists we were looking for and was glad my guess was right:  the person I searched the musicians for loved the twin Flamenco Heavies. I had a tremendous time in Jerez, unsurprisingly, since I was never bored with gypsies.
I managed escaping to Burtuqal, taking a walk in the sand and a long look at my beautiful Atlantic ocean.
I finally went to Granada and I have to make three statements:
    When arriving to Granada, I had like a déja vu, since the surroundings and the snow white peaks of Sierra Nevada behind the city look very similar to the Atlas behind Marrakesh... No wonder the Moors established  such a city there.. when they arrived they thought they were home!
    I was told that the Moors had been pushed out some five centuries ago. It was a lie, they never left! I saw them in all the locals' faces.
   When I visited the Alhambra, as much I was blown away, I have to say (and it surprised me at first place!) I felt some kind of resentment toward the Catholic barbaric Kings that occupied the place so shortly after this eighth world wonder was built...
A month in Andalucia passed so quickly, with happy reunions, interesting and fruitful new encounters, a joyful sunny farewell and a few blue hours before take off .
In this month, I ate enough jamon (if it is ever possible to connect "jamon" and "enough"), learned how to cook a "carrillada", drank more than too much Cruzcampo (that is always too much, starting from the first sip), was touched by the bliss of love and got shaken upside down once more, attended an endless juerga flamenca, met the new born babies of my friends, got to know all the gossips I needed to know about (if that is ever possible), was advised to give a name to my transplanted corneas (Antonia y Pepe) to feel more at ease with them, met Anthony Hopkins and Albert Einstein in one, a photographer who's specialty is to take pictures of things you don't see (or you don't remember ever have seen, even if you were standing just next to her when the shutter was closing), and a funeral violinist  who at times, also plays in bullfighting arenas.

Now at the other end of the U-turn, I found myself suddenly back in the "flat land" that is not really, but still a bit mine, for the sake of the years I have already lived here, and not so long ago. Back to grey skies, to seeing giraffes from the window,  back to good silly crisscross talks with Sarajevo, back to good beer, even back to a relocated friend from Sevilla who still calls me "Bruji"... and thinking I shall wonder if my U-turn is not in fact a roundabout with various exits, since for some weird reasons, the people from here are called, in Spanish, the Flamencos.


 
    

"Watch out for the girl, she's a criss-cross."

crossing /ˈkrɒsɪŋ/n

1. the place where one thing crosses another
2. a place, often shown by markings, lights, or poles, where a street, railway, etc, may be crossed
3. the act or process of crossbreeding

Crossing into a new year, crossing borders, crossing from winter to spring in one day (thanks for the invention of the plane), crossing into a new life, from the heart of Europe to Iberia, and finally, crossing the bridge of Isabel II, from Sevilla to Triana.
I landed on time on the 31st, just on time to drop my luggage, run through deserted Sevillian streets, to hug my friends and stuff my mouth with the twelve grapes of luck as the clock struck midnight.
When I crossed the bridge to settle in Triana, it felt like coming home. It is good to come back, to repeat naturally some daily habits one used to cherish, find the same smiling faces, be received as a homie.
Triana the beautiful will never bore me.. as long as I keep on coming and going. I could cross its bridge forever just to enjoy the view, stop the time at Faro by listening to old tio Antonio who'd be talking about people eating cats after the civil war while taking out of a bag and showing the two quails he's about to cook at home. I could spend hours at the market doing my shopping, chitchatting at every stand while choosing my veggies, my fresh cheese and my olives.  I could spend all the time in the world with the "locos" de Triana to be found at the same corner on holidays with the most bizarre personalities, well in fact, yesterday I had the proof that Emilio el Moro, just as punk, is not dead.
The house where I live is a pure marvel of local architecture, and there's nothing like waking up in the morning, crossing the threshold to the outer home, the terrace, and having a coffee on the rooftop, hanging between the blue sky and a breathtaking view on the city.
I drank all the wonders of Sevilla la bella, all the warmth of some loving friends, all the craziness of the street life  as a start up present from the Reyes Magos for  new crossings, free flying, tight rope walking. Fly high, or not fly at all. 


"Ô les gens bien heureux
Tout à coup dans l'espace
Si haut qu'ils semblent aller
Lentement en grand vol

En forme de triangle
Arrivent planent, et passent
Où vont ils?... qui sont-ils?
Comme ils sont loins du sol

Regardez les passer, eux
Ce sont les sauvages
Ils vont où leur désir
Le veut par dessus monts

Et bois, et mers, et vents
Et loin des esclavages
L'air qu'ils boivent
Ferait éclater vos poumons"

Les oiseaux de passage - Brassens