Moroccan Nikita's

"L’homme ne peut découvrir de nouveaux océans tant qu’il n’a pas le courage de perdre de vue la côte."  André Gide I know well there is no perfect place on earth. I know it even better - for no place will probably be perfect for me. While some are scared to leave their hometown, and move elsewhere, I am scared to be stuck in one place for longer than..I wish to stay. Move in.. while thinking of moving out. Whenever the wind starts to blow again. At the same time, I wish to find that place, the one I will not want to leave. I think it should be south, warm, by the ocean. Now I bumped into one of these places,  but unlike all the ones I knew already, it functions. It's not perfect, sure it's not, let's not get started about their refugee policies, or the very ugly colonisation history the country (as we know it now) has built itself on. It is on the other side of the planet and people walk upside down, which is weird, but when I was a child and wante...

.... last post in February 2014... where did my words go? Was I talking too much for two years and releasing them too fast? (hmmm, no.. a million words a second is what I've been doing all my life...) Did they run out, did they jump aside, did they hide? I've eaten a lot of beautiful words instead. Now my head is full of them. So I have to write it .. (that's just to make sure I will): I'll pull my derelict words back together before two years of silence are complete. "Magda recorta palabras de los diarios, palabras de todos los tamaños, y las guarda en cajas. En caja roja guarda las palabras furiosas. En caja verde, las palabras amantes. En caja azul, las neutrales. En caja amarilla, las tristes. Y en caja transparente guarda las palabras que tienen magia.  A veces, ella abre las cajas y las pone boca abajo sobre la mesa, para que las palabras se mezclen como quieran. Entonces, las palabras le cuentan lo que ocurre y le anuncian lo que ocurrirá."...

It's the Dream Olaf Hauge - Drops in the East Wind , 1966 It's the dream we carry in secret that something miraculous will happen, that it must happen – that time will open that the heart will open that doors will open that the rockface will open that spring will gush – that the dream will open, that one morning we will glide into some little harbour we didn't know was there. Well, here in Norway something miraculous happens every time a 4D show starts. No, really!  Brilliant dancers, gifted and hard working technical crew put up a special evening for their audience, no matter what the conditions are. Show must be. Be beautiful. Precise. Moving. Magic. That's great! but that's the serious part.  Now what happens behind the scenes.. that's more interesting. It all started with a rice-cooker in a green room.  Of course, we were all terrified by the bill we received after our first dinner out. That's Norway. For the sake of your bank account...

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 th...

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 mi...

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 fa...