People complain about January. 'La Cuesta de Enero', they say here, as if January were an ice covered glacier. People lean on the bar and complain about January. The old Year kicked them out, and now they find themselves reluctantly admitting that it's a New Beginning.
I don't have issues with January. I think January is just swell. January is relieve from semiholyfoodfestivities, January is the promise of new ways. It's my birthday.
What has been rather bothersome is February.
February is like a slowly passing grey cloud. Passing slowly in a teasing, kinda mean way, allowing slivers of sun to stroke the skin only to make them disappear behind rain curtains. February 2010 was rain and nobody believing in their good ideas. February was nobody saying: guess what i did today! February was a fat badly dressed midget kicking your ankles.
Now, ...it wasn't all early nightfall and wet socks.- There were hiding places. Where one found good ideas and different lights. A well hidden poetry bunker. Where little unorganized commandos send out signals on unperceived frequencies. Where tea is always hot and spicy and bourbon on the shelf next to Fallen Empire's cutlery.
There was our kitchen. ( kitchens are undervalued ) Where we made winter dishes: the soups, guisos and currys. Where bread is being toasted on top of the toaster and avoiding carbonizing your breakfast or the toaster requires scientific knowledge known as trial and error.
And there were bars. The bookstore with homemade quiche and coffee & cigarettes. Or Dos Gardenias with its patient orange glow. With daily visits, stories, newer sadder songs. The other bar with its secret knock opening a squeaky wooden door that leads to a whispering Nina Simone, you wonder about the rarities and curiosities that you find on your way to a booth in the corner of the room. Watches hold their breath there.
The soul moves freely in these places without time. Cause there time is stories kept in crystal cylinder shaped boxes. Memories of long gone fighters become the background and utensils of the Now. Time measured only by the sinister bus stops on the way home in the rain..
Also, curious phrases begin in February's undercurrent. The still invisible stems of newborn pages. A travel plan, new art techniques, more waves, new dresses, visits from afar.
February is the little backward movement a branch makes when a bird takes off. The little backward movement that gives the same bird its velocity.
And the best thing of it all: Now it's March! Be ready to FLY...
I don't have issues with January. I think January is just swell. January is relieve from semiholyfoodfestivities, January is the promise of new ways. It's my birthday.
What has been rather bothersome is February.
February is like a slowly passing grey cloud. Passing slowly in a teasing, kinda mean way, allowing slivers of sun to stroke the skin only to make them disappear behind rain curtains. February 2010 was rain and nobody believing in their good ideas. February was nobody saying: guess what i did today! February was a fat badly dressed midget kicking your ankles.
Now, ...it wasn't all early nightfall and wet socks.- There were hiding places. Where one found good ideas and different lights. A well hidden poetry bunker. Where little unorganized commandos send out signals on unperceived frequencies. Where tea is always hot and spicy and bourbon on the shelf next to Fallen Empire's cutlery.
There was our kitchen. ( kitchens are undervalued ) Where we made winter dishes: the soups, guisos and currys. Where bread is being toasted on top of the toaster and avoiding carbonizing your breakfast or the toaster requires scientific knowledge known as trial and error.
And there were bars. The bookstore with homemade quiche and coffee & cigarettes. Or Dos Gardenias with its patient orange glow. With daily visits, stories, newer sadder songs. The other bar with its secret knock opening a squeaky wooden door that leads to a whispering Nina Simone, you wonder about the rarities and curiosities that you find on your way to a booth in the corner of the room. Watches hold their breath there.
The soul moves freely in these places without time. Cause there time is stories kept in crystal cylinder shaped boxes. Memories of long gone fighters become the background and utensils of the Now. Time measured only by the sinister bus stops on the way home in the rain..
Also, curious phrases begin in February's undercurrent. The still invisible stems of newborn pages. A travel plan, new art techniques, more waves, new dresses, visits from afar.
February is the little backward movement a branch makes when a bird takes off. The little backward movement that gives the same bird its velocity.
And the best thing of it all: Now it's March! Be ready to FLY...
Sad Self portrait with a naked man :: Trust in Botanical Garden
Broken Knee bar
A bit of unexpected sun on a Saturday afternoon. I was a bit hung over so so i thought all the names of the flora was hilarious, like :: Spanish banana
This one was called 'Kniphofia Amsterdam' :: Belen's Roses
Exhibition space in Lavapies :: Canadian Forestry Service
Gipsy Boy :: Exhibition Belen
Asian Fusion dinner with Miguel, Clare & Claudio
Belen's Beso :: Clare's photo face
Noche de Amor in Traveling bar :: Colletia Paradojia
Night in Dos Gardenias
Marcello's return to town :: Left Over Party
These are two twins. Together they are a whole lotta people :: Friends reunited
Pretty Sara drawing her sculptural waves
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