Canvas (When colors go kanakas)

We were dancing a waltz in Abel Tasman, the sand sticking to our toes...

Winter 'til spring

In the past few days I've plunged back into book world. I really had forgotten the magic of living in two parallel worlds at the same time. The feeling of getting so involved that the braincells won't let go of the words. Anyways. It's also been a long time since I last wrote or posted anything here at all. Today I stoppedy by at Stasi's and picked up a special filmroll I've really been waiting to have developed. It was some good friends' present for my birthday. And ohw, the surprise.

Colour has a smile

I thought Matisse's ghost had accidentally vomited on the filmroll before handing it over to Andy Warhol's dead body. The colors have gone crazy. It's madnessrama, and I like it. The lines get smooth and finally melt together. A rainbow pot. Sort of art imbecìle, just quiet and lurky, with the kind of smile that a fox would have after hiding the last feathers of a chicken. Yeah.

Silly time

Time has been passing in a weird and swirly way those last few weeks. It's been hitting the doorbell nerver wanting to come in. It's been ringing and hanging up the phone on me several times without saying a word, just holding its breath. I used to observe it, now it just hides between the notes and the printed dates on my diary. Time doesn't wanna talk anymore, feelings just rush through the braincells. Weird and swirly.

Kill the pillow

I've woken up a few times with my head pounding at 1 p.m. Five or more dreams at the time, and those are just the ones I can remember. I wonder if this has something to do with the thinking. Perhaps when you have a break after a stressful time Thinking takes a vacation on Sleepy Island, making friends with the pillow and the blanket. And with all of the surprising freudian things in our brain. Do we have something to hide? Something really deep that we wouldn't even dare telling to ourselves? Sure. And all of these things just flow out through the dream, dripping on the pillow. Pillow knows your darkest secrets. Kill the pillow.

Hey stranger, sitting on a train.

I've lost count of the hours spent with an horizon dissolving behind us and appearing in the front. It's been a long time since I've become a warm bubble floating on my own, dissolving whenever I wanted to. It's a good feeling. Remembering the smells, the sounds and the colors that belong to the past. I remember every smell. The one in my grandparent's summerhouse, the one of the first perfume I bought, the smell of lego and the one of wood right before autumn came. The Cure were playing pictures of you. It had been a while since the smell of rain. I've collected images, pulses for the moments in which the heart would slow down for a moment and let this hyperactive everything float around through nerves and veins. The eyes are horizon-hungry again. But time has stopped pressing against the backside of the brain. I've got a stranger, and a train.