A dinner and a movie

My home is not much more than an aphrodisiac now. What shaped me is a discarded piece of inedible food laying on a porcelain plate next to a dead fish, both staring at the moon in ignorance and listening to two lovers laugh and hundreds of waves crash in succession, as if they are trying to drown the shore and take it back. Take all of us back to where we belong, or where we think we belong. The sea covered mountains and made them look like little islands, people think it’s romantic. So the waves are fighting back and lovers laughing. One lover feels a disturbance in her stomach and runs to the edge of the balcony to throw up into the sea. The waves take it back and they laugh back into her face, a splash of sea foam to remind her of eternal love she hopes for.

I observe from the floor, degraded into a heel of her shoe. Hoping to get wet by some of that sea foam, for old times sake. I may look like a moon to a child’s eye, but I can’t change the tide. I go where she goes and she always avoids the sea. I’m expensive and taken good care of. I dance and descend down the stairs in elegance. Dancing by the sea I came from.

Life summer air


I was kneeling in a cold church at the altar, praying with my hands, chanting ‘knees arms knees arm shoulders toes shoulder toes’. With each breath I could feel the weight of my words and the sun’s warmth spreading on me like butter. I could feel my nails growing and I knew my prayer was heard.

The air inside of me travelled from a mountain and passed through the lungs of birds, rice farmers and dogs; it killed a flower and saved a sea gull from hitting a rock. Such history in my lungs! Now it’s trapped inside of me for a breath or two, helping my nails grow faster, regenerating my memory of the time I had my nails painted blue to match a summer day in Greece. ‘Life is like a warm summer night at the greek border in 1994’, I thought back then with the warm air in my body.

The green beans of April


If I had to choose the fondest memory view from this spring’s trip to 2015, I would have to say – the aerial view of April.

The lime green fields below me sprang ripples like a shivering lake. The buffered chatter of children in the fields led me through April, navigating me through the clear skies and the painless routes. The wind was spreading me out across the whole year, rolling and rolling until I hit a giant tree. Maybe not as gigantic as it was obvious within the landscape. Inflated as I was, I had no intention of staying there for too long. All I wanted was to see the greens of past April and the May tree. In a rush, in one blow.

My aluminised body cast some kinda shadow over the fields, like a horse chasing the waves. The green was reflected on my inflated body, with a golden halo making it warm. Although I was flying, it felt more like diving into honey. The sticky images were sticking onto me and I could almost taste that honey filling up my insides. I grew heavy and heavier in that thought, it was weighting me down. That’s where I hit the below mentioned tree and where I lost the air that kept me up.

Deflated and deformed, I hung there while the children were laughing at me. The laughter that was pointing out that it was exactly where I was supposed to be. I laughed along, along with the fields and the trees.

Into the rose garden


It was cold and wet where I found myself. This cold humid memory kept me nurtured enough to grow out of it. My dusty nacre was ripening by the drop. Listening still, like a vivid memory I was unfolding away. This melody I was hearing is typical for the soil I saw myself standing on, they say. Rose petals from childhood memories bedded the floor. This melody was them chiming along the footsteps. I couldn’t see the feet that were supposedly orchestrating all of this, but I could well hear them – distant and familiar sounds from a different age, when Pearl was not yet a pearl, only a pregnant thought of a curious child watching a TV cartoon. Who would have thought I would end up here? growing to a memory of a melody from a warm screen. And here I am still on a screen, a chewed up and spit out thought process; more concrete than a dream but still not enough for a perfume. I have no smell but a colour to cover my shame, my lack of continuity. I felt sorry.