The drowning man

The translucent curtains swaying in the wind were the 80’s, the sunlight the 90’s.

I pushed the wine stained bed sheets to the side and looked at the watch, the watch she’d given me. 19:00h. Fuck.

An icy cold breeze ran through all the cracks, windows and doors of our… of my house.

I pulled the bed sheets up to my chin and moaned low like I was looking for the sympathy of some invisible being. I trembled, cried and fell asleep again. When I woke up the room was dark. Alone and lost, like a child figuring out the world for the first time, I watched the snowflakes soaring slowly, entering fearfully into my world of alcohol and self pity. They reflected the moonlight and appeared to weep with me in compassion, although lately everything around me seemed about to cry. The low howl of the washing machine, the regular whimpering of the microwave… in short, I was living in an enormous palace of sad, dependent and week little ghosts. I was living with myself. I was living alone.

The physiological need of warming up, reminded by the painful numbing of my feet, was the only thing that managed to rip me away from my slobbered,” wined” and maybe even a little pissed bed. I closed the window, not without slipping first on the small puddle of melting snow that had been formed underneath it and following it by a stream of nonsensical vituperation. I headed to living room then. The lights were on and there were still to logs left untouched by the flames. The embers were sizzling in a dragged and fantastically dormant way. They too were mourning. I put the logs in the middle of the fireplace and with trembling hands managed to light a fire, matter of great pride and most certainly a boast demanding one too. Within twenty minutes the house was warm again. The watch, the watch she had given me pointed to 1:20. I can’t make it until morning. I thought of all the hours and the silence. I can’t make it to sunrise. I fell asleep once more.

I woke up at seven thirty with the couch’s leather stuck to my face and half my body dormant. I boiled water, made tea and ate some biscuits. The floorboards creaked. Here’s a thing about silence: it always makes the floorboards creak and the wind blow harder. There had been a lot of silence in the last few days, floorboards and blowing wind too, so I should know.

When I left home, for the first time after the most nightmarish, depressing and feverish weekend of all break up induced ones, I had my hair wet and enough perfume on, I thought, to mask all this shitty feels and avoid awkward conversations. I got in the car decided to… well just decided, that will have to do.

Tagged , , , , ,

Plane spotting

Will be posting more of these on: http://www.werechasingplanesthistimepeter.wordpress.com
AIRBUS A-320-214 (VUELING) BOEING 737-8ASW (RYANAIR) SPECIAL COLOUR SCHEME (2) AIRBUS A-321-231(LUFTHANSA) CASA C-295M (FAP)

Tagged , ,

Lisbon’s riverside through my lens

The Righteous

The righteous

The Road

The Road

Hills

Hills

DSC_0789

Concrete walls

Concrete walls

Fear

Fear

Looking down

Looking down

Compassion

Compassion

Lining up

Lining up

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

Picked up my camera again after a long while and this is what came from it.

DSC_0709

DSC_0710DSC_0708DSC_0702DSC_0713DSC_0720

Tagged , , , , , ,

The man inside the room

This song and respective video inspired me to write this. I hope you enjoy it. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vOa–Dhu11M

A man in a grey suit sits quietly on a corner of a dark room. When he looks at the palm of his hands he thinks of butterflies, he sees them dead, falling to the ground in a massive tornado of white noise and confusion. He thinks of pain and of being lost in the woods. He feels the touch of an oar, he senses the river beneath him. The man is a mess, leave him alone.

He’s just a pitiful formless shell of intellectual energy. He is dead. He just lives inside my head. He never got out, he never will. He sees only black and some blurry images of dead things and sad feelings. The man is a bucket filled up with the shit I can’t cope with. The man is me; the man is me trying to run away. I can’t curl into a ball, and sit here in this mad windowless room, I understand.  I need to get out, so I scream and shout. I kick the walls and I flood this page. These words are parts of me. These words smell of me. These words save me from the dark and marshy room that exists inside my head.

I didn’t take this picture

Tagged , , , , , , , ,

The torn canvas and its unreachable greatness

My first writing/thinking/babbling piece after a long and involuntary break from writing. I would love to hear your thoughts on it. Here you go, I hope you like it.

A cloud of bugs floated in the air in some kind of trance and the pine trees smiled from above. They were inevitably superior, with those gritty barks, and elegant branches. Then I noticed the roar of the bike beneath me had been silenced by the light melody of a single bird and the road couldn’t in a million years outrun the curvy river. So I left the bike on the side of the road and decided to plunge into the muddy waters. The fresh liquid immediately arose in my head, swelling my brain and clearing my eyes, a tiny fish bit my right toe and something fast crawled up a dying willow grown on the soft sand. The sun rays suddenly broke through the green dome of tangled sweetness and purity above my head. They were like an ancient burst of truth and joy, something so real that made a tear roll down my face of tar and cement.

You human, yes…you! You are nothing but a shitty artist. Nothing you do is original. You create from bits of this natural masterpiece. You tear the canvas, you destroy it… and for what? Are you envious, are you blind or are you just stupid? Can’t you see the perfect concept, the spot on technique, and the marvelous idea behind this earth we live in? You’ll never be able to alter this evolutionary process. Nothing you do will ever say more than even a tiny branch. All your plans will soak in the rushing water of this brilliant river and you’ll eventually smother in the darkness of your own creations.

I didn’t take this picture

Tagged , , , , , , , , , ,

The Fly

I’ve been thinking about something. It’s an ugly, dark and dirty thought that persists and persists. I call it “the fly” and “the asshole” while it flies through my frontal lobe telling me I can’t, pulling  my pen away and ripping the written paper to pieces, however, as write this I suddenly see “the fly” standing inside these words, right where I want it. So, with delicate and agile movements of the pen I cut her left wing with a sharp word and admire it’s pathetic buzzes while she wriggles in pain, waiting for the final blow, but, before I can deliver it I realize there cannot be sharp words if there’s nothing to cut, so I carefully pick her up, put her wing back on with a couple of soft words and let it fly away. Now I’ve got nothing else left but to promise that when she comes back my words will be even sharper.

the fly

this one was also taken by me and it’s called “The Fly”

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,

Concrete

Since I can remember reality was for me, as an artist, malleable, changeable and soft. Now as I lay here in silence, the walls seem to close on me, with unsustainable strength and consistency. Everything is, for the first time, concrete, so I slide along the walls in despair, as my creativity hardens into a ball of cement. Oh my! Please don’t let me die!

What is this new fixed scheme, drawn with a ruler and predefined measures? Where are those bold lines that lead to nowhere? Where am I?

I stumble through my room like the drunk I’m supposed to be. That’s right, I should stumble trough, no time for reflections that hit the indestructible walls of preconception like soft pillows. I grab a piece of broken glass, and let it fall; I grab a book, I tear it apart; I see the candles but there’s no fire, so I stop, I stop and look around with my now made of stone red heart racing inside my prison of a chest.  There’s something here though, there is something still flowing inside this room of frozen magma. It is like a melodious stream of consciousness that surrounds me like a warm bath. This thing, this mellow thing is coming out of an old CD player, wrapping me in comfort like a warm blanket, melting this ice world we live in, into a huge, overflowing river.

DSC_0542

This one is mine to, and it’s called “Geometric mess”

Tagged , , , , , , , , , , ,
Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 71 other followers

%d bloggers like this: