Who's that girl?

So, the best thing about working in a place where people frequent is that weird and crazy people are abundant. Something very inspiring for someone like me who enjoys imitating and performing. Real life can be way more absurd than concocted stories.

Altho not all real life events are absurd in a ; "OMG-I'm-talking-to-a-creepy-guy-who's-standing-next-to-me-at-a-cocktail-party-but-he-calls--my-house-and-he's-on-the-other-end-too!" kinda way. Or any other weird thing you can imagine, or David Lynch can imagine...

But they can be quirky in a way that makes you think: ..."mmkayy...ehh...is this for real?"

Here's what happened to me the other day:

I'm sitting behind my desk, working on some email to order stuff from Japan, when somebody comes in...

I hear the sound of soft shuffling feet and when I look up I see an old man who looks like the way an old man would be depicted in a cartoon:

skinny, crooked, a small tuft of white hair on his primarily bald head, no teeth, and a suit that has seen better days.

He shuffles towards me in what seems like slow-motion with extra vibrato, and when he's standing in front of my desk he slowly raises a trembling hand and points in the general direction of a photograph that hangs in the window.

"Who's that woman?"

Me: "What woman do you mean, sir?"

Him: "That woman, on the painting (for some reason he doesn't understand photography?) in the window."

Me: "Oh, I don't know. I'm sorry. It's a model, you see."

Him: "Maybe you don't understand. That woman in the window display."

Me: "Yes. exactly. She's a model the artist photographed. I have no idea who she is."

He looks at me with the most disappointed look I've ever seen on anybody's face.

The little tuft of white hair slightly flapping in the breeze created by the airconditioner.

Little flecks of dandruff softly blowing off his tweet shoulders.

Then he seems to come to a decision, and with shaky hands he goes through his pockets.

He takes out a small digital camera and blip blip blips through the photographs, with a tremendously serious face.

He then holds the camera in front of me and shows me a close-up of a naked model that features on the very photograph I knew we were talking about.

(the ONLY naked girl in a picture full of people)

With trembling index finger he points at the little screen and says;

"This. This. This girl. Who is this girl??"

His voice is full of determination.

Me: "Yes, that girl. Exactly. I'm very sorry, but I really don't know. She's a model."

He looks at me, his facial expression changes to total defeat.

Him: "O"

"I'm very sorry. If you want I can give you the name of the artist, so you c...", I attempt.

He shakes his head with a sad face.

Then he turns around slowly, shuffles towards the door, stops, looks at the screen of his camera one more time with a crestfallen expression, blips it off and puts it in his jacket pocket before walking out....in the direction of the photograph....

Split second dreams

For about two seconds there was a tweet.

"Will life someday catch up to dreams, for a split second?"

And then it was gone.

I deleted it.

I tweeted that, but as soon as I did, I realized that it was a complex question to ask, because it gets answered every day in everybody's life.

Almost impalpable tiny moments of contact between that what you dream about and that what we consider the real world flash by, like the rushed heartbeat of a mouse.

Before you're aware of it, it's already flown past, making way for the stuff you didn't ask for.

But it's in those tiny moments that you can find magic.

Magic we were aware about when we were kids, but that has moved aside for the realities of adulthood.

The one moment you finally got that blue gum-ball you've been craving all day, the squeak of crisp leather in new shoes, hearing from a far away friend...magic.

Cuz when I talk about dreams, I don't necessarily mean the dreams of ambition and wild life changes (altho they too find connecting moments, paired with great outbursts of utter joy), but (also) the tiny ones that pop up in your head while you're busy doing other things...

The little flashes of thoughts and minute cravings and yearnings that form in daydreams.

And I guess when you lose contact with those dreams and those tiny moments go by completely unnoticed, that's when you tend to feel depressed and disconnected to yourself...

Something that happens all too often, unfortunately.

So, next time you feel the bubble wrap pop under your fingers, while you unwrap a package for your boss, or when you feel a soft breeze tickle your nose while you're waiting for your bus, or a friend sends you a surprise message while you're at the photocopier,

take notice...

Cuz they're small pockets of joy and beauty...and deserve some attention and love.

Beauty is in little things, after all...

(^_-)

Summer

When thin dresses flutter,

and legs show some skin.

Sweat drips down dainty necks,

and trickles into exposed chests.

Leaving salty marks,

on shiny tans...

Then steam rises collectively.

And heat turns inward,

and

sizzles.

Rain

He stared out the window, watching people walking by on the dreary and windy street.
Rain drip dripped onto the windowpane, creating a soft rhythmic pitter patter, that broke the otherwise intense silence of his apartment.
Though the glass, muffled sounds of traffic wafted past occasionally, creating a strangely melodic combo with the raindrops.
He sighed and scratched his chin.
So. This. Was. It.

He was a thirty something, single man, working at a job he didn't want, in a city he didn't care to be in. Almost palpable a wave of desperation flowed through him.

He touched the moist glass, with his right index finger, and drew a smiley face in the condensation created by his breath. As soon as it was made, the edges of the drawing started running, and droplets glided down, creating little rivers in the condensed water. The smiley didn't look so happy. It was a droopy mess.
"You too, huh?"

Suddenly the droopy smiley turned a bright flashing red.
Outside an ambulance passed at full speed.
Lights flickering and sirens wailing.
The light and sound spectacle shook him out of his reverie for a second.
He followed the vehicle until it was out of sight, then dried his wet index finger on his jeans.
He shook his head and learnt back, with his eyes closed.
In his head the smiley kept flashing red, every time he blinked.
He felt a little queasy.
"Fuck this shite" he thought.
In a sudden move, he opened his eyes, jumped off the window sill and walked into the room.

Clothes, books, magazines, dishes, papers, his laptop, some empty cans of soda and a pair of old binoculars were strewn all over the floor. His dog Skittels lay lustless on a pile of dirty laundry.
He sighed again and waded through the mess towards the kitchen to get a fresh can of soda from the fridge.

On the fridge door there was a photograph of him in better times, with an ex girlfriend.
He looked at the picture, he ripped the picture off the fridge and tossed it in the trashcan.
Then he reached in for a can. Closing the fridge with his left foot, he opened the can. A spray of fuzzy drink sprayed out of it, soaking his t-shirt.
"Fucking fuck fuck fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!!!!
He yelled, tossing the can in the full sink.
"Fucking, crap shit raaaaah!!"

Dripping, he walked back into the room and started rummaging for a somewhat clean t-shirt.
Skittles looked up, but didn't move a muscle until he threw the wet t-shirt in her direction, which made her growl. "Sorry Skittles, this fucking shite ain't your fault...it ain't your f..."
He reached down to grab a wrinkled light-blue t-shirt with a faded image of a '70's muscle car on it. As he took it in his hand, he suddenly spotted something laying underneath. Something surprisingly colorful in his room full of subdued colors.
He took a closer look and, after putting on the t-shirt, took it off the ground.

It was a pair of rocketship underwear.

He looked at it in confusion and smiled.
Those weren't familiar to him, but they were awesome!
In a sudden impulse, he took off his jeans and his blue checkered boxers, and put the rocketship underwear on. They were snug, but fit him.

Chuckling he pranced through his room.
His demeanour had suddenly changed 180 degrees.
Skittles looked at him nervously, what the hell was up with the boss?
He walked over to the soggy window and threw it open, letting the cool outside air in, and soaking the window sill in rain.
It all seemed so darn idiotic all of a sudden.
Stupid droopy smiley.
The mess in his room, in his life.
He let out a roaring laugh, prompting some of the pedestrians below to look up at him with bewildered looks on their faces.

"What?!"
He yelled down, and then climbed into the window sill to emphasize his words.
Somebody below yelled "Weirdo!"
He didn't care. For the first time in months he felt alive.
He stood there for a few minutes, while the raindrops dripped onto him. His body shaking with cold and excitement. So. He. Was. Alive.

He took a deep breath, and another, and let the fresh air fill his dusty lungs.
Very faintly he felt a soft pull, yanking him towards the outside of the window.
He resisted, not wanting to drop the 4 storey fall to the street below.
Then the pull got stronger. And stronger. And stronger.
He fought it with all his willpower, grabbing onto the inside of the window.
But the pull was stronger than him.
In one ferocious yank, his grasp was lost, and his body fell forward out of the open window.
He closed his eyes and screamed "NO!!!"
And felt the rush of the wind and the patter of the raindrops as he fell.

But...there was no crash onto the pavement.
No, cracking bones.
No nothing.
Just the soft breeze and the raindrops....

Carefully he opened his eyes.
And immediately let out yet another roaring laugh.

He was flying....

Midnight howls

So, last night my neighbors were fervently fighting and screaming again in the middle of the night (3am to be precise) This time, however, I channeled it into something creative.

Behold:

As brains clash and dissolve

Mouths spit fire upon

burning coals

Scratching nails

Ripped clothes

Palpitating veins

Voices

Lost echo's

Howling screams that

Can't be voiced

This isn't

This

No more

But nobody listens

To the voice of decay

Only at self

And

Blankness

paperwords

softly

gently she

whispers

words

words

that flow

that

overflow

a fuzzy

cloud

tiny letters

shapes

words

evaporating

against

her cranium

swirling

softly

wildly

round her

body

mind

engulfing

till

small

paper plane

white

swirls-along

sucking up

all

words

leaving. soft. calm

breezes....

In your core...

I was just tweeting with my friend @winonakent about believing in oneself and how hard that can be when you work in the arts.

And immediately images of myself and my director-, actor-, writer-, painter-, musician-, well all creative friends, popped up in my mind.

Struggle with oneself and one's craft seems to be imminent in whatever art you work on.

Your craft is SO personal, it comes from your most inner depths...

You can't hide behind numbers or relativity, it's all about you, and the things that pop out of your mind...

As a result it's the scariest but at the same time most beautiful path one can choose...or better said; that is chosen for one....

We're all creating baked air, after all...

Baked air, that sprouts from our hearts and most inner core.

I think this is the reason why it's so hard for artists to go through difficult periods.

If your performance as an actor sucks, then it wasn't due to a miscalculation or a memo you didn't get,

it was due to you.

And even tho it's a craft, and you're doing your best, it always feels like a personal defeat.

Same for directors, painters, writers...

It hurts like hell to create art, whatever kind...

But at the same time, it's absolutely essential and beautiful.

And even tho we all go through periods when we think;

"Gawd, I wish I were a administrative assistant, or a baker, so I didn't have to deal with this shite"

...we can't let it go...it's in embedded our hearts after all.

Once it touches you...all you can do is go for it, struggle through the dark patches and lost times, and believe in yourself and your craft.

You WILL get through it, and it WILL make you stronger, and better at your craft, because you will carry your experiences with you, even if you can't see it at the time.

Believing in what you do, and who you are is always key.

(No matter what you do, really...)

Might sound cheesy, but I can't describe it in another way...

I too am a sensitive artisty person after all...

(^_-)