A ciber girl from the new age, she is expected to be. She knows how her electro sensorial wires, devices and appliances attach. From her head and heart all the way down to her feet, the pretty left one and the other one that the set completes. Automated emotions, simple repetitive reactions; the buttons to press are predetermined, no surprises expected. She is the master of her own creation. Yet, there she stands trying to analyse her unusual recent behaviour; that silly comment that came out of nowhere, that answer she kept to herself. Why she stood there and stared, trying to figure out this person performing in front of her, struggling to find the common points to connect; isn’t that supposed to be very human like. Artificially built intelligence naturally fails to comprehend the business of the heart and the spontaneus life. She shakes her head, resets and rebounds from this autopilot state. Now, she is back on those feet that redirect all kinds of electromagnetic feelings throughout the nerves in her body. Religion and politics are said to be non-recommended conversational directives in the world of the bartender, yet, without that agitated passion they all just shared for the reigns of the unfair, they would have never had that spark in this encounter in which the rhythm of their hearts have just aligned till the end of the fight against unjustice. The world, a wonderful place that has become a great mess. Tapping beers, pouring wine, is the way she remains attached to the life that she knew, the simple life with the simple sosial arrangements. Sit down and unwind while I serve you the drink you like. The one you don’t even need to command. We have never met before but, in a way, I know who you are. Someone like me, with your things and your different dreams but, still, with a heart that beats, just like mine.
Cibergirl. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts.
With the tip of her unpolished nails she plays by the rim of the glass resting infront of her by the surface of the bar, beautifully raw, like she. The intensity of her libation she thought to match well the situation. Anticipation had been building up since the sun raised, she had been gently commanded. Good girl, he had said, she very well knows how good she is and is overall aware she is no girl no more, but this, was a game she was curious to play. She enjoys her own company by the bar, to the movies, through anything else she does throughout the day. On full control, her life is very much of her own. Still, collaboration in certain areas of this kind of fulfilled lives can be quite lovely and delightful. She is a mother, to her inner child and to all of the wonderful creatures that live in her mind, nevertheless, she had enjoyed this affair with this, her new friend for the day. They met under the same underlined demands, left, almost, no trace behind besides the burning on her left cheek she could feel while resting by the, apparently, not soft enough though very elegantly designed stol she is seated on, reminding her to the whip in his hand, how it made her laught but no further emotion than that, a substitute feeling for the lack of substantial and deeper spasms. It had been fun. The collar buckled by her neck attached to the leash she had been directed with had left a subtle red rash by her smooth and silky skin, she applies on it the coldness in her hand transferred by the drink she is celebrating all the flashbacks of this her latest venture with. Being dominated is not in her nature but this had been well consented and accepted. The delightfully present and teasing cravings under her skin should not be ignored, she has learned. highly un-recommended in the making of a healthy mind, an advice she so naturally endorses. Intense red, whether a curse or a bless, it runs through her veins. Yin-yang molecules make their way through her nose with every breath she takes, travelling in and out through her poors. Tapping now her lips with her fingertips she gets that silly grin on her face. The last olive in the cocktail pick, resting in the emptiness of a glass with dripping brine remains by its crystalline walls, will receive the last bite of the night in which she opened the door to that room she had not been before.
Dirty, she said. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts.
For about two years I walked around with panda eyes, they all laught at such an abrupt statement, and so did she, even though it was true and it had taken a long while for it to be fun at last, while savoring drinks in this fancy hotel where, apparently, Madonna often stays, second fun-fact of the day. As the content in their glasses leveled down, quite evenly and synchronized, they continued to share past love affairs, the ones that no more hurt, of course, so they could gracefully deal with the more current events. All of them three were of the intense kind, love fully, get high, fall hard. Nightlife represented on its best. Flavours, colours, sounds and sweat, sweet dancefloor sweat. As almost always, the day will gradually aim towards that three floors venue with free love blessed, by collective ecstasy connected, filled with rebel hearts and freedom of mind. Techno beats spread through a crowd full of intimate possibilities, all of us sellers and buyers in this meat market of the tolerant and humane kind. Up the stairs, and above this all, an optional exit, entertainment and atraction for the consenting and curious adult. Discretion underlined while trespassing its doors, and impossed by the lack of light and inability to distinguish all parties involved. She has never dared to go as far up. There are things she hasn’t seen yet, secretly, she wonders how far she will be willing to venture, she wonders about all this places and arranged events she has heard of but never dared to. The bottle of beer offered by her, now back from the world above friends brings her back from wonderland. The music here is too good to stay still, all three together now swing their way into the dancing area where different outcomes to the end of this night lay out on a Tuesday, while the twilight outside wakes up Amsterdam and its romantic canals, its loud singing birds and its green and flower coveted parks.
That exit. Short-story from 12 o’clock-talesand after hours thoughts. The book.
With your hands covering my eyes I’m testing your wine while you are standing right behind, close, very close, the soft sound of your voice, so very close to my neck, travels with the air you breath, oh, so very close to my ear. Well, how about it then? I nod in approval. Your hands opening up my line of sight, a cloudy light orange wine, which remains I’m still savouring in my mouth, swirling in my glass, your glass cause we share, we share everything we can, exploring this sensorial world on our own terms, we, together, decide. Everything is new, your smile and mine synchronised ‘like a virgin, touched for the very first time’ I wonder what part of my brain is handling all this. Glad to see that you, like me, don’t find your thrill in the chase, a game reserved for the insecure and lame. Cross over here and come swim with me, was all it took, and now, we are hooked, to each other and the wild and pure flow in between. As nature is our witness we cherish our human condition forgetting what we have been told, we have a voice of our own, celebrate our intensity, political drive and physical call. I take a sip of this crisp tropical sunset coloured delight blended with your lips and as I walk towards the little girls room, I consider the thought of falling into this habit of my awaken mind reminding this, all too keen, heart of mine, shall this come to an end, sooner or later me or you shall want different, something else… and I stop myself right there, for I am not sure, either where this feeble routine comes from, neither of its worth of use. This patronizing of emotional brightness by this cocky acuity state of mind. With a life of all wishes granted and in no possession of bucketed list of lamentations, I return to the embrace of your arms, without shell nor shield, to savour this cloudy light orange wine opening up in the glass share.
Orange wine. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales (The red table & A scared black cat book adventure)