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.
One, two, three, her rhythms, her routines. She has her habits, her divisions in the fridge, her daily little techniques. Not too fancy to her view, is all low key, her coffee, instant powder, to the horror of the ones that pass by. By her room, by her life. The excitement of this life is subtle sometimes. It takes a while to understand and realise about the changes inflicted by time. Swinging her hips and her head, she still follows the beats of today’s Dj’s pace. The alcohol free bottle of beer in her hand is the new substitute to the drinks she had held in the past, the same way those had took over the cigarettes when her own body decided without warning, nor discussion, to discard that vice and the pleasurable details attached. She had to adapt to no more smoke signs nor enchanting orange lighted butts drawing figures in the dark whilst she danced. Her free hand up in the air worshiping the spotlights and the goddess of sound waves and sensual affairs. It’s been a while but, to her delight, she’s still got it, though her participation in the game has changed, social norms differ, and she astonishs herself by feeling slightly shy and self-aware, maybe with the next song she can shake off this emotion. Suddenly, she understands, she has been playing alone for long, has lost habit to partners, audience, friends and public. Mango orange toe nails is the only element of decoration she cares to make the effort to exhibit and wear. Her ordinary has become quite extraordinary, naturally, and as proof of her sentient character, she still likes to play. Little she knows now, by tomorrow at this hour, she will still be amazed, on how the highlight of the day would be the second of a thought in which her mind will embrace the idea of a warm cacao cup in her hands, dipping leftover homemade cake, whilst walking back home, after a beach spent day, through the organically grown raspberry lane.
Raspberry lane.Short-story from 12 o’clock-talesand after hours thoughts. The book.
You will not hate me tomorrow, were the gentle words served alike with the gentle pour of water in the glass next to her other glass, the one filled up with the good stuff. How could I? she thought, unable to refrain from displaying a smile full of satisfaction, it is a grand feeling, indeed, to be handled by professional pride and natural empathy, like the one from those who can claim to be a properly skilled bartender. This particular admiration affair had over ten years of existence, for she had enjoyed the kind treatment and tender attention from the lady tendering the bar today since way back then. Back when she had a different life, or maybe not, for she still, somehow, feels the same, only improved, perhaps, like whiskey and wine do when time, righteously, plays its part. This talented bar attendant, who by now has gained the prestige of a dear friend that knows her well, still gets this elegantly new age rye based concoction beautifully chilled to perfection in this new mystical environment framed with dark velvet curtains, subtle lounge sound waves and pink marbled bar surfaces, like back then, in another time and a different place when she had a different life, or maybe just not, not that distinct after all.
A different life. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book
I often find myself talking to Amy, I listen to her and my answer is underlined in the way I embrace her voice through my presence, the physical and the other, and I think on the time we met, or our lives crossed paths, more like. You excused yourself politely while approaching the bar with your tiny delicate body close to mine. You asked for salt, for your toothache, you said, and I wondered if that was indeed an old-fashioned trick, something you might have learned back home, before you belonged to all of us and the world. While you made your way through, I remained seated on that tall stoel with a very tiny dress I would only wear that day, for I have never again been that skinny as I was back then. In the time when scrutiating pain filled up my whole self, pushing out any coherent sense. It was indeed a high pitched tragedy. To feel my empty breasts, like empty bags, hanging by my chest, like barometers of my confussion and lonelyness. I heard we were following each others steps, swinging from bar to bar with our tiny bodies in our tiny apparels. I, annonimously and you, under the brightness of the spotlight and the gossip. I stared, without the etiquette and manners I so often lack, at you, wondering if it was worthy to go that far, to get lost in the dark where one finds the inspiration for the heart-moving art, despite our benefit and joy, while you struggled and despared. In my ideal world we all seat in a bar with a Martini on one side and a coffee table book on the lap, and you and I, smile every time we cross paths. Oh, Amy, Amy, Amy.
Amy, Amy, Amy. Short-story from 12 o’clock-talesand after hours thoughts. The book.
The red on my lips helps me stay grounded, less ethereal. It keeps my mind sharp and aware of the bondage to my body. I study the mark it leaves on my glass as irrefutable proof of interaction. I will aim to drink from that same spot every time I quench my thirst, my body’s and my own. Thirst for the flavour, for the experience of this artistic expression on liquid form. Thirst for the taste and appreciation of a skilful creation in the search of perfection on a balanced, complex enough, exciting libation. With my red landmark I reiteratively stamp my approval as I curate the delicacy in my glass. With this kiss I relate to celebrations that have taken place in the past. With this motion I am in the room with Joséphine, Anne, Tamara, Hedy, Marilyn, Diana, Amy, and my neighbour next door, for we are all queens of our own kin, and the Physics that procure analysis on the behaviour of time still run jealously behind on this attempt to comprehen the bond within the female kind.
Red Lipstick. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book
Watering the plants this morning, she thought, this is the life, while she felt domesticated and bored. She doesn’t get served by the table as often and she cleans after herself almost wherever she goes. Holds nobody’s hand as she walks. The space in between shows elegance and respect of a sort. We are, oh, so very polite. Casually unattached we celebrate our independence. Social status defined by the amount of plastic served in layers between her fingers and her meal, the things she eats. Stromatolites stripped of their ‘X’ factor, we are better than our very own source of existence, haven’t you heard. Back to the high stool where she finds herself now, in this brown pub, surprisingly full of plenty inspiring offers, she sips from her glass. With her fingers she untangles the knots in her hair, the ones she gets since she bathes by the sea only, no soap just salt; and seaweeds, and jellyfish. She smells a thread she is just freed, timidly tasting with her tongue, the flavour saltier than the brine seasoning her, now almost finished, elaborated libation. What a delight, she thought. The man seated on the closest seat will not talk to her, that much she already knows. He finds himself busy with a new best friend glued this days to many people’s ears and brains. A part of her wants to feel sad about it but another part does not get why. Instead, she focuses her emotional vacancy infused efforts on the music she hears, first, on the background, and soon, high volumed all around. The bartender had noticed her fingertips following the notes, tip-top, tip-top. The seventies rock folk sure knew how to communicate the sensuality in the air, understood plant-based in a different way. A whole lot of love ever did no one any wrong. Caressing the surface of the bar with her hands, she mused over her plants back home growing strong. This is the life, she thought.
This is the life. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book
Don’t fall in love with Paolo Nutini and the like. Though I have never met this particular man, I can already tell it is highly un-recommendable. To fall for confessions, served with luke warm words, about past adventures hurting his heart, where you will like to reside. You are different you will not leave him astray, damaged on the side of the way. By a carnivore plant designed to attract, trap and catch, I’m being devour alive. When it hurts, celebrate, I say. Uncork the bubbles, put on that dress Lana wears so well, and dance. Drink and dance. Plant-based has good fastfood options as well. I got a playlist, liked songs from the net, randomly switching as I shake it off. The Cremant in the fridge was waiting for me. Aren’t Wednesdays the best of days to let down your hair and listen to how others suffered as well, fell in love, broke up, got together again. I’m not old but I’m too old for this. You don’t know anything about me and your sole feverish attraction is purely based on the idea itself, isolated and disengaged of personification, and it’s our creative nature to blame. In my head I’m very smart, I talk algebra, chemistry, there’s a philosopher, Gilbert, living inside, and, easy or not, one has to let go to get by. Conversations in my mind are my real joy, the treats to my days, I understand the world, us, the universe and life itself. The quality of my sight is defined by the amount of light out there. Through my chest I answer to myself, in morse coded verses, an invisible hand is squeezing the blood pumping organ that takes care of my health. Short and long clutches assembled in threes, as it was done by the marines. I play no instrument of the musical kind but the keyboard in my hand connected to my calling device writes the stories I will tell and share with the hope that, when read, others got to sing and dance as well. When it hurts, sing and dance, be bulletproof, I say.
Don’t fall in love with Paolo Nutini. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.
The clicking of her heels on the asphalt was the only sound surrounding her thoughts, as she walked down the street, at an hour when she always felt on top of the world. It was over, the feeling was gone, it was not that long ago they had met and the feeling was already gone. Her firm steps were guiding her heart to a stronger and reassuring beat, as they echoed up the narrow street, though cruelly pebbled, still appreciated by the romanticism attached to the architectonics of the age now passed. She was free and freedom tasted to reality. Shoes in hand, her feet felt cold. A snow flake landing on her nose took her back from melancholia, yet, another story that soon will belong to the past, with no special importance attached, living in her heart. The door from the bar, she had left behind, opened, letting out some recent former partners on the art of casual encountering, and, with them, muffed rhythms of the night, which, down there, often got a little stretched into brighter hours of the day. She grasped the leftover sounds and danced back and forth with time, for, though the feeling was gone, she was not quite yet ready to move on, and, she might as well, just for a short while, stay within the year of the cat with the Lucies in the sky.
One for the road. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book
‘I like to play when I feel safe’ send. The sound automatically generated by the reaction in her phone gave her tickles in her belly. Though she has done this few times before, she still feels nervous and unsure. Is this a good idea? This bitter sweet experience drives her crazy every time. She enjoys the safety of the distance, and the notch of anonymity, but, soon enough, it all feels too close and she, exposed. There is no point on opening this door if one is not willing to share, to dare to reveal your honest inner desires. Sure, there is some teasing around certain activities one is quite unlikely to engage with, giving the chance, but, the core still needs to be genuine and fair, raw pure. She lifted up her head timidly, quick check to see if someone might have noticed her arising blush, the lower lip bitting and her legs tighten. Daylight shining in all directions through the surrounding venue’s glazed walls, all of a sudden, seating by the bar has become a bit too risky of a choice. How it has all escalated to this degree is not that clear at the moment, from a Bloody Marie, not too spicy, to her index finger between her teeth playing with the tip of her nail. She scouts around shifting her eyes only, discretely, she hopes, aiming for a casual look, non-suspicious, at this point, quite a difficult task and well founded hunch by the heated sensation on her cheeks most likely showing scarlet on her expression. Back and forth with compromising suggestions in public was making her, among all the other natural reactions, smile, she understood why she likes this so much, complicity hosting this exchange of flesh rewarding propositions in smart compositions. Her mind thrilled with that level of connexion, the trust they had built. Feeling safe is here the major thrill. All the irrelevant details skipped, the aim is to impress each other with their witty minds and cleverly free charismas. A pick-me-up , a spontaneus intermission, a privately owned virtual bubble with restricted admission. Landing back to her feet, recovering her more harmonious mien, she cheered to herself and her playful disposition. ‘Laters, babe’, send.
Safe space. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book
You haven’t replied to my message but, at this stage and age, I let that micro-nanosecond of disappointment slide through and out of my body without much residual regret. The doings of fermented grapes and grains cannot determine my day. I actively taste the seas, the lakes, the oceans I meet, and I swim free. I greet all the different versions of me as they coexist. Cold sea, head under water. Like the geese by the beach, one of us is on guard always looking up. Only every now and then, I close the curtains to my boudoir, keeping your face in a jar by the door never did any good to the lonely people in the world. I choose to upgrade this episodes instead, and their idle side effect emotions, before they rot, into two dimensional devotion. Mind you, this is not as much an empirical approach as it is a visceral sensation, an intuitive perception, but it works. Now, it’s all translated into colours, riddles and rhymes and I own it all, on my very own terms. It all has a different taste, this dry Martini is now salty and wet, chilled to perfection; I savour its texture and flavours introducing three olives bright green held together by a cocktail-pick. And I sip while looking at the empty seat next to me, reserved for the people with whom I can share agendas, interests and kicks.
The seat right next to me. 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book