THAT EXIT


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-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

THE WITCHES ARE OUT TONIGHT


Though she knows being on her own is grand, all this beautiful things she gets to do, all this wonderful adventures she guets to go through, still, sometimes, she does notice a slight gentle touch of loneliness sliding from her naked shoulder down to her bare hand and all the way to the tips of her fingernails, plain and untended, to ever so gently, for the slightest of moments, ardently swathe and linger to her index finger. Sleep, eat and swim, randomly, not in a one, two, three manner but in a six, ten, sixty-nine kind of way and then, maybe, paint for a while and write something nice. The female strength, the masculine tenderness, like a snake orgy they intertwine, tangle and curl. Life is such a mystery, you don’t have the answers and neither do I, one can only give it sense by letting it in, pour through and see where it sails to. Sensuality, sexuality, not weapons but tools for us to celebrate, life, ourselves, to connect, to communicate, develop. ‘Bring me a higher love’ she had heard Whitney say. Music, what an empowering platform, to cling to with sharp claws, sentient, like all animals, we are. This musical frequencies devouring our stress, our ‘I don’t get what this all is about’. Back glued to the wall, hands above the head, hips and spine slowly sliding down to the rhythm that commands her best interest and intentions. What’s your best dance move? They asked, she lifted up her hand and shook her head, feeling the air through her hair and by her neck. The heels under her feet help her leg get the right angle to awkwardly bend to the demands of the tunes so finely disposed. Sets of eyes encountering each other as they recognise the great invasion of passion they all share from the very core of their very odd beings. A Dancefloor Witch Project, Akelarre of the modern age, gathering around the brewing pot we all keep and hold in our bellies, warm and round. The witches are out, tonight and every night since the begining of time.

The witches are out tonight. Short-story 12 from o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

RASPBERRY LANE

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-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

A DIFFERENT LIFE


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

HIDDEN IN PLAIN SIGHT TOUCH

I go down clutching my legs to reach out and tide up my shoe laze. What can I say, it has been a good night. I met the people I was supposed to meet, saw friends, and yes, you’ve touched my hand. Hidden in plain sight, our fingers have teased playfully behind the stem of the glass where my drink was held as witness. It was a public event, still, you have decided there and then, to show me your intentions with a display of public affection. As I reached to grab my glass, you have mirrored my hand and your fingertips have played with mine. As a default in the trade, the bartender had to pretend he was not there. I shrunk and blushed at the unexpected act. I froze as I felt the shivers down my spine. I want to be my best self and respond with equal dare, but, this is not one of those occasions in which I rise gracefully, leveling with the circumstances. I’m in the loosing side, I am clueless, I cannot read the signs. As I calibrate with reality, something just doesn’t feel right. But, for now, I take this as a little victory within my, still, relatively inexperienced spectrum of conquests. There is so much to learn, and as an eager student, practice is the only way to advance. I fix my dress’ wrinkles as I stand up, shoes now ready for walking, I resume my pace as I look down at my hand that, still, every now and then, tingles to the memory of the, now part of the past, thrillingly revealing moment at last.

Hidden in plain sight touch. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

AMY, AMY, AMY


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-tales and after hours thoughts. The book.

IN ANOTHER LIFE WHEN WE ARE ALL CATS


Drugs through the needle are to be avoid but no one warned me about the dangers of the little vibrating device I hold in my hand. I was not told that once you get started it is quite hard to stop. Dosification and moderation are key to a healthy, balanced life, getting to know my drinking limit and leveling down the amount of sugar turned out not to be enough. Laying down on my back as I look out and up to the sky, nothing is more hot and sexy that nature, the wind blowing, travelling through the swinging trees, feels so inviting to launch on this free skydiving trip. I forget I’m on my kitchen floor, by the balcony’s glass door, wide open so I can hear the birds. The subtle buzz gets my mood right on and wanderlust builds up, girlscout prepared embarking on the vogage up towards pitch high. Hanging on a thin string with my fingertips for as long as I can bare, it’s at times difficult to handle, specially whilst my body and mind discuss back and forth whether this is the best I can do to relax or should I rather take a cold bath in the aim to simmer the flickering flame of desire. Am I as greedy in other aspects of life, I doubt that. Overall invasion of electric shocks and then, one, is never enough, neither is two. How many treasures can I find, before I run out. Out of power, energy and any conscious thought. An innanimated flesh mass until I regain my strength again, and my will power to get up on my feet, and on with the day. Wondering if everybody feels the same, if we all have this need for attachment through this delightful inner convulsions and extraordinary high voltage charges to our brain. And if so, how come it is not easier to get, how come I need a device to get me there. In another life, when we are all cats, we might just be able to get smoothly close to one another, and ever so gently, touch with the back of our heads the shoulder of the ones we prefer and explore this free love of the hippies and the sixties affair.

In another life when we are all cats. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales and after hours thoughts. The book

LIPSTICK RED


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

THIS IS THE LIFE

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 P. N.

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.