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.
In the realm of the brain we punish ourselves for the doings of our, much under appreciated, biological setting. If we could only just be kinder to our irremediable nature. Walk hand to hand with our deepest desires, the relatable and the obscure, careless to how much our fellow warriors are willing to endorse, for to some of us that might as well compare to an apocalypse of the zombies affair. No license to lust. So my fellow fighters in this crusade for survival can justify the lack of action within the paragraphs of their very own un-satisfaction. Can we blame ordinary life? I can’t help by wonder about the unfairness of the proposition. Life is life, wonderfully raw, tough life. And then, there are our decisions, our standing by the fork of a path unwilling to move nor left neither right, for nothing is meant to remain still. As the plants grow, the rocks give into erosion and the water turns into clouds, and consequently, ever so gently, purple rain falls. We have landed here to feel and decay, hopefully with grace. One apple a day keeps the doctor away. Stretching, drink water, sunscreen. I find it easier to care for you unconditionally now that you are gone and live in my head at one arm’s length. Right where you are, I freely adore you and our history, with its subjective lenght. I use it all at convenience, my own, now that you are a two dimensional colour in my imagination where we are both very kind, building sand castles by the forever erosioning coastline.
Sand castles. 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
Things go fast, very fast, around me. I seat back and sip my lemonade, with a twist. It gets warm, hot, I put my fresh hand on the back of my neck while I see my world melting, things are changing, I learn to deal with it. My body is not my temple, it’s my friend. We are masters in collaboration. I see the phases showing on my face, my breasts, my hair, while I hear everybody say “you don’t look your age” and I wonder how was I supposed to look instead. I am likely to stop hearing it soon, not a frighting thought at all. I look in the mirror, at myself, though slightly different, I am still there, more than ever if anything. Seating outside this venue is not in my nature, but today, I make an exception, I want to look at them go, not all of us are in a rush. I am thrilled to see, somehow, my path is not so crowded. We stumble between political regimes, I wonder if wasps’ democracy is equally weak. I think on the times when I grabbed a loaded glass instead of a guitar that would have made me romantically weaped for my neglected floor rather than lamenting the grimy state of the, pardon my French, salle de bain, this days are behind me now, or, aren’t they? Whether out of love hurt, the doors I shouldn’t have opened or simply a turn gone wrong, my companion, that is not a sacred vessel, forgives me along the road. This is how it feels to live. This is how we got here, vow to a bond based on kindness and acceptance. Together we have built a creature that thrives within nature’s guidelines best. With this quirky, cocky, lowercased “d” diva ways of mine, I am a queen. I wear my crown underneath my skin, full of precious stones, like pebbles of green peridotite.
Changes. Short-story from “12 o’clock-tales” ( The red table & A scared black cat, book adventure)
I fight progress one human-tended supermarket counter at the time. I don’t mind the waiting, in fact, I like it, to a point, of course, and I enjoy the soft voice in the corner of my ear whispering, you do have time. I am, indeed, in no rush. I have been to many places and, sure, there is more to come, but for now, I have no reason to feel that I’m missing out, nor need to run after none. I welcome encounters of any nature that are worth of my time and attention. Like the finding of hidden tiny wild strawberries, the sweetest little things you will ever know, worth of immortality by the finest Scandinavian cellulose, along the way as you go. And here it is, by the queue that invites me to wait, that I dream. I dream of where I have been and how it could all be if any of it would have happened somehow differently. And the sound of my laugh wakes me up, for where would I ever want to be if not here. This is lovely, my place, my space, my thoughts. My warmth, my pain, the cold. For I own a Satie beating heart and, as it strikes on every key, my blood runs full of life and excitement, until I can almost taste, and smell, the metallic flavour making its way up and steaming out through my head and up into the air. Bunny shaped clouds floating above, I look at them and, once more, I dream. I dream of progress slowing down its pace, hanging on to life through the cable of the headphones attached to my mobil phone, I was modern once, while I keep on fighting, one groceries shop visit at the time, cherishing the memory of the sweet taste of wild tiny strawberries along the way.
Wild strawberries. Short-story from 12 o’clock-tales (The red table & A scared black cat book adventure)
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)