My art

The leaves were starting to fall.

We were preparing to head, on a caravan, right onto the other shore, right into the core of recent history.

That was when the time bomb was set.

Suddenly, it seemed, a turning point was marked in my life this year.

A war, it is.

Let the games begin.

A candid illusion, perhaps.

The roads were unstoppable at requesting my name.

Another dawn, another waking up on a random metropolis, another hasting run to be in time or to just try and sleep amidst the noisy environment of the urban chaos.

So as to distract myself from the imploding duties burning red right around the corner, I steered to the marvellous Le Velvet art gallery, on the St. Mercy Street, no number.

Its mazy corridors, decorated with darkened yellow walls, were perfumed with a soft woodened cherry fragrance, which slowly lures the visitor into strolling its beautiful pieces of human body illustration. The noir setting and the old cabaret music played on the background completed the perfect scenario for an avoidance illusion – for a physical, sexual illusion, where all one has to do is to close their eyes and let their senses be taken aback entirely by the colours of the touch.

The mid-aged courtesan, head of the Gallery, a voluptuous woman, dressed to the occasion, lays at the end of the eastside corridor, smoking an old cigarette and drinking cheap martini, with an effusive smile stamped on her old, wrinkled face.

Facing her figure, I could not bear it, nor understand it all.

So I rushed towards her and instinctively, without taking a bow or showing any respect, I shouted:

What about the candies and the flowers, the words and the flirting?

C'est tout parfumerie! She laughed sarcastically.

I contemplated her complacent smile for a couple of seconds and then hanged my head down.

I know who you are, mon cherie, you have been circulating through my art gallery before, she said, to my surprise.

How… how come…

There is a war you are fighting back home, I know, but it is no place neither moment for such, she then moved close me and whispered, should the moment take you, mon petit garçon, you know how to behave alright.

I mumbled a few words before just concluding: I hereby declare my acceptance.

As if there was anything else one could do! She laughed, before muttering meow and vanishing into the satin curtains that surrounded her bed.

My eyes turned red.

Painting after painting, I made contact with the warmer styles of art.

State-of-the-art.

Thou art my shallowest dream.

Time ticked fast and roads kept being crossed, to several excuses and appointments, what would clearly avoid me from heading further on my personal endeavours.

On an waiting room, for example, I faced enemies and felt obviously defeated just by the simple sight.

That was hardly something to worry about at that point, I thought, "for there is no big goal to be fought after".

As the magic island was reached, that was the mantra echoing in my irresponsible mind.

It was heard, it became my destiny.

And to my misery, I became a simple tourist.

Weeks later, on a luxurious setting, I was, again, the mere visitor, knocking every door of those corridors.

The art gallery kept changing its pieces, but the admiror was, still, the same freedom fighter who hereby speaks.

On a row of shades, I was experiencing unknown inner aspects of me, never before properly explored.

Such a sense of accomplishment and self-discovery, completed with something akin to an overwhelming ego boost, tempered, however, with the worst of the timings.

Another day, another schedule to be met, more and more enemies to be fought.

And as the sweet perfume of lust vanishes away into the air – either by heavenly grace or by my subconscious mechanisms –, love reveals itself as a long past dream, that will echo in the dark of every night.

I am back home.
The time bomb is still set.
The clock keeps ticking fast, way too fast.

Routine has been a constant conflict between dreams/projects and my inner self. More to the point, I have daily been trying and pacify the conflict between the screaming future and the attention-demanding present.

I am a child after all, who need to pave his own way and, still, cannot let the youth leaves fall with the ending autumn.

A one-card player.

A single game match.

Flying around me, there is all this excessive information to be absorbed. On the technical field, this is hardly an issue - just part of the game and a struggle against the time. My deeper deals, aka the undergrounds, they are the messy piece.

Perhaps, I will only be able to step into the future once I have my present sorted.

Or – and this is the thesis I am fighting for – I need to keep striving ahead so as to smooth down the rough edges and get the issues slowly evanescing into a long past fog.

This is my fight.

This is my art.

Cheers!

X

The extremist

A tale of people who believe their ideas and ideals.

As the leaves began falling, it was time for a joyful break, so as to maintain the boundaries tight and to meet, once again, the learned land.

Received with smiles, I felt at home. Nevermind my tied tongue, nevermind my little knowledge of the deeper stakes of those near strangers.

He's grown alright!, I noticed.

A cold evening took place, while I met the hand of such a kind stranger, so kind it was hard for my always suspicious mind to promptly accept.

The stones and the ice were gradually broken as we steered against a cannon that cast all rainbow colours.

The troop marched in. The captain greeted me in.

Shalt thou not fault,

For my guidance shalt thou not be without!, he shouted.

And he continued, We are the freedom-fighters, the hedonists,

The luring-runners, the extremists!

It was the city army of unconditional bliss welcoming my – temporary – membership.

The outsider I was called, in a language I could not, indeed, quite understand.

None of it would matter, for my way was made and the catwalks of glamour were opened.

Our skins would, themselves, shine in radiant colours. A radioactive star was planted in my chest.

The night stunned us all.

But we were then alone.

Three steps inside the city. Three steps away from home.

I have perhaps grown up too abruptly since last year. Family deals, family matters. If only they knew how much I care.

And as I childishly spoke vain, empty words, messing with the forbidden zone,

as I was still pouring glitter out of my skin

as I was still feeling the razzle-dazzle of the previous days,

I left.

Not moved in the slightest, not having any cares.

Still, deeply thankful, to the extremist that saved my life.

--

A few days later, the metropolis.

The time had come.

I was faced with the monsters.

They exist. They know my name. They can summon me into the dark.

While no hope was given, I was feeling, at least, slightly comforted.

The more intimate conversation did get my nerves alright.

After having a revealing and enchanting occasional dinner, I rushed back to the hotel room.

For metropolis nights are, well, metropolis nights.

I was then faced with another extremist – deployed from the hometown, a short-sized figure that moved all the way in, for the war of love and self-discovery.

I was approached for a battle. Apparently I was stronger.

The endless night

when I made an extremist cry

Many days later, it seemed.

Rain was pouring, coldness was falling; the metropolis was, in its best, showing what a gloomy face it may turn to me.

So I went for my personal quests.

Sword in hands, it was time to fight an enemy.

A proper match was proposed and I was up for pretty much anything.

That was when I met the extremist.

Enchanted by the wonders of the capitalist world, where everything functions and no better standard of life may be reached, the extremist had a vision.

And information.

And as much strength as one can carry in one's heart.

Fight the enemy, fight for your ideas, fight for your own cry!, the extremist kept yelling out, bragging out.

I was allured into the savage garden of the extremist's idealistic mansion, offering nothing else than a very humble habitation.

After a fight of worlds, we swam into the soft wings of fabric, where we shout our very own manifesto in loud, fuzzy, trembling voices.

And a personal, not yet repeated achievement was – finally – accomplished.

Oh God, I finally feel myself free from the cafè flesh days of yore.

Wrong nights, good companies, bad companies.

In a nest with the wolves, I was welcomed with jeers.

For a night, I was the villain pouring blood out of this mouth.

Unfortunately, no one knew the slightest.

This is, may I say, a fair price for me being so silly.

Sun went up.

By the noon I left, for I could not stand another night falling in my shoulders.

There was no point to it.

After battling these extremists, my mission seemed accomplished for a while.

After being faced with the monsters, I could not help but frown and realize.
My quest will never be over.

Fight the enemy, dear reader!

xx

the last extravaganza

Circus in town! the banner said, picturing the creepy – but inviting – smile of a clown.

On the informed night, we headed towards The Big Top.

Lights and pyrotechnics. Laser beams and colourful LEDs ropes showing us the way.

I was falling into the night again, in that glowing circus extravaganza.

Acrobatic clowns, dressed in their finest exotic clothes, welcomed us in.

A few days had passed since I, yet again, had set foot in the eastern metropolis, on an endeavour to establish and understand, in final words, what kind of monsters are living inside me, if any, and how to get rid of them or, at least, lay them to sleep – forever.

Still not a solution, not an answer was provided. Nevertheless, my heart was filled with glorious emptiness as I gladly dove into the dog nights, so as to blur the memories by solidifying the (sort of) alternative universe I was living in. The life I want for always.

Even less days had passed since I, in contrast to the glamorous background of the past week, gave my first hesitant steps into the rocks in the river shore and felt the fresh water run through my toes, surrounded by the vibrant green hills of my very roots, not long before plunging all the way into the very own greenness of the watercourse.

Being so close to my origins and having seen as much as I had seen of the world, those few, quick minutes provided me with a spiritual, near religious experience.

May the cold waters have cleaned my soul. May it have washed away the monsters.

The extravaganza, however, was in the height of its luxury glory.

High-heighted peg legged artists and the acrobats were casting a barely felt magic to the crowd, and the pool reflected a trembling shimmer into the skies. Most of the waters, though, were properly covered by the balconies to be occupied by the snobbish attenders.

A luxury event that was hardly appealing, for many messy reasons, to this cluttered mind of mine, always so defying when it comes to a sharp recognizing of its cries.

/ flashback /

- How do you feel about that?, that high-pitched voice asked, clearly affected by the capital city accent.

- Well, it's… um… Sorry, can't tell much anything apart, I said, while sat on a hardly comfy couch, bit too tight for my particularly large thighs.

/ end of the flashback /

Faking glamour, we strolled around the place, which was getting more and more packed by the minute.

An acrobat caught my eyes, opening a smile so bright and wide that easily marvelled us.

Alcohol was casting its own magic to the crowd as the performance took off.

The music being played should be easily ignored. The wall of performers, however, offered another treat to our eyes.

Surrounded by the luxury of the extravaganza, by the strained glamour, by the marvel of the shallow hearts, we understood.

And in ode to our own shallowness, to our own loneliness, to our own weak magic, we danced – dancing, it seems, is an expression of deep sadness and joy for me.

The joker pointed its cards at us, a wildcat it was.

Barely sure whether I had lost or won the game, we left.

Under the big top we exploded with joy. Under the big top we took a bow to the sorrow.

This is the late night luck of us, my friend.

We keep pretending the marvellous world of wonders is real.

We keep falling in love with clowns, acrobats and performers.

We keep living the best of our lost youth.

We have grown alone. We have grown ruthless. We have grown up.

The circus left the town. The magician has given me no candies or habits out of his hat.

That was my last extravaganza for a while.

I'm done. This city serves me no more.

My duties are calling, in this spot of alternative space and time.

Soon the old town might be visited.

Soon my answers may arrive.

Soon my day will come.

Meanwhile, I shall be heading into the misty way of my future, breathing the bitter air of uncertainty.

But it does not matter, not matter what-so-ever.

The stars are shimmering beautifully in the autumn sky.

As the sun of the Sunday rises up, I feel goose bumps – is it the chilly weather announcing its arrival or the hope announcing it close presence?

Shall we just smile, for the answer is never precise.

Shall we just perform our numbers, for life is a beautiful circus extravaganza.

Have you performed your number, dear reader?

Cheers!

X