Starved for rest, the body was waking up abruptly, effortfully. The hourly installments of sleep had been consumed in disbelief. Now the muscles were twitching.
What's next? How were the rhythm, the pulsations, the projections of the semi-awake going to relate to the new day?
His eyes wandered to the edge of the kitchen sink and focused on a plastic box containing three lychees. It occurred to him that when peeled off, the lychee resembled the head of an aroused penis. He liked lychees. Yet, he knew nothing about penises.
The tip of her erect tail gently quivering, Her Majesty Luz Divina entered the stage. She looked at him with her fathomless feline eyes, then looked at the lychees and walked away.
Saturday, 17 December 2011
Thursday, 8 December 2011
London love affair
I was sitting on my staircase eating supermarket Greek salad (€ 2,95, feta, lettuce, cherry tomatoes and mayo dressing). My travel bag was gaping wide open. Books, cables, t-shirts and disembodied tube tickets were scattered all over the place and I was waiting for the locksmith to come and let me in. As I was swallowing another eroded feta cube, half dressed in mucousey yellow substance, I realised I had fallen in love. I had fallen in love with London. And this is where I had left my house keys, neatly tucked into a drawer in a cute little flat in the West End.
Big cities cause big gaps between people. You may be very special but I'm not coming to see you after the last tube has gone, I read between the lines of random best friends. Coming closer can be a bit of a stretch for many. Not many speak their minds and follow their hearts in the domain of distance. "We like who we seem to be", told me a distinguished Londoner who also doubled as an unemployed talented writer.
Yet, there is enough sweetness in the air in London, enough to dulce, exhilarate and intoxicate the outlander and to feed those who are hungry for honeydew.
"This is I where grew up", said the silver-haired taxi driver as he dropped me off on Hanson Street. "There", he pointed. "I used to play football with my mates over there." I looked at the old man. Through the vodka haze I could see a tear welling up in his eye. And right where he had been playing football, men had built a cozy sandwich shop: the sandwich shop at the corner of Hanson and Foley Street.
At lunch time the street workers gather together inside this 6-square-metre niche to eat, chat or read the paper. One of them had written a letter to the Parliament the other day and was reading it aloud amidst a storm of applause from the roughest and sweetest people I'd seen in a while. Smiles are contagious in the domain of delight: the little sandwich shop at the corner of Hanson and Foley Street.
On the staircase of my locked apartment in Amsterdam, I was lost in thought and recollection. This love affair possessed all the symptoms of all the complex love affairs I had sustained through the years with varying pride and conviction: upheaval, elation, absorption, withdrawal. Only this one had to be better as it was, in fact, an infatuation with an idea, it seemed and felt so much more...Bang!Bang!Bang! The locksmith was announcing his arrival at the outside door. He climbed up the stairs, walking on tiptoes, trying to step on spots free of travel paraphernalia. Then, after one gentle click, my flat's door was ajar. I heaved a sigh of relief. It was time to walk into my home and find out where the heart was.
Big cities cause big gaps between people. You may be very special but I'm not coming to see you after the last tube has gone, I read between the lines of random best friends. Coming closer can be a bit of a stretch for many. Not many speak their minds and follow their hearts in the domain of distance. "We like who we seem to be", told me a distinguished Londoner who also doubled as an unemployed talented writer.
Yet, there is enough sweetness in the air in London, enough to dulce, exhilarate and intoxicate the outlander and to feed those who are hungry for honeydew.
"This is I where grew up", said the silver-haired taxi driver as he dropped me off on Hanson Street. "There", he pointed. "I used to play football with my mates over there." I looked at the old man. Through the vodka haze I could see a tear welling up in his eye. And right where he had been playing football, men had built a cozy sandwich shop: the sandwich shop at the corner of Hanson and Foley Street.
At lunch time the street workers gather together inside this 6-square-metre niche to eat, chat or read the paper. One of them had written a letter to the Parliament the other day and was reading it aloud amidst a storm of applause from the roughest and sweetest people I'd seen in a while. Smiles are contagious in the domain of delight: the little sandwich shop at the corner of Hanson and Foley Street.
On the staircase of my locked apartment in Amsterdam, I was lost in thought and recollection. This love affair possessed all the symptoms of all the complex love affairs I had sustained through the years with varying pride and conviction: upheaval, elation, absorption, withdrawal. Only this one had to be better as it was, in fact, an infatuation with an idea, it seemed and felt so much more...Bang!Bang!Bang! The locksmith was announcing his arrival at the outside door. He climbed up the stairs, walking on tiptoes, trying to step on spots free of travel paraphernalia. Then, after one gentle click, my flat's door was ajar. I heaved a sigh of relief. It was time to walk into my home and find out where the heart was.
Sunday, 20 November 2011
According to me
It was projection, lust and displacement. That's what the inner voice said. The people said it was "wrong judgement". But when was the last time the people were right?
When you miscalled me on Halloween the people said it was "nostalgia". The inner voice said it was an accident.
In British English, which is the most respectable kind of English, one is not supposed to say "according to me". One is advised to say either "in my opinion" or "according to them". They (the people) have the authority of judgement and the first person singular can only make assumptions.
I feel that I ought step up and fix that. According to me, my personal truth is THE truth. Repost, retweet, get involved and embrace the beauty of grammatical and political incorrectness. Start saying: "According to me".
When you miscalled me on Halloween the people said it was "nostalgia". The inner voice said it was an accident.
In British English, which is the most respectable kind of English, one is not supposed to say "according to me". One is advised to say either "in my opinion" or "according to them". They (the people) have the authority of judgement and the first person singular can only make assumptions.
I feel that I ought step up and fix that. According to me, my personal truth is THE truth. Repost, retweet, get involved and embrace the beauty of grammatical and political incorrectness. Start saying: "According to me".
Wednesday, 19 October 2011
Sunday, 25 September 2011
Heaven or Las Vegas
On an autumn afternoon in 1991 I received a bubble envelope. It was about 3pm and I had just come home from school. In post-communist Bulgaria bubble envelopes meant a package from Western Europe. And packages from Western Europe meant a glimpse into unattainable magic.
I grabbed the envelope and started feeling it with both hands, trying to guess what's inside. In a rush of excitement I was popping the bubbles one by one and my heart was racing in anticipation. There had to be a tape inside. And indeed, there was one. A boxless black audio cassette with a recording of Heaven or Las Vegas by The Cocteau Twins.
I stood outside for a while. The front door was wide open and so was the mailbox. For a short eternity, I was a happy and content 15-year-old, who had just been initiated into a secret realm, invisible to the rest of the world. It was as if I was surrounded by a bubble (one I had left unpopped) and through it I was contemplating the special moment in time. A moment I can never forget. My 15 minutes of heaven in the yard of my grandparents' house, holding my Cocteau Twins tape and the bubble envelope from Western Europe.
The air was rich with the aroma of autumn leaves crushed underfoot and the smoke of outdoor cooking. The late-afternoon October sun was stroking my cheeks. Looking up, I could see the tree branches dancing, entwining, forming beautiful patterns.
The music which I was about to discover was already sounding in my ears and it was soaked with the same thick magic that was holding the bubble around me. Every note was profuse with otherworldly colours and undercurrents promising to take me far, far away into a land of unattainable magic. My dreamland.
I grabbed the envelope and started feeling it with both hands, trying to guess what's inside. In a rush of excitement I was popping the bubbles one by one and my heart was racing in anticipation. There had to be a tape inside. And indeed, there was one. A boxless black audio cassette with a recording of Heaven or Las Vegas by The Cocteau Twins.
I stood outside for a while. The front door was wide open and so was the mailbox. For a short eternity, I was a happy and content 15-year-old, who had just been initiated into a secret realm, invisible to the rest of the world. It was as if I was surrounded by a bubble (one I had left unpopped) and through it I was contemplating the special moment in time. A moment I can never forget. My 15 minutes of heaven in the yard of my grandparents' house, holding my Cocteau Twins tape and the bubble envelope from Western Europe.
The air was rich with the aroma of autumn leaves crushed underfoot and the smoke of outdoor cooking. The late-afternoon October sun was stroking my cheeks. Looking up, I could see the tree branches dancing, entwining, forming beautiful patterns.
The music which I was about to discover was already sounding in my ears and it was soaked with the same thick magic that was holding the bubble around me. Every note was profuse with otherworldly colours and undercurrents promising to take me far, far away into a land of unattainable magic. My dreamland.
Tuesday, 20 September 2011
Hi hologram
The talking hologram at Luton airport greets me with her tantalising lispy voice. Then, the augmented reality app on my iPhone offers to transform her into The Queen, Margaret Thatcher or PJ Harvey. I also have the choice to befriend her on Facebook or follow her (semi-automated) twitterfeed.
She is not one of a kind. She does not pretend to be real. Yet she is not a dream. She is an embodiment of a concept, dressed up and suited to serve. A pretty programme.
She is not one of a kind. She does not pretend to be real. Yet she is not a dream. She is an embodiment of a concept, dressed up and suited to serve. A pretty programme.
Sunday, 18 September 2011
Gay dating online
Moulded manliness dripping from their stern faces, firm hands clutching the camera that captures their glorious reflection in the bathroom mirror, torso slightly tilted to expose even the tiniest muscle or the imitation of it caused by well-rehearsed shadow play, the boys are posing online. All they need is love. All they want is attention.
Gay online daters come in all shapes and sizes but there is one word which holds the key to success: sport. No wonder all the cool nicknames contain this operative word: "sport574", "sportyman", "musclesport", "sportsexnow"...
Generally, the older generation of gays favour non-ambiguous nicks referring to physical gratification and/or sexual demeanour. Such as: "musclebull", "topforbott" or "hungtall_rascal". The younger generation dare to be more conceptual and creative with their acquired identities and brand themselves in terms like: "serendipity", "silentfire", "captive_of_delirium".
Yet young or old, they comply to the same norms. Their status lines, the slogans that define their being, are invariably the same. It is either "Just looking around" (as it's not really cool to say: I am human and I need to be loved). Or the cold-blooded "No pic, no reply" (meaning: I'm wearing the trousers here, which of course is hardly ever the case).
And so...
...I practise every day to find some clever lines to say
To make the meaning come through
But then I think I'll wait until the evening gets late and I'm alone with you
The time is right, your perfume fills my head, the stars get red and, oh, the night's so blue
And then I go and spoil it all by sayin' something stupid like
(low-pitched): "What are you looking for?"
Gay online daters come in all shapes and sizes but there is one word which holds the key to success: sport. No wonder all the cool nicknames contain this operative word: "sport574", "sportyman", "musclesport", "sportsexnow"...
Generally, the older generation of gays favour non-ambiguous nicks referring to physical gratification and/or sexual demeanour. Such as: "musclebull", "topforbott" or "hungtall_rascal". The younger generation dare to be more conceptual and creative with their acquired identities and brand themselves in terms like: "serendipity", "silentfire", "captive_of_delirium".
Yet young or old, they comply to the same norms. Their status lines, the slogans that define their being, are invariably the same. It is either "Just looking around" (as it's not really cool to say: I am human and I need to be loved). Or the cold-blooded "No pic, no reply" (meaning: I'm wearing the trousers here, which of course is hardly ever the case).
And so...
...I practise every day to find some clever lines to say
To make the meaning come through
But then I think I'll wait until the evening gets late and I'm alone with you
The time is right, your perfume fills my head, the stars get red and, oh, the night's so blue
And then I go and spoil it all by sayin' something stupid like
(low-pitched): "What are you looking for?"
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