Batakliev's Bloc

Somehow, I locked myself out of my home And somehow, I locked my bike onto somebody else's. Somebody else spilled their somewhat still hot coffee from Starbucks onto my linen making it dirty in public. Somehow, I bit my lips so hard that they bled and one blood drop became a tear inside the sad eye of the stranger whom I offended brutally out of the goodness of my heart. The hollow lump inside her throat involantarily stopped the central heating in my bedroom from flowing so on and so forth. Thankfully and chain-breakingly, I shed a tear in (re)turn, at the gym, of all places. Eventhough I wasn't wearing the right shoes and my personal trainer wasn't water-proof. Somehow, someone had to do something to stop the violence in this province. A stain for a slip, a chill for a scorn... and tears for tears to repair the duty of care. This busy day is now due to age gracefully.

Come walk with me inside the slightly too expensive fancy chocolate shop, dear Behold the flakes of black gold triumphantly exposed in shiny glass urns: The Sweetness and The Light. Get hypnotised by their brittle and uneven flesh, submissive to the eye, adorned with asymmetric hazelnuts which pop out like ribs of anorexic models. They must be so disgracefully delightful (those flakes) as they are so much more expensive than their chunky counterparts at the canteen next door. And yet you do not dare dig down in your pocket to pay the higher price as fantasies are only mortal too. So why not simply listen to the fancy shop's delectable lounge music and stare at the sequin dust and the magenta ribbons? The regal coatings, the truffles' haute couture. Relinquishing the palate's slightly too compulsive steer. Unletting go of all the dreams that you hold dear..

The remote sizzle of opera: such a Sunday afternoon sound. Almost indistinct, yet reassuringly present in the background, sometimes to the extent of passive paranoia. Ongoing, incessant, never-ending. Like a gramophone record unwilling to succumb to the needle all the way in the present dimension, whilst reverberating in full potency in another one, leaving us with a flat, desaturated semi-silent tissue of sound. Almost like the sound of silence, vibrating in an operatic skin in the lazy calm of Sunday afternoon.

The smell of the train platform upon arrival at Schiphol Amsterdam: this very distinct yet unobtrusive presence. Slightly metallic, slightly smokey, sterile yet sexy. One of my first (vivid) memories of Holland.

I have a confession to make. I have a concussion. I wish not to recall how, when and where I got it. Let's just say that a dear friend saw the unfortunate event happening in a dream but I was too far gone down its spiral to avert it. So I've taken to staying in the dark. Spending time in silence. Listening to muffled residues of human discourse from the outside world. The shriek of an angry infant boy, the instructive growl of his mother. Recognisable yet unintelligible sounds, like blurry echoes in a hammam or like sharp coloured texture craftily cushioned by an Instagram filter. I don't watch TV, don't listen to music, don't connect with people through the social media, don't keep my Smart Phone switched on after 7pm (which I believe is the hardest part). As a result, I have time. I cook healthy meals, cut the vegetables in perfectly thin slices, chew my morsels of surprisingly not undercooked chicken and sometimes I even sing to myself. I hope to be b

Late afternoon in the Paris underground. I'm on my way to the Tim Burton exhibition at Cinémathèque Française. Squeezed next to me is a charming middle-aged brunette with a frilly black hat on. Sprawled opposite me is an overweight old man with curly grey hair and inquisitive eyes. Both frilly hat and I are staring at our iPhones. I am playing with my Instagram . She is texting. From deep under the heavy blanket of my mobile swoon, I become aware of a heavy, overweight stare. "No more lonelnéss." states the old man, emphasising the last syllable. His eyes are targeting my iPhone. I smile politely continuing my quest for the right filter. "No time to think". Frilly hat's lips curve slightly into a sarcastic smile, her eyes still glued to the magical machine. "No more dreams", the old man's monotonous recital carries on. A pause. Then he looks at me questioningly. "What is your professíon?" Heavy emphasis on the last syllable.

Every morning I get amazed at the number of single socks I own. Why do they refuse to pair up? Emancipation? Bad ownership? Left-wing/right-wing polarity? Single-mindedness? "Poor synthetic souls", sock-centrists would sigh. "Stuck where the sun don't shine, severed from their other halves, disowned, derelict, dysfunctional. If I were a mo(u)rning person, I would shed a tear for every single specimen. But instead, morning after morning I slip into the wrong sock, forcefully marrying incompatible members of the hosiery family. Together they need to function as a team. Yet, in their basted hearts they remain single. Single socks. Getting off on the wrong foot with their owner. Feigning toe holes. Hoping to be ditched during doomed attempts at darning.