Inexhaustible source of inspiration

Those moments of enlightenment, or some kind of epiphany one gets after they've been kicked by a muse, are not new to me. I walk around with my eyes and ears open and it is not uncommon that something catches my attention to the extent that the THING becomes a creative inspiration. By creative I don't necessarily mean to produce something material. It might merely be a thought, a good idea or plan for the future. It happens to be a conversation I've heard, people I observe on the bus, on the street, anywhere, but most of the time my inspiration is materialised in a person, whether I know them or not. 

It might be their appearance (maybe that's why I have a bad habit to stare at people), their positive or negative radiation, their style of language, their laugh, their actions, their art... I like people (but sometimes I hate them though). They're unique. Each and every one of us is.

One of my inexhaustible source of inspiration is Frida Kahlo. What a woman and an artist Friducha (as her husband Diego Rivera used to call her) was ! Her story is almost incredible: how a body so petite and subtle could bear obnoxiousnesses as hers did, and despite all this radiate so much vitality and life. Although she didn't take life as something to enjoy, rather to endure, for those who had a chance to meet her she was simply unforgettable. 

Her art is something to not be forgotten as well. Her paintings are crude, painful and uncompromising. Looking at them and knowing a bit of her story, gives me a feeling of getting deeper into her world. And after one very recent event in my life I can understand her even more. I look into her eyes through the painting and I see pain (it looks like an etymology thing: PAIN - TING... maybe it should have been: PainThing). This pain resembled the one I had been seeing every day in the mirror in my eyes. And I guess if I ripped my chest open and looked inside at my heart, I would see a black spot staining its surface. And I'm sure Frida did have it there too. 

                                                                       Dear Frida

                                        

Dear Frida, I can’t help myself from wondering,

About the same thing your body refused to bring.

Did you plan your message of pain to share?

For the sorrow of canvas and your black stare,

Transferred to my eyes and stayed there.

You said you paint your reality, past and future,

Did you think about your dreams being mutual?

Of all the times you’d hurt yourself with brush

This time you came to me close, got me crushed,

By nightmares of white sheets and a red blood rush.

My heart was crashed by my own Diego

Body cold as ice, his soul hot like fuego.

Torn me up like a letter, all flesh and bones,

Having his mouth full of precious stones

Caused that my body ended up like yours. 

"Mi pintura lleva con ella el mensaje del dolor."

Three women bathing in a lake

The lake was so warm, so tranquil and wild at the same time. It was hard to see though the moist and dense mist rising from the water but I could see I am not alone. I was accompanied by two laughing women, although in the noise of the steaming water I could only hear them as though from a distance. 

After a close examination of the lake I saw there is no waterside whatsoever, no shore to return to. On the sides wild currents, boiling and splashing, were impeding one to climb out of the lake. Nevertheless, I didn't mind, I was not planning to interrupt this pleasant gathering. 

I swam, my head was clear, and my thoughts exalted, I swam until I got to proximity of the ladies. We talked and laughed as no strangers, different but still the same. We were getting closer as babies wanting to feel another human being. We shared our intimacy, naked bodies, enjoying the softness of our skin. We kissed, warm and sweet kisses all over. Kisses so promising I knew I will never be lonely again. And we touched...

But to touch... when I looked down, there was merely one pair of hands, that of my own. 

Three Women Bathing in a Lake

The bright moon was shining upon a land,

Where water is solid and liquid is sand

Under the shades of noble trees,

Wandering animals live in peace.

There in the forest, in its core,

Was a lake, beautiful, calm and pure.

Water like quicksilver, seems so heavy,

Silvery haze rose above it.

In the pond three women were bathing,

Nude white skin with the water was melting,

Dancing in circles, arms swaying,

Holding each other, secretly praying.

The scene of the night, contrasts in the air,

Lips red, flesh white, raven black hair,

Moon behold, safeguard these ladies,

Shine upon the dance of the Three Graces. 

Milo

She was standing on the shore, her shoes half soaked from the watery surface, looking absently at the island. The house was right in front of her, motionless and calm, as though she was looking at a painting instead of a real motif. Seeing this only reminded her that reality was not much of a factor there. Sometimes she did not even recall what the true meaning of the word was. And moreover, she wasn’t even sure, whether the reality was the stage she wanted to be in right now. 

There was no wind, not a single breeze, everything stuck still so deadly. She looked down at the water and saw reflection of her slender face in the mirror surface of the lake but she did not recognise it anymore. She did not want to. By the sole look at her own shapes she suddenly realised how perfectly they fit to the mortal environment she was part of. As she turned away from the water, she closed her eyes while listening to the lethal tranquility. So many questions circled around her head that she even felt them rambling through her brain. They were getting heavier each moment, causing so much pressure she couldn’t think straight no matter how hard she tried. However, her heart was posing the most importatnt question of all, the question that was inside her from the beginning of this destructive relationship. She wanted to cry it out loud, but all that went out of her dry mouth was a little whisper. As always, there was nothing but the silence answering her from the house. She was pondering over the last few months, wondering how on earth can she even stand on her own feet without collapsing to the soft ground.

Her shoes were now soaking wet and the gentle shiver she felt in her feet was the only motion she was able of. Maybe she should go there and end it for good, but maybe she was too weak to do so. And maybe, just maybe, she had a self-destructive obsession that did not allow her to finish it. Even though her face was pale, her figure skinnier than ever before, and thoughts darker than she had ever imagined, her eyes still radiated vitality. The childish curiosity in her dark blue gaze was resembling two bright lights burning in the distance at the godforsaken sea. Those eyes refuse to give up, they want to see how the story ends. What if there is a next chapter that will bring up an unexpected shift in the story line? What if everyone’s wrong? With that thought she suddenly managed to make a move, and as if there was a new strength coming through her body, she headed towards the bloody red house. 

Milo

Two keys crossing the devil’s chest

Like a wound on a pure white skin

Looking more real than all the rest,

This bloody red house stood still.

Somewhere between the Bermuda triangle

And the island of Atlantis

There was a cuckoo’s nest.

Amid the towns of Geilo and Gol

No house number, no address

Postmen don’t knock on his door,

Returned to sender all the letters.

Though the fish in the lake swam all away,

It attracts her like a magnet

And she is the opposite pole.

Rumour has it he’s a brute, a savage

So they say after the Sunday mass

If you stay here you avoid the damage

Girl, that bridge you should not pass.

But she became deaf to sounds and blind to colours

she only heard and saw

The churchbells announcing a marriage.

On the rainy morning on 13th of July

She wakes up to her dream,

Of the enemy becoming an ally

Who came her soul to redeem.

Been living amongst the dead for many years

And again since becoming a woman

She wants to feel alive.

Sneaks out in secret following her nose

Dressed in a pure white dress

Hasn’t told anyone where she goes,

Leaving behind all her mess.

Cannot wait til she meets the artist

Manic, imaginary, lethal, obedient

She took a love heroin, double dose.

The night when her feet touched his floor

Excited from head to her shoes,

Hasn’t noticed the paintings on the wall

For which she became a muse.

She ate his word one by one and

A few hours later found herself

Drowning in a glass of bordeaux.

Her body tangled with the body of his

Clenched in a cramp of desire and lust,

He made love to her with no compromises

The white dress is now covered in dust.

He was hungry for her like an animal

Getting more lively and strong

The more subtle and fragile she is.

Like a parasite that only can live

While the host body slowly decays

He took from her everything she could give

Sucked like a vampire all juice from her veins.

Like a lonely ship she’s searching for lights

He’s the Californian, guilty of crime

The Titanic will never forgive.

Next to him she was sleeping sound

Her mind obsessed with only one dream,

The nails of a girl scratching the ground

His barn in the backyard echoes with scream.

Red paint now dominates his palette

The brightest of colours straight from the heart

Turning her pain and devotion to art.

The morning was windy and dark

Breeze howling through the window.

As a souvenir there’s a love mark

And a black rose on a pillow.

But the bed is deserted

And she left an empty case

Only her eyes radiated like sparks.

Eyes were intrigued to see the story end

Her body with love shivered

Even the truth could hardly mend

What her dreams destroyed.

Was it just a dream? Maybe it was real...

What does being conscious mean?

To exist now equals to pretend.

On her last supper a la carte,

He served her with immortality.

This is your dream, come and take part-

Being unconscious challanges reality.

Poor poor girl now howls in the barn,

In the deepest fount of his black art,

Where she died of broken heart. 

Little Prince

Drops in a river like million tears. Stars in the sky like thousands of years. We’re like the river, we’re like the sky. Only together, we are entire. 

You were a single drop in a wild roaring torrent, a needle in a hay stack, a tiny spot on a night sky. One drop of water is easily lost in a big river, just as needle in a haystack is hard to find and a single star means nothing to the infinity of the sky. Those little pieces though are insignificantly significant to the whole. You might not notice a drop of water in the river, and a star looks so tiny and distant most of the people don't bother to pay attention to it. But try to get closer. And as I was coming closer, you grew bigger and more shiny, just like a star.

My personal Holden Caulfield (though you didn't ask me whether I still keep all my kings in a back row...). You were beautiful. Your hair was golden, a 24 carat gold, that in jewelry shops is sold. Jewels are forever, they never get old, but they’re metal, unlike you they’re hard and cold. Your skin is white just like a sea salt, it’s soft and smooth like fish that is boned. Your mouth reminded me of a freshly cut fig, and your cheeks were so freshly pink, like the colour of a babe pig. 

Little Prince

First drop of dew falls on the leaf, it feels so new.

That kind of morning reminds me of you.

The dew leaves a spot on the surface, then dries up.

For all those drops I could to be a cup.

All my memories they filled me in.

From bottom to top in a sweet gathering.

No more questions, no compromises.

Only one favor to ask, promise me this:

Keep your head in the clouds, like you always did.

Stay on your planet and never leave it.

Fulfill your dreams,

Use all the means,

Enjoy yourself like sweet sexteens,

And please remember me my little prince.

Distance is only physical

Feet, meters, kilometers, or miles... The distance is only physical. 

Every time I look at the night sky I think that if you turned your head up at the very same time, our eyes can meet. 

I want to waste time, I want to push it. 

I love waiting. As Andy Warhol says: "the idea of waiting for something makes it more exciting".

I will come to see you no matter the flood

And you will come to see me after wiping your blood. 

Over the borders I want you to smuggle

To the kingdom of white sheets for a snuggle.

I want to see you from the right angle

And my little fingers with yours to tangle. 

Elvis' voice now sings Love Me Tender

Please don't let this letter return to sender.

Miles Away

Feet, meters, kilometers, or miles,

Falling asleep under the same skies.

I doubt about the world being that huge,

When our eyes can meet in the star refuge.

We cannot collide, just like the stars,

Coming closer might even burn our eyes.

It’s the grand design, we have to surrender,

Like we did that night, do you remember?

When we watched for hours the sky so empty,

All the stars gone, though there were plenty.

Maybe they all just burst and fell down,

Lightning the bulbs of this beautiful town.

Under cover of the night I want to dance,

Embracing the moment of sweet romance.

I’m a bride of the woods, be my groom

And don’t let your sun become my moon.

Time is just an illusion I want to waste

And live like Kafka did in that special place,

Where time was not factor at all

Hours and days counted by the rainfall.

I lay on the ground few minutes after,

Dressed in white skin and my laughter.

Holding wet soil in my hands in bliss

The scent of your skin I will not miss.

Like Jean-Baptiste I want it to conserve

Unlike him your life I’m going to preserve

And a divine fragrance of you to make

The spell of long distance between us will break. 

From me..

..to you.

Dreamer

Life is never easy for those who dream. 

Sometimes real life is just a way how to waste time in between the periods of sleep. 

I live two lives: one at night, my surreal life of dreams, which happens to be more eventful and adventurous than my REAL life.... BUT wait... WHAT is real? Does being conscious equal reality? Why should only what happens during the daytime be considered as real? Why are dreams regarded as a mere fantasy? 

Commonly accepted truth is that because we do not enter into dreams with our conscience (so we cannot influence what happens during dreaming) they are just elaborated stories of our overworked brain. But is it really so? Why being unconscious must undoubtedly mean being unreal?

I believe that my dreams are real, and I swear I lived all the night time stories to the fullest. And that's what makes my life so damn fascinating. 

The Dream

High from above I’m looking at the scene,

Not recognizing the girl running is me.

I never did see myself running so fast,

Barefoot and barefaced through the field,

Drops of my blood being left in the dust.

Pure white dress is torn to pieces,

That sharp thorn is ripping as it pleases.

At my bare chest I glance in fear,

My eyes blinded, blunted senses.

The one who I’m running from getting near.

I’m on the wane and he is faster,

Savagely violent, looking like monster.

Hole in his torso, his tool is all yellow.

Sticky green hands reaching out closer,

Driven by lust, digging me hollow.

Every sixty seconds passes one minute,

Time is dragging and he has no limit.

As I lay down, the innocence dies,

My body is rigid, there is no life in it.

And he’s crawling slow down to my eyes.

High from above, I’m looking at the scene,

I see miserable body that once used to be me,

Wincing between my despair and bellow,

Hand reaches out for redemption if any could be,

Touches the fabric of sheet and a pillow. 

A face that is pure perfection

If darkness is just a lack of light and sadness just a lack of joy, then I am just a lack of you. 

Only I know that you smell like a grass after the spill of rain. Only I know that when you smile the corners of your mouth go down a bit at the ends, that when you speak your nose moves a little at the tip, that your left ear slightly stands off, that you have a thin wrinkle under each eye, that you breathe irregularly whilst sleeping... 

Maybe it's not only me who notices it, but I am surely the one who appreciates it the most. 

Imperfections become perfect with every look at you. 

Perfection

Mirror mirror on the wall, Who’s the fairest of them all?

If the mirror was me, try to guess what the answer would be.

My blood pressure rises, I can almost hear my cardio,

When you give me that look of a wounded doe

I have to search for the nearest window and cool myself down in the wind blow.

Sometimes my thoughts get suicidal, but it is no sad story,

It is like Vedi Napoli e Poi Muori.

I watch your chest go up and down, as beside we lay,

And I start my little game I like to play.

My fingers walk through the jungle, climb the sacred hill,

When they get to the top, they would stand still.

I have to indulge myself in all of your sweetness,

Admire your skin so soft, white, pure, and flawless,

No matter how much I try, I can’t cease you to caress.

Then you wake up from your realm of dreams my dear,

I breathe your sweet scent and I hold you near.

I feel every limb of your body on mine, and soon you’ll see

What my response to your kiss would be.

The bed is our stage and we both have our role,

Having everything and still wanting more,

Let’s play like time isn’t factor at all.

Rain falls down from the stars though it is a day

Gold and diamond dust cover all of your hair.

Let me kiss away all of the glitter,

And I will kiss you til the end that is bitter.

Under the covers I’ll hide with you so nobody can see,

Curtain fell, audience went home, now it’s just you and me.

I sing you I love you and you love me back,

you’re a man I can’t lack,

You are a flower I cannot neglect,

because to me, you are perfect.