My heart is like a big, fat, ripe pomegranate. Juicy, yet stale pieces of it fall off with every beat and every impulse of every common day, until nothing but a clean meaningless white crust of impressions remains. It’s an outward silence twisted inside into a rhythmic piñata of raw meat and regrets.

My heart is also an hourglass. Not because it is counting my life backwards. But because it is churning all my possible existences, all my potential me’s through a pulsating funnel of contradictions. With every beat my heart splits me sideways, shrugging off every meaningful me and rounding up this shattered self one grain of “nothing” at a time.

My heart is playing hop-scotch . And with every hop juice and sand mingle. And it reminds of blood, but it tastes rotten and ashen and rough. And I pray on that pebble to choke and trip my heart into another dream, where sandstorms rule the land of pomegrante trees.

Getting a lease - copyright XKCD

Growing down

Yesterday it was my birthday, so I took a short pause from the usual ludic and literary discourse to simply celebrate myself with some all-you-can-eat sushi. That was well deserved and perfect for the occasion. But enough about me and my culinary journeys. Now I am back, and ready to fall into the deep meditation of what growing up, or rather growing down, means. Continue reading…

I love writing

Of writing and other demons

I was told that in order to truly live your life, you have to do something you fear each day.

Writing is, for most, not really a big deal. It’s just like leaving a post-it note on the door of the fridge -a comfortable and immediate way to communicate something to someone in the near future. A means to trick time, if not necessarily for your own selfish sake.

But I fear it. Continue reading…

La cantatrice chauve

The bald singer (monologue)

While seeing Eugen Ionesco’s play The bald singer I had the grotesque feeling of slipping away. As if I was no longer there.. as if the unveiled theatrical mechanism, its absurdity, has taken over my emptiness too. I would have burst in a supreme laughter if I hadn’t remembered I wasn’t alone.. I would have walked up the stage, enraged, in a Saturnalic feeling of lust and desire. I would have stripped naked, strangled some blood from the universal vein, I would have felt alive as if my hunt had just begun. My hunt for sense.. Having lost everything, I would have had nothing else to do but to find a new beginning. And as in all beginnings, this would have made me a creator.

But there was enough light for my scenarios not to flow. I did not applaud. I did not stand up. I did not blink. In that noiseless nonsense inside my head  I oculd see the bald singer using the same comb, over and over, plowing my brain, plowing my sighs.
And yes.. My name is Sherlock Holmes….

Running to the theater is sometimes such a blessing. Sit in the front row and observe that conventional universe. Actors messing all around in an absurd notion .. in motion, that sometimes you are contaminated with the same lack of sense.

The randomness of beauty

Common sense has it that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  I’d rather say that beauty is everywhere. A thick explosion of perfection, right here under our eyes. Symmetry and perverse geometry. That’s what it all is. I’m not only talking about nature, but also about the Divine Comedy of the human being.

Mountains of womanly curves, sumptuous smiles, gracious moves that teem with broken promises. A rash of a freckle, an O in an orgasm, the illusion of peace altogether with the tired white dove, a twisted arm, a bent neck, hair blowing in the wind. Isolate the shy, distinct image from the ugly whole and you have symbol within symbol of love, of chaos ingesting the order. Give everyone a try, cause everyone is ready to carve apart that slice of love from their body.

Waste not, want not.


Money, so they say, is the root of all evil today

…If only I had a penny for every wet money dream I witness in people’s eyes. I myself would be filthy rich by now. And utterly poor in spirit I might say. I wish I could bathe in pennies till I become one with the metal pennies are made of. Then I would walk down the filthy streets, delicately screeching the pavement with my precious nature. And hookers and beggars would look up to my shiny indifference, shyily whispering: save us. And I would put on a glassy glare and say:NO.

I’d shower the streets with gold, until everyone drowns into a golden silence. Businessmen and low-lives alike, with their hand in their pants, would savor a golden vigor mortis. Thirsty ladies would pluck out the precious diamonds in their eyes. And by seven o’clock the streets would be cleansed, just as the aisles lay in silence after all automated consumers have drained them of their lollypops. Like locusts. I put a coin into Rosie’s sweet mouth. I tell her to chew, and see if she can swallow. She’s mad with money and she sure can’t resist this raw temptation. But teeth keep falling on the floor like tears.

Sorry Rosie… today isn’t a good day for business, lav.

The Creation of Adam

Searching for God

For many years as a kid, I was upset with God. It was something in the way the priest gripped my cheeks each time he would come to bless our home after Christmas or Easter. It was something in the smell of incense that choked my throat when I entered the church. And, although my grandmother tried to build a halo of legends around God with whispered bed-time stories, the continuous gossip of old ladies in the church halls made my skin crawl. I was the constant target of this blabber, as I didn’t use to cover my head and as my 8-year old clothes were ridiculously regarded as too voluptuous. But most of all, I was upset with God because of the war in Yugoslavia. I used to spend several hours looking outside the window at night and imagining fires and violence, until I would eventually fall asleep, tickled by a childish despair and by the smell of dry rags. It was hard for me to believe God had his ways. I blamed Him for indifference and sometimes even for inexistence. Continue reading…