Their bodies made of space and stars

There I was, the sole public, in the darkness, and a dim , smoky light . Afore me beautiful women, dressed in the same dim light and spangled with green light dots.

Their bodies made of space and stars .

 

I was the sole public, and they danced for me, and I have never seen anything like it.


The first was very slow. Extraordinarily sensual. Her hips moved tantalisingly to the mellow music.
However,  the most sexual part, of her performance,  was the cleaning.

 Have you ever seen a pole dancer, polishing the metal pole?

She uses  a completely ordinary paper tissue, but the way that she uses it, oh .
 She wraps her hand around it and the pole, and than slowly , very slowly, slides the hand to the base of the protrusion. Her legs do not bend, no, her head dives down , it dissapeers together with the back , behind her bottom, a very deliberately pouting bottom on top of miles of legs and killer stilletoes, and that enormously round, sex laden ass, stares at you, quite deliberately.

Yes, gulp.  Her ass is out launched at You. Me.
She slides the hand and the perfectly ordinary hanker chief up and down that pole in the most provocative and least ordinary manner. So all you can do is, gasp. Look out falsely, politely away. Than, revert your eyes, fascinated, greedy eyes. Cant'not look, there is a female ass, with all the round volumes and extravagant shadows in the middle, pointing at you, All that is separating it, and you is a little lace , somewhere in the naughty shadows.

And, she hasen't even started dancing.

Oh come on, It really was just cleaning? There is no one there to be watching her, only other dancers, and I, a female. What's that to her?

And than.

She dances.
I can't draw her.
I hide in to my coffee mesmerised, doo be doo, here I am with a friend , just drinking coffee, its true, no one could disproove it.
But I keep watching.

More girls arrive to work.

Outside is still sunshine. They enter, into the darkness, velvet safe darkness, with little magic lights, like when faries pass you, and they start rejecting their vestiments, armour, ordinariness, in the changing room. They throw off all the armour, rhino skin, the belonging to others, the wife ness, the daughterness, the girlfriend ness, and than all that is left is they,

a she.

Like in that  Russan tale ,where swans throw off feathers, and prove to be nude women underneath.
These throw off their ordinary women, and
swans emerge.

One by one they take the stage.
And I start painting.
I don't know how to paint .
They are beautiful, I am speechless, and my paint doesn't know how to event try to describe them.
They are sexy, and erotic, and sensual and so strong, performing the most incredible moves, to the music, and aimed at me.

I can't see the colours in the dark, but I make the paint wet, and feel for shadows in the palette, and paint somwthing inbetween the energy and the movements, but nither. They are too fast. Alien star ships. Ufos. Did I just see that? I am more dazzed by the speed and movement than my hand can follow.

One by one the girls dance.
They climb the pole,
 and slide
 and writhe,
 and open their legs,
 and bend that ass always pointing it at me,
 and she spins, and falls,
 and slides up side down,
 and I have no intention of goin away.

I'm on a completely new continent  sitting with the chief of the tribe.
Cannibals of course, every and each, one of them. Everyone knows that back home, they are man eaters.

Yet here I am. Privileged to be allowed among exotic beings. Far away form home, around the tribal flame, with the amazons dancing for me, showing me the best they can be, their dance.

 The empress, patronises my work, my being there you see, they haven't boiled me in the cauldron with carrots yet,  no, the empress sits, on the couch, next to me, in her red bikini and see trough platform stilettoes, drinking coffee, quite civilised .

The girls sweat,  move to the rhythm, return wet, drenched, and flop around me, decadently.

 Would it not carry you away? Would you not wish to stay in summerland, where hours pass like seconds? Would you not come back again, for a drink, for a look, for a time not to think?

I painted them all. Hello Monsieur Lautrec, Monsiour Degas, voila I have arrived too, to the bar after dark, and I understand. Each century has its seductive ,forbidden dance, the cancan, the ballet, the dances in the pagan temples and forests thousands of years ago. I painted until the paper run out, and than on the backs of other paintings.

And when there was no paper left, and hours had passed by, and dancers had all danced more than once ,and it was time to have breakfast, they said, oh let us dress you up now.

We women, have those expected common prejudices, men too, but there among the deshabilled females, powdered with darkness, mystery,  neon lights I felt like my power grew. Not when I entered. I was wary to enter even. As the full moon grew, so this my confidence, and wish to dance, the backbone straightened , the body absorbed some of the sensuality, when I walked I could feel it. The girls undid my big flowery dress and put my torso in a black corset, my feet into tall lacqured stiletoes a strewn with diamonds. The kind I would never have looked at before. The kind I must have.

 Did you know I have miles and miles of legs? Oh yes I have the kind of legs that ordinary mortals have to look up to, to see the ends of, somewhere in the clouds, in the land of giants and goddesses, the kind you can't touch. ? When I wear there magic shoes.

aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

I awoke the husband somewhere at am, he must have been worried, where I was, that late, having left to paint in the afternoon, tea time, and having awoken him up so late, he might have been, a little annoyed, but once he opened the door, of the house, and saw ,the new person standing there, was it something in the eyes, in the posture, in the stilettoes? He suddenly was awake, and looked happy to be awoken even, I could say. His eyes, mad in love mad mad eyes. What the heck happened?

I  did leave the house to paint that day. I left the house to paint a goddesses. She was going to let me paint her meditate, and but instead she took  me to  paint her dancing.

Kaštelanski film Noire

Sjedimo u autu u sred vlaške. Naravno oko nas se ta Vlaška i miče, trće unazad, krićavo zelena stabla obojana svjetlima auta, i oni telfonski stupovi iz kaubojskih filmova, a van tog okvira mrak.

 Nov je mjesec. Nov početak. Moguče je da je pobiga od doma, ali dali ima muda za to? To bi bila ta dobra verzija da je pobiga od doma, I krenija prema Rijeci ili nešto, da je živ. Da bila bi dobra verzija u kojoj je on Živ.

U velikoj borši na kolinu, punoj akvarela, flomastera , svakakvih boja, plik postera sa crno bilom facom mog brata. Polu nasmješenog, jel on to vibrira iz neke druge happy  dimenzije tako namsmješen ili pak je sve ok pa izgleda nasmješen?
Uz postere veliki paket cookisa za živce, moje živce naravno, jer muž ima cigarete.

Nesta Ti je brat.

Rekla mi je večeras Zrinka iz Zagreba, koju je zvala njena mater iz Kaštila, kada je to pročitala u novini.

Nesta je prija 3 dana.

Meni mater ništa nije rekla. Nije me tila brinit, mene I moju obitelj, a mislila je da če se do sada već vratit. Kaže.

Oko nas teče ta pusta Vlaška, I mračina. Biče dehidriran leži u travi negdi. Nevirujem da bi on nekog pita išta, kunu, za poziv, za autobus, da bi se uopče šverca, biče hoda doma I leži negdi u smeđoj, vlažnoj travi, a noć je hladna.

Zubi buldozaju cookise , Šibenik je toliko dug. Ma on se nebi snaša da je prova. Zato mu I triba 4 dana. On razmišlja ko vilenjak, ne vidi prometne znakove, objašnjavam ja mužu,on če uz more, priko polja , šume, di god nije logično.

Čudno je to, kažem mužu koliko ljudi postoji u Kaštilima kojima je potriba otič u brdo, danima, danima sam bit u nekom brdu, nigdi ih nisam toliko srela ko u Kaštilima, svi imaju neku potribu bit u divljini I na brdu. I Antonio je posta jedan od tih.

Šibenik je grad duhova. Nigdi ama baš nikoga za vidit. Je da je noć ali pari neko američko predgrdđje iz surealnog filma. Uz praznu policijsku postaju, I zatvorenju kapiju, mala kućica, kockasta stračara a u srtračarici prignječena, policajka oblika unutrašnjosti  kućice. Cilu ju je popunila. Sisa pun stol, brkova puna usna, bonbon prazna kesa, a u ruci olovka, nočna policajka precrtava ilustracije dječjih knjiga. Dobar znak? Antonio ilustrira.

Policajka, nazove kolege, doda telefon, da  mi kažu da mi ništa neče reč.  Sve šta če reč, mora reč mojoj materi, koja je podnila prijavu nestanka mog brata.

Ali svadili mo se, malo prije, išla sam doma saznat šta se dogodilo, nasta je svinjac-vatromet, neznam nikakve detalje, objasnim ja barba policajcu.


 Detalje če kolege u kaštilima, koji vode istragu, mada je brat nesta u šibeniku, reč materi koja je podnila prijavu. A meni ništa, nek pitam mater.

 A postere mogu ja lipit ako je to u suglasnosti,  sa materom koja je podnila prijavu, ako ona odobrava , on ponovi, a on nema pravo da mi išta na to kaže.

Debela brkata policajka, kvalificirana za holivudske filmove, napiše ime Antonio na komad šporkog papira sa olovkom, naj bitniji je bio ops njegove frizure,  I eto rješeno je tim sve. A za tim doda.. Moga se bacit sa litica tvrđave , moga se utopit u moru ,nebi ga do sada našli, jeli ma koju poseno dragu osobu ili mjesto di bi se sakrija? Time mi doda materijala mašti.

Šta čemo dalje? Upuštamo se lipit postere po gradu. Kako se to uopče radi? Dali postoje pravila gdje se takve stvari lipe? Pitanje je života I smrti, ali opet nemogu baš lipit svugdi. Neželim negatvine konotacije, okruženje loših postera,  zbog sriće.

Prvu sam zalipila kraj fast fooda, navečer tamo idu svi, drugu spod slike malih mekih pasića u Šibenskom kolodvoru ,treću na hobotničinu glavu, morskog murala. I tako stigošmo do tvrđave iz koje je brat u Nedilju pobiga.

Bija je sa materom na koncertu. On se uglavnom ponaša sramežlivo pored novih ljudi, mnogo ljudi, pa ne radi, a već ima 26 godina , I kome nebi to do pizdilo,  I virjeme je da radi, da se socializira, pa ona ga pokušaje socializirati. I tako su bili u tvrđavi na Jazz koncertu a on je samo šmuga u noć.

Počela je kišica. To če ga potirat doma kaže muž. To če ti smočit postere. Kaže muž. Morala sam zalipit jednu na tu tvrđavu. Na zid. Na ime ulice. Ali tako hladno, jezivo mi je izgledala slika na tom zidu. Pre jezivo, cijelo mjesto. Zar su tvrđave inače tako jezive?. Strah me je bit sama u tom mokrom maglovitom mraku, iako samo ulicu dalje od muža, u noći, ovjde.

 Šta to sam ga zalipila na zid Groblja svete Ane?  Zalipila sam sliku brata na jebeno groblje. No way. Skidam ga I trćim niz ulicu "Put groblja" prema svitlu, svitu I lipim bratovu glavu na vrata od nečjeg vrta.  Razumit če ljudi. Ako dodam flomasterom "nesta ovdje."

Osječaj da plačem mi skače u očima ko oni baluni što se stvore žabiu grlu dok krekće, suze nabubre, I nestanu, I tako, recikliram istu vodu više puta. Nema jebenih suza kod mene, the show must go on. Ali kuda? Oblipimo autobusne stanice at random iz Šibenika do Rogoznice duboko u noć. Prošetamo uz zadnju autobusnu stanicu za koju smo imali poster. Lipo tu miriše,ta trava, jele. Spod ceste neka vala, more. Možda mu je ovoi pustolovina. Zoven bratovo ime u noć  , idemo kući.

Mater I brat 3 traže ga od Nedilje, i lipe iz drugog smjera. Zovu dva u jutro ,da su ga ljudi vidili kako sidi na zidiću,izgledao je zapušteno,  al na zidiću, taj dan.

U jutro zovu jer su ga vidili više ljudi, facebook je proširija vjest ko požar, po Dalmacije gleda oko sebe,  da vide Antonija. Antonio sramežljivi Antonio koji je pobigao.

Svi znaju za tu potragu, osim brata 2. Ja sam izgubila telefon I nemem njegov broj, a mater mi taj broj nije tila dat. Ne samo šta mi  ga ona nije htjlea dat, nego mi ga se nije usudija dat ninajmlađi brat kojem je mater zabranila. Da ne uznemirujem bezveza brata koji radi u Istri, da ne ostavlja svoj posal.

Moram ga zvat insistiram, I reč mu da je Antonio nesta,  na I njemu je izbor šta če radit, ali ima pravo znat. Kad si ga već ti u Šibeniku izgubila.I tik tako sam upalila ono.

Prvo pravednički, čvrsto uprt u me,  prst. A zatim promjenu glasa, mucanje odbačeno, nov glas, iz dna metalnee bačve,  urlikao je "Izlazi iz moje kuće ", sve zmije u kosi siktajući, "Van iz moje kuće, Ja sam Majka ja znam što je dobro za moje Sinove". Tresla se kamena kuća iz temelja, a iz drvenih usta ispadaše I svi koji su dotada s njom bdili.

Pronađen je.

Zove mater sljedeće podne. Pronađen je u Kaštilima. Mater opet muca od emocija,od muke, od spašenja, muca lome se rijeći.

Sa njom dokona kolekcija obitelji s kojom nije do dog trenutka bila bliska godinama. Jesu li bili gladni priče ili su iskreno došli pomoć u teškom trenutku.  Na vratima je I pas bio zbunjen jer  u kužini dočekala me je  teta s kojom godinama Mater nema vezu, skuvla teta ručak, grli me , ljubi me prvi put u pola dekade, stavlja pijat ispred mene, na stol. Ja  u suvom šoku , više nema potriba za ianci s od suze. 

Di je brat. ?

U krevetu. Nos I ruke izgoreni od sunca.

Polje je bilo bliže od kuće. Puno polje trišanja. Četri dana nije ija. Na na vlak ni u autobus ga nisu pustili, ni kada je prova im ostavit osobnu,  pa je hoda, za kune nije nikog pita,  telefon mu je več dugo razbijen,  a za vodu se snaša .

Naija se trišanja, I zaspa u poljskom šatoru, a onda je pred kućom dogegala u spas, "pronaći ga " lokalna policija.

I jel bilo šta zanimljivo putem? Pa bilo je zmija. Probudiija se jutros u Trogiru za zmijom kako sikta do sebe. Bilo je I zmija u moru. Jesi li to ikad vidila? Ima zmija koje plivaju po moru, mogu plivat do otoka.
 Bilo je neočekivano puno lipih mista uz obalu. I shvatija san da ako mogu četri dana hodat bez hrane, pa da mi je hrane moga bi hodat I godinu dana bez problema.
Moga bi I nač posal negdi daleko od Kaštila. Ajme crnjaka šta su svi ovo morali znat. Posal negdi u berbi voća, daleko, di mogu ostat. Ili nešto drugo u prirodi. Al bija sam malo gladan, I malo su me počele bolit noge. Ubuka san tanke patike, za koncert, jer mater je navalila, dobila je neke karte za Jazz, I da se ne dere san iša, ali nisu to bile cipele za hodanje.

I šta onda dogodilo? Svadili ste se pa si pobiga? Ma ne. Nisan tija ič na concert pa me je izbacila me  iz auta. Sta san u šibeniku dva dana, pa san krenija doma. Nije biloteško pogodit di je Split, ima jasni znak, izlaz za Split.

gray as air

Grey men are invisible. They sink their head into their shoulders, and disappear in to their elastic generous neck skin. Like vultures when they pull their head into the feathers. I bet that the vulture too thinks he is invisible as he looms up ahead circling, low key, flying high enough, he believes he is camouflaging behind the  flies, which are close to the ground .
Any way these grey haired men, hide in their hair, in their bad eye sight, and like little children believe that if they do not see you, you will not see them.
They pantomime next to grey stone walls and believe in their supernatural ability to assimilate with the wall. My father does it. He really thinks I don't see him as we by pass in the street, when he wears his invisibility cloak. As he is hiding behind obstacles in his own head. Or wearing red stands next to tomatoes in the market. That is until on visible days he passes me and says hello, what have you been up to?
 But its not just him. There are others too. The white haired photographer who turns into his hat when he wants to by pass a particular someone in a busy coffee shop. The man is incredible. He has white hair, white beard, wears a white hat, and his face just adopts the colour of some greenish white slimy mushroom, once he nears the unwanted potential hello. Of course people avoid him in that state. Than , as he escapes danger, his face turns back to glowing orange, his visible colour which welcomes greeters and accidental bumps on the street.
But its only the grey haired men, who do this, and really seem to believe , that the mind will over rule physics. They are not visible to the mortal eye. Its something about the hair. Grey as air. I'm as gray as air. Im as gray as air..... 

the stalker you know.

I'm siting in the gallery bar,  heels caught in the high stool bars, eyes apparently looking at the screen, yet, the in the ephemeral vision, my eyes are spy laser beams. The music is  a lullaby, plinketey pinkitey plonk. One might think I was a sculpture, a long asleep soul, a shell in a dress.
 But there's the catch my friend. I am watching. I can see you in the corner of my eye. Oh yes. I have seen you. I have seen you sashay for coffee and invite your best looking, middle age, perfumed females. You sat among them like the ceramic garden gnome, among healthy green moss, proudly decorated by it, framed by it, but of course superior. You have a red hat. What is some any day moss compared to the garden gnome?  You laughed those exaggerated loud laughs of  grey haired men which scare all the sparrows out of their nests. Drank the sparrows with milk froth instead of sugar, got them stuck in your teeth, and continued producing the loud , I'm here, I'm here, postulations.
Pity that all efforts hit the high walls as forcefully as moist air, and slid down it, in the form of un happy mildew, none was home.
The next day, you climbed the bicycle. A tourist. A bump in the street, oh what a surprise, to see you here. Ah was that, yes he, a big important person there , oh really?
Third day, you parked the bicycle, rather accidently, right next to the car, of the really big important person there. I passed you, on my way to the market, I bought a kilo of strawberries, and cucumbers, and duck fodder, my shoe strap broke, I tucked it in, walked very slowly along the heavily cogged streets, and saw you in the same, spot, next to the fucking bin,  next to a couple  giant house trash slightly dripping containers, egg shells , fish bones, the old slimy bean, you in your Hugo Boss starched shirt with both sleeves accurately rolled up to a perfect parallel, an hour later. Edged three to four meters closer to the dumpster. Not sure if the other part of the victimised dialoguer was the same, or a new  acquisition. They where surly not aware of their role as the deliberately low carrot content of imperfection next to you and the 24 carrot gold hand made spectacle frames, which hopefully sparkled in the light if looked at from the planned angle.
I nodded, to make you realise that I noticed you both times.
And you nodded , to acknowledge my presence, and send a dis-invitation.
 Do not disturb it said on your pink face, and leg mid air, one foot on the bicycle pedal as if you had just landed. Its a private booth, where I do things which are none of your business.
I would have forgotten it, bar being slightly bemused, had I not found your sentence in my laptop, the same one I sit behind, working, and well could I ignore you being right up in side it now? You had surreptitiously squeezed in to it, to participate in an art project, lets pretend ,and left your, little statement hoping it would be read. Some one had to, so I did, and woe thee, still not the right person.

Do you know a man by the name blah di blah, I finally asked the museum director at coffee . Yes. He replied surprised by my question. Well he is trying to catch you, he has been cycling around the museum for a whole week . Really? He is in town is he? Surprised the director exclaimed, well he does have my number, why does he not just call me?

piano at breakfast

A friend just mentioned how she is seeing a man who plays the piano.

 It reminded me.

The lighting, is pale yellow, falling from the window on to a table set with a white table cloth. A very long table. Breakfast scents and treasures lay strewn across it , already consumed , still irresistible.


My hand keeps reaching out.

The piano sounds.
He started to play.
Had no idea he played the piano.

Of course we where alone, every one else had left, I had awoken up late.

I suppose he had waited for me, maybe?
He was playing, for me may be?
 No one else was there but the Benjamina plants,  long way away, across the deep contrasting shadows of the enormous room, on the other side of the dusty carpets and sofas , so far away, but I think never the less, listening. Just as I was listening, startled by the music. Absorbed fully. Reaching out , spreading the jam slowly, responding to the music, answering what ever he was asking with the piano, spreading the jam so slow as  to make the music last.

 Particles of dust sparkled in the light, spinning.

It was one of the most beautiful breakfasts.

The rabbits.  I feel I must dedicate a word on these species for baby and l have lived with two for the last few weeks. Although they are more and more becoming a house pet, rabbits are not cats, or dogs, they are still wild animals just as horses are and though with time they can be house broken, it is not in their nature to be lap animals.
l I have had many different house animals, and l have an atitude towards them as l do eith my baby, there are a few rather than many restrictions,  I study what it is that comes natural to them and embrace it or offer substitutes.  My dog hates being on a leash, and janks choking herself on it, yet when l let her leash free she never leaves my side, does not wonder off or fight other dogs ever. With rabbits rathrr than a standard cage,  l let them firstly to my art studio, and later on a whole balcony,  putting them in a hut at night only. Trough the glass we observed them and they us.
it surprised me to watch how affectionate they are with one another. They clean parts of the other which he can not reach himsrlf, such as between ears. When they sleep they take turns to keep watch, huddling together,  one sleeps, folding his ears inwards towads the fur muffeling  sounds, whilst the other keeps ears upturned listeing, and eyes half open watching, for any movement or sound.
Rabbits do not have eyebrows protruding above their eyes,  the skull actually diminishes above the eyes alowing them to keep in sight the sky, and the ground arround them, for predators. The ear might is quite extraordinary,  they react to sounds happening on different floors, inside the building whilst they are outdoors, and they can turn the ear like a radar in any direction or angle to tune into a sound.
They are very aware of their hygiene,  and spend most of the day cleaning them self's, washing the face with two paws,  licking their feet, the amount a proud house cat would ,much unlike dogs who are slobs in comparison.
They tend to always want to eat what ever the other is eating, much like people,  and often nibble food out of each others mouths, rather than claim a piece for them selfs. They love to eat,  and do apriciate new exotic foods and variety. I offered them daily freshly picked grases, herbs, flowers,  and saw that their ability to eat increased every day. In one week they doubled in size.
Rabbits are also very,   curious creatures, the have to investigate everything, much like a child, and every day outsmarted all my barcades that separated them from other balconies.I found them gazing down at the world from 8 flors up, from the rim of the building and not falling,  and as tried to stop it I realised its best to let them explore,  and found them coming back when they are done.
They are very aware of one another, and if one is missing for slightley too long, th other begins to worry and search,  when should one be inside the rabbit hut, the other  will try to break in or climb on the hut and keep watch, becoming at this point careless of themselves,  making it easy to catch them, when usually they are proper little escape artists. When released into a new space they first of all huddle count 8 paws before relaxing, and if one is released he is by far more stresed when alone.
As for messynes, well they poo as they hop, everwhere. Very quickly the balcony w
starts looking like it is covered with polkadots. The pee on the otherhand in colures red, orange, yellow and white,  and is used to mark their territory , pedantically and constantly  repaired, a bit like an English man's garden hedge.
The male Captain Cook  loves to run, bounce, jump in one direction at top speed than cut a corner or swing into the opposite direction panting with formula 1 adrenalin, than sit down to chew a leg all cool, bad boy style. The female Martini, observes this in her wider vision, pretending a total lack of interess,whilst streching a leg in the air  ballerina style,  licking it.
Their reaction to us the humans was well much slower than any pet I hadthus far, at first they hid, than they started sniffing us, looking for me when hu gry or bored, but still do not like bing picked up, and bit me as a warning, though they seem to understand who is a baby and did not try to bite Duje when he picked them up.

It is striking to note,  that how no matter how satisfied one is with ones career wether rthey dedicating most of thir lifes energy into it, and find them self in a optimal position. ? Still ond is never entirely happy,  there is always something more that must be done, and there are always more things, and no matter how much one is earning its never quite enough,  it is endless dissatisfaction.

 On having a child,  producting a little human being è which thinks on its own,  learns, develops, and is for the most part out of parentals control,  gives such a feeling of utter satisfaction.  The child is perfect.  Even though it changnes from day to day, it sems always perfect,  and provides a rush of feeling contentment. a contentment with the now,  and, on ghe moment,  as each fase, each day,  is is full of little surprises .