On the First day of Christmas

On the First day of Christmas, My true love gave to me: a set of impressions and feelings.

Sensual lines

Sensual lines
LONDON: Between words, lines and books, some sensual lines can be read in between. After leaving T. at the underground station I took my way to the MC after-party, at Mason's Yard. The stop at Whitechapel Art Gallery took more than expected, we got there later than we wanted and I can't remember a single piece of work. To bad for me!!! Anyway, as soon as I got in to the place some friendly face was giving his name to the lady with the name's list. D. wanted to get in accompanied by two Dutch girlfriends. They were on the list. He wasn't! I gave my name, they let me pass.

- C'mon D. although you're not on the list, said I, you know that you're always welcomed!

Both girls nodded in consent. D. didn't like that much the observation. Anyway, after a quick introduction and a smoke we all four got in. A. was greeting the incoming guess!

- It is crowd and tropical inside, said A., go downstairs, it is fresher and there is more space! she added.
- Thank you! Definitely will...
- Nice, You made it! J. greeted. Have a drink...

Got my way to the bar. One of the girls already had a drink for me. So, immediately, we went to the room below, which was definitely as A. as said it would be. After a quick introduction to the other people - one of the other girls boyfriend and someone else talking to him - the topic of writing came to the table.

- Are you a journalist or a writer? asked the musician.
- Although I would love to predicate myself as such, journalist, like Hemingway, for instance, I'm just a writer writing on art and related thing, like the fact of being alive, for instance, having art objects as my object of inquire. The role of the journalist it to describe what happened, I've explained, and the role of a writer, a person like myself, is to describe something felt. So, for now, I have to content myself with being just that. A writer...

and so on...

[While I'm writing these lines in a cue to go and see the Rain Room, at the Barbican, the person who I'm meeting with, V., is just behind the couple behind me; we both stayed in the cue for more than half-an-hour without perceiving each other presence, while waiting for the other to call or say something; she now went to get coffees for us].

Man and God!!!

Man and God!!!
LONDON: One of these past evenings, while having dinner at the embassy, the topic on discussion with G. and M. was why so many writers go for any skirt that passes-by in front of them and have being jumping from one bed to another, from one woman to other, throughout their mature life. One of the questions debated was if we do Love women? The immediately answer that comes to mind would be: Yes/No! A second thought about it and it would be: Yes! But we love ourselves much more; part of our nature of being humans is to search for physical satisfaction and sexual pleasure. So they (women) are just a practical form, a body used in a physical necessity that we have to engage with through life, though! However, what I really would had said, but didn’t said, was that I’m just a man that is all alone in this world, which is looking for someone to be with (as she is), a being that wants to be with me in the same way (as I am), and, together, we can develop a life project in common. We, writers, being beings that expresses abstract ideas in concrete terms are more sensible to the lack of someone walking by our side than other human beings. Since, they, the others, tend to be more practical, more abstract than our way of being. What we do doesn’t mean but is, and it is only through its meaning. “We know now that a text is not a line of words realizing a single ‘theological’ meaning (the ‘message’ of the Author-God) but a multi-dimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, blend an clash.” (Barthes in ‘The Death of the Author’). We’re Man and God! At night, alone in bed, is when, this lack of ‘walking companion’ becomes more bodily overpowering; it makes us to be in a constant, perpetual pursuit of a way to fill our emptiness; to have a warm body embracing our words, thoughts – the practical side. A recent acquaintance reminded me of it when I had to stay and slept at her house, in her bed, intertwining our bodies’ warmness through the night while we recover from strenuous physical exertions with our eyes closed, muscles relaxed and consciousness practically suspended. These moments are when we feel Life! Rather than emptiness!

It is written that throughout my life I will have three women that will pervade intensely my emptiness. The Third, and last, I know who she will be, but not what she will be. The First has been over more than twenty years ago. She has been with me since my youth! More than lovers, we are friends that have gone together through different situations and experience in a particular time of our life, intertwining what we have learned with each other. It was the learning experience period! The Second, which will go from now all over until the end – which will give me the Third - I’ve think, I’m sure, already have met her. How I know? Because I knew who she was before she has had come- and passed-by. When she has gotten-by, I knew! I knew on the First as I know about the Third. It is my expression of an abstract idea in concrete forms. It is just their, project in space, until that human being - the Second - fills the space with her body and it fits like a dream, and then I say, without doubts, ‘You Are The One I Have Been Waiting For’!

There is always a threshold, an in-between from the First to the Second She has become an extremely good friend. In the same way, there will be another threshold in-between the Second and the Third, but it will be from a completely different kind. In the meantime, however, what will happen is that I will continue on to jump from one bed to another, writing rich, unusual and daring small textual exercises after another as a way on to gather pictures that will feel the blank canvas from which life is; fill the emptiness with some small taste of life and to compensate the lack of a embracing harm body that will make me create, later in life, major and more enriching pieces of texts. So, now, that was pass the in-between One and Two! In-between the First and the Second! Is time to be with the Second! But, be aware, ‘geographical distance’ can’t be a value in the proposition.

The idea is not to know her in her infinity, to know her deepest secrets and spending the rest of my life living up to them – for this, I can hire a hacker to get into the Lawyers Firm' dossier about her, go through her bank account, or, then, use the old way, go and ask her neighbors' – it is more, instead, day-to-day process of learning something new about each other; wanting to tell about a line in a book, a frame in a movie, a person or an expression in a conversation by a passer-by; it is about the small things, the everyday life moments that enrich Life. Because out little secret, is that there is not secret at all! Writing a text, painting a canvas, burning a film is an intense personal and private act that is extremely open and public. Its interpretation is what makes those pictures gathered during life unique, private and personal to each one. The way they talk to us – otherwise it would be always an empty medium. At the end the more images we have the wealthier we are.

Getting back into the topic of discussion, my answer was that they - the writers - do have so many women in their life because they don’t Love them!

Nocturne dalliance

Nocturne Dalliance
LONDON: After slightly over two weeks of special and intense streams of feelings, activities, networking and working, spending, drinking and eating, meeting friends, and some that are not, late night parties and dinners, visiting art fairs and seeing exhibitions, publishing texts, a writing performance, and opening a curated photo exhibition online, life returned to what it use to be - debt and credit movements.

When we take time to observe it seemed that I had gone through, done and achieve more in twenty days, while living in London, than in two years, when living in Never Ever Land. Which is obvious! London is at the centre. NEL is peripheral. A return of parallel moments reflecting, bearing similar resemblance to situations and experiences which I had gone through in the last ten, twenty years; on others occasion it seemed to reflect the last four, five years (even if, virtually, it is always exhilarating to find someone, which we don't see for ages, running through the streets of the lost city of Aleppo, in Syria, with a naughty smile, as someone that has just behaved badly, while behind him, someone is shooting things). But, while in the time of observation, life made me realize, that the outcome scape of the time of conception is different.

- So, you're left quite early from the improvised dance floor last night! S. Lucas was doing a crazy dancing on top of a table until the bouncer came and finish all our pleasure.
- ...
- Call you in two weeks time. Do you have an address where I can send something?
- Yes, ... ; is it a postcard?
- You will see when you see it!

When, before, it was almost everything downstream; now, it is almost all upstream. T. M. J. T. A. C. they all fill unique moments of time - Thank You All! While I'm expecting to embody my role, to be just another actor in this great baroque performance.

At the end of this period of slightly over two weeks, it was Bruno's birthday. I went for a pint at The Approach. However, it was then changed the Hemingway. I finish the brief London dalliances with an intensively warm and profound emotional photographer. Knowing that the stage was set for another play. Their are two things that would be always part of my life: photography and performance! images and culture! human sound and silence!

You speak the local language

You speak the local language
STROUD: when I woke up the schedule for the day was to go for a walk at May Hill in the morning, and visit Lynn Chadwick Sculpture Park in the afternoon. However, by the time I got to the kitchen G. and D. had already changed their minds. They wanted to go to somewhere else, Bath or Stratford-upon-Avon, where we could enjoy a Saturday afternoon theatre matinee, which was to be followed by a diner at Hilles House.
While having breakfast and discussing what to do, followed by a short walk along the rural road, the cold had definitely made our minds in to a walk in the not so touristic English countryside. Anyway, D and me, we both were feeling a heavy-height hanging on the back of our head – consequences of drinking different wines on the previous night.
Returning back in to the house we all decided to go with L.’s suggestion. A warm and rejuvenescent bath at Bath’s sauna facilities! The best answer for our hangover! D. got me some shorts and them we got to G.’s place to get her bikini.

«Relax in one of the world’s most beautiful cities. Nourished by natural hot springs, Bath offers a unique experience with stunning architecture, great shopping and iconic attractions.»

The trip from Stroud to Bath took as much as 45 minutes. Quite pleasurable! G. drove us through some local road, which made the voyage even more appealing.
When at Bath, D. was famished and wanted to go for lunch. Something light, like a sandwich.
- “This looks like a nice shop. Can you go inside and ask if they can do me a cheese sandwich, please!” said D. to G. has he was opening the door. “You speak the local language.”
- “Sorry, but we did not have bought any bread today”, said the young person behind the counter.
Strangely enough, there was a basket full of nice, tasty and homemade bread at the entrance, with a price tag attached!
Between noisy restaurants and crowd pubs we found a restaurant almost empty and not that noisy near Bath's Theatre Royal.
- “If we were going to have a two hours’ sauna with spa we definitely have to eat something before”, said I. “It is almost two in the afternoon!”
By the time we ordered, our minds had already made another strategic move. The piper has called us to join him, with a pint of Ginger beer and a glass of white wine we were going for the complete meal, and forget the two hours’ of warm water.

Late that night, after dinner, sitting down at the kitchen with a cup of tea, G., D. and me schedule the following day: to wake at what time we wanted; go for breakfast and soon after a refreshing walk; followed by lunch for nine, around 2pm. As it as became a habit on those days, things on the following day did turn out completely different: wake-up at 8.30am; leave to G.’s home; visit Lynn Chadwick Sculpture Park around 12am – came back and find a couple with their car stuck in the lane in front of the house; have Thomas Dane and Caragh Thuring for tea, around 1pm; and lunch for 8 people, afterwards.

The Tale of Two Animals

The Tale of Two Animals
LONDON: the first thing that comes to my mind is rats and peacocks; rats that want to be peacocks; peacocks that want to look like rats.

To write is like to recreate live experiences that I had at a particular moment in time. Is to “put” these “images” together and create a fantasy narrative about a place. If in one instance people come to a quiet place to have a drink, see a movie, to talk or just to wait; on the other, they can also walk and travel along streets, roads, cultures and experiences while looking to find whatever they looking for. But, in both cases, a sense of sharing, of community, belonging is the ultimate aim and drive. In the XIX century the Open Salons pictured that rarefied sense. Nowadays, it is through films and movies.

Meanwhile, we all share a universal sensation that we all want to be singular. Definitely, or God hates us all, or He is just playing around with us all, for His own amusement! The other day three people got together, at the same place, with three different Apple computers; in the 80s there was IBM, and the others; in the 90’s there was Windows, and the others; in the 00’s there was the general proliferation of laptops. Labels’ change whereas, meanwhile, the content stays the same – an illusion that we are all unique. But we are or rats or peacocks. In the end everyone want's to feel special; not unique!

Smells Like ... Horses

Smells Like ... Horses
LONDON: Ten o'clock in the evening. It is cold. I'm sitting outside the coffee shop, which I normally go to when in never ever land, drinking a sweetish Porto vintage. The company is also cold. No wonder that my relationship with all who live in this land is comparable to that of an undead. With few exception, it's all so without life! boring!

- ...put thorns in the path we want or do not want to walk...
- ...there are times when a person is not well, is being carried away by the hype, and is not seeing...
- So this is how things are, or we accept reality as it is, and life becomes difficult. It doesn't allows us to be completely happy. Or was someone in the other life that made something, and now I'm suffering for it...

These spiritualist conversations are so lifeless! For instance, how do you know that you are in Portugal? When for five dreadful days Lisbon was the stage for the only unexciting, uninspiring, unstimulating national contemporary art fair. OK!, it is always a success to the fair institutional governance body, but no one bothers to fucking show up. Including art dealers (CG, GB, PC, QA, VC, ...), collectors (...), and, worse, not event the organisers?! they are hidden in the VIP lounge - Oh! my apologies, this is not true! The VIP lounge doesn't exist as well as it doesn't exist any hype, or excitement. The Port is the only tasty thing that I can taste during the evening. Everything else is so insipid.
Anyhow, during some months my entertainment was to get out from one house and get in to another. What I've like to call SDP - Serviço ao Domicílio Personalizado (PHS - Personalised Home Service, in English). Sometime I got out with my back scratched! But that is life, and it doesn't become difficult. Just gets better, and better! My mind is in one place, and my heart in the same.
The interesting thing is that with all the migration there wasn't a woman who had been born on never ever land. All came from other lands. Because I'm exceptional good in everything I do they all came with the same sentence, "You were the first person with whom I had sex that I was able to reach orgasm." Maybe they had really bad companions, without the minimum idea in how to take the best out of any situation; or they are looking for and are use to have men smelling like horses; or, maybe, it is just me! To let you understand better my last thought, the other day, the excitement from someone was in that a mutual friend was going out with a woman with less than thirty years old! Hummm! I was going out with one until last month - well at least in the way her thoughts were built.
Definitely not the same wavelength...

Some incongruous person

Some incongruous person
LONDON: One of this mornings, on my way to Photofusion, in Brixton, I came across with an old lady lost in the system; in the transports for London composed maze-grid system.
- There was no trains from Greenwich! I had to take a bus to Surrey Quays and then the underground; couldn't change at London Bridge for the Northern Line... and, now, Oval station is closed! It has been a nightmare journey at every stage.
She got out at Kennington station, even when all the other commuters told her that that the underground train was going through and would stop at the next station! Which is Oval.
- But it was written there that the train is not stopping at Oval!? said the old lady while referring to the light billboard in the train.
She, got in to the platform and start to walk away looking to find dreamland; with beer made of honey and storms made of laugh.

On that same day. In the evening. When returning home from some friends place. I stood for half an hour standing and waiting for an underground train at Jubilee line platform in Waterloo station, because of signal failure in Green Park. Then, when the train was ready to depart, some incongruous person decided to be in harmony with the involved surrounding. He or she has pull the alarm-handle.
While the gentle underground officers looked-out to make the train running, I keep reading a book about art and revolution.

On the train towards Charing Cross

On the train towards Charing Cross
LONDON:
- Can we drink alcohol in a train? was the first thing I've heard
- Well, to be true?! I don't know! replied a deeper voice
- In that case I might have a zip, said the female tumbling in her own words while opening a can
- I like you jacket! Are you in the army? she asked with an articulated accent from the Home Counties, most possibly from the South East England
- No! said a juvenile voice
- What do you do in life?
- I'm a plummer, answered the first voice
- Just came down to Deptford to grab some mail. Is this train going to London Bridge? I'm from Norway. Came to London four years ago to work for a company. I can see that you're married. Do you have any Kids?
- Three! two daughters and one son, replied the same person
- To be complete honest, I'm doing research for Kenneth Clarke. Are you an MP? Why aren't you a MP?!
- I like what I do!
- Are you conservative? for whom did you vote in the last elections! Sorry for being so personal in my questions but you have been asking me a lot of personal questions, either!

...she keeps on for half-an-hour. Today the train takes longer than the usual five-to-ten minutes.

When I prepare myself to leave the train at London Bridge Train Station I looked back, she was small, dark hair, and look like having a South Asia background. We never know!

The following day I came across with another female voice. With read hair, blue eyes, wearing a army jacket and a warm orange winter scarf.
- Hi Dad! she said when answered the phone. I'm on the train down from London!, in a clear English.
She had a Mulberry leather bag.

The Green Sneakers

The Green Sneakers
LONDON: Almost midnight on a week day, in the underground, on my way home, I find a young women crying. Ask her if a can take a photo of her sneakers! She say’s yes, and then poses for me! We both got off in the same station. She went right. I went the other way. No other conversation has happen apart from the one surrounding that short event!

At the Royal British Legion

At the Royal British Legion
LONDON: At the Royal British Legion seven old people are gathered celebrating who knows what with no reason at all. All of them, with more than seventy years old, sing together old tradition songs from Wales, Ireland, Scotland and England while pouring down pints of beer and glasses of wine. A jolly good afternoon on the sound of The Wild Colonial Boy, an Irish-Australian ballad, «… At the early age of sixteen years, / he left his native home / And to Australia's sunny shore, / he was inclined to roam / He robbed the rich, he helped the poor, / he shot James MacEvoy / A terror to Australia was / the wild colonial boy ...» and other provoking songs.
- It is nice to meet nice people around here! said one of ladies.
The bartender, every so often, comes and asks – Another round?
Wine and beer flow free over the counter into our well care stomachs. Next weekend there is an anniversary (the eighty's someone years old) and the London Regatta. It will be the same all over again and I do have to decide which one I will be attending. It might happen that I do attend both. One in the morning! The other, in the afternoon! God Save the Queen!

A day at the Imperial War Museum

A day at the Imperial War Museum
LONDON: Sitting outside, in a summer afternoon, on a bench, at the local park. With a cup of tea on one hand and a sandwich on the other, I see a middle age couple enjoying their time. She reads further more, about the house they have just visited, while he sits there, enjoying blitz of sun and a fresh breeze blowing at his face. After some time they stand up and leave. Leaving behind nothing more than empty seats.
On the same afternoon a friend asked me, «why did the second war happen, after the first? Wasn’t the first enough!?»
- The first was for political reasons; the second was for economical reasons. Although, both fall within the same category, they're two completely different events resulting from two distinctive lines of thought – said I.
- I want to see the Falklands War – they said, and then they leave.
Overwhelming! Is how much of the times life is. It takes us to planes and places, which we would never expect to be taken.

Honestly, this is the kind of dumb comment people make after drinking a few bottles of wine! - Why can we all just get along?

A Woman on a Bus

A woman on a bus
LONDON: One young woman come on the bus with her little girl and a buggy with her new born boy. She’s waiting in the wing, imposing her three years old personality towards her mom - decided to stay still two seats behind. An attitude reflecting her’s personal viewpoint and giving her an outside perspective on to her family enclosed familiar space. The young infant, instead, laying down in the buggy with his big and brown eyes marking a silver haired head just looked to the most similar sibling in front of him. Rambling Who are you? Can you come here and explain me, please! Would you like to join in on my trip! While, the mom, she, like all genesis, had her attention focus on the children safety, while trying to find an address on the Internet through her mobile and making sure that they did not pass the bus stop.
When we were entering the bus golden coins where flowing out from her pockets!

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