Love is

Lovers

I am passing through countries, discarding them like forgotten lovers. Now when I think about love, I have many more things to say. I think love is a vulnerability, a willingness to trust someone with a precious heart. To be so child-like and joyous that dancing and singing is a natural state. A heightened awareness of the beloved. A look, a tiny movement, a sigh, a tremor, a breath, a heartbeat, these are the signs that reveal the inner state. But love passes, in the same way that that cities fade into the distance as I travel across Europe. That is what you tell me. And so, I continue my journey.

‘Take your joy and spread it across the world, he wrote.

At least begin with a smile and hug yourself, she thought.’

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Weather Report

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It is Minus 11 in Berlin.

Heart rate slow.

Breath freezing.

It’s Minus 12 in Berlin.

Heart is warming.

Breath responding.

I think of the Life, Death, Rebirth cycle.

Again and again and again.

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Thank you Clarissa Pinkola Estés.

 

 

 

Keeping it real

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It’s true, cities are not places for wild goats. It’s difficult to reflect amongst the chaos of a human built landscape, unless it’s on our generation of narcissists. This is not personal. Who hasn’t taken a gratuitous selfie once in a while? I’m right in there, fudging the edges with art in my heart. You know me, I adore a good self-portrait, usually without clothes.

Now that I have a backpack instead of a room and a bank account that dives gracefully toward the abyss, I’ve crossed borders and fallen in love with a number of foreign places. All on the cheap. Hitch-hiking. Sleeping in my tent. Washing under greek waterfalls or in post-soviet sauna houses. Wherever I find myself, there are people with smartphones. We Insta and Facebook, Gab, Google+, MySpace, LinkedIn, Pinterest, Reddit, Tumblr, Twitter, Viber, VK, WeChat, Weibo, WhatsApp, Wikia, Snapchat and YouTube. Sometimes we even email friends who are detoxing from social media overload. Then we write blogs.

Yesterday I went to The Winter Place of Peter the Great. Yes, I’m in St Petersburg where people rarely smile, unless they are really happy. That can be infuriating but somehow, in a world of manufactured happiness and political turmoil, perhaps it is a good thing.

The Art of Nothing

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There is nothing to say, she laughs. The door swung on it’s hinges, uncertain whether to open or close. The window, wide-eyed, allowed the light to enter, but only with a certain discretion. Cicadas screamed. Over-ripe figs fell to the ground. The walls bared their souls. And the day passed away.

 

 

 

 

 

Shattered Silence

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There is nothing here but this piano and an odd odour left by the past inhabitants. I have escaped from my prison and I play like a mad woman. Silence shatters on solid floor. Light breaks on fragile skin. I am ready to penetrate the abyss and enter your world. It matters not if this is present, future or past.