The smells of fall, late fall, bitter sweet and tart, of wet leaves and soil, of chestnuts…. And I’m craving cider and cooked apples, cinnamon and nutmeg and roasted almonds, hot steam and the smell of wet soil again, and leaves and trees and rain…
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Gray morning and the sun hardly touches the ground. Streets half asleep with no one around, and we come out, still warm with sleep and head to the coffee shop right around the corner, where they serve strong coffee and early breakfast and I smile as I watch you eat and the day begins.
We stroll down the streets in the afternoon chasing sunrays and looking for bright spots and you laugh at me cause I always run into people and stumble on the little cracks on the pavements, and we walk into that park set aglow with sun and golden leaves, and I have an urge to grab a bunch of them and throw them all over you and I laugh as you try to take me in your arms, and we fall on beds of leaves, laughing, laughing like kids and I watch the sun caught in your eyelashes that are almost white and your eyes are pools of light that bear the reflection of the sky and the sun is now on my face and the instant freezes in the eye of my mind while the world swirls in a collage of vanishing leaves.
It’s twilight and long shadows start to stretch, The sky turns pale, the first star appears, street lamps come out one after another and the city is lit with neon lights. We’re still in the street, a little dizzy with cold and too much happiness and steam comes out of your mouth and I’m craving for a smoke and at home there is dinner and the night grows dark and thick behind the window, you turn off the light and let darkness in and I curl next to you, listening to your even breathing, fading into you and into a warm soft pit that closes us in…
And long after midnight I go into the kitchen and turn the heater on and we sit at the table drinking tea, and the night is long and an eternity away from dawn and tomorrow we’ll sleep in and I look at you and realize that I’m in love with you all over anew, and yet it’s too late, and I’m dreaming love again, we’re too late for fall and I love you.
3 comments:
for the curious you-i never consider any of my postings/writings as works of art, i simply write what comes out of my mind. the title of the blog is day in the world- although not daily, those posts are the events, situations, impressions of the everyday reality. those are like punctuation marks of the life that goes on day after another, seemingly according to the same routine, and yet every day can be turned into an event of its own, some kind of story, a collage of pictures, every moment can be shown as an infinity in its own- that's how i want to view life that's around me, that's what i hope the thoughts and postings actually reflect. so it's life, life in general and mine in particular, thoughtsm, speculations, observations- and yet somehow turned into fiction. to me fiction is a way of reflecting the reality, it's an attempt to make the reality perceived subjectively into something more objective. As if by writing certain things down, by turning an event or a situation into a short story of one kind or another, you somehow separate yourself from your own life, or from that event- it gives you an ability to look at certain things with the eyes of an outside observer, more objectively. the tendency to turn certain events that happen to me into fiction is not intentional, but this is perhaps the only way i can look at certain occurences from the outside. so there, hope i satisfied your curiousity. for now, could you tell me what's the difference between "it hurts" and "i feel pain"?
nika, if that's not art; what is? :)
I really don’t know. I seem to have lost all my definitions of art. I am no longer sure what qualifies a particular piece, be it writing, drawing or a photographs as art. I fail to understand all the parameters applied by art critics and art institutions by which they either accept or reject works, I fail to understand how the entire system of reviews and comments works… I don’t see any use for all those classifications, naming and labeling of certain pieces as art/expressive art, impressive art, avant-garde, new art, classical art, whatever - they merely turn art into some kind of commodity. Is there really a necessity to have place someone into a position to judge, criticize, explain, and make a review as if issuing a verdict on authentic and genuine and sometimes not, artistic expression- are we, as individuals, unable to make our own judgments? Chris, where are you, come rescue me before I get into a big trouble by continuing this line of thought… for now, I’ll leave your opinion to your own judgment, and if to you my random outcries appear as art, then I’m only happy.
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