"Behind every system, behind every rule stands a corpse and laughs. You can't tell me who I should sleep with. I don't work for wages. My life is a revolution... My life is a beautiful life... What you call freedom, I call waste... I will continue to love my own voice. If everyone becomes me, everything will collapse."

Bruno K. Ă–ijer

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Match Box

Sitting in, waiting. The atmosphere smells like death-sentence. Your body kicks and stumbles. Face shows no mimic. No showing off. No chit-chat. Slight jokes with receptionist. HaHa, yes yes, Painting!
Next step.
Faces, loads and loads of faces. Come in, go out. Sit here, stand up, follow me please. Faces are nervous, anxious, self-indulgent, narcissistic, frightened, numb, jealous.
Trainer suits, wooden floors, blue trash cans. Plastic. Recyclable. Now everything is 100% recyclable.



Sneakers: white, back, striped, velvet blue. 3 pairs of long brown high-heels. One pair of black leather boots. Black, blue, purple, yellow, and flower blouses...

* * *

Need for nicotine is intense. Overwhelming. Pupils become dilated. Tunnels of stability. We are in the matchbox. Sticking out throw a tiny gap. Full of sulfuric acid and ready to explode. Blank stares. Watching carpet patterns. It's terrifying. Patterns are moving in slow motion. Delusional. Some how they are matching with patterns printed on the fabric of indigo blue chairs. Horrible indeed.
Why this selection was made? It seems that Mr Decorator had a good and black sense of humor. Seconds after, siting in the same indigo cheer. In a smaller matchbox. Queen Bee was looking at me from above. She was huge. Shiny, new, perky, with synthetically whitened teeth. And why the fuck did I agree to all this? At that point this question was invalid. "Tick the correct answer in the box".
OK. I don't like her and it seems that the feeling is mutual. She has no smell, no emotions, she is a perfect Queen. The look in her eyes tells even more than the body language. She doesn't like this match-box. As she the royal Queen Bee should be free in her privet practice office and take 250P an hour. Bitch!!! I so wanted to star barking. But keep the politeness on. Yes. No. Never (I have ticked all the answer boxes). She took my papers, looked carefully, pretended to read. Stooped. Looked at me, at paper, at me, page with all ticked answer boxes. At her clock.
- I will see you in two weeks. At same time. OK?
- Thank you...
(yes. OK. Fuck OFF)

When I walked out, immediately took out a pack of unconditionally cheep Lithuanian cigarettes, took a sit on the concrete bench and slowly smoked. Never understanding what was that, who was she, and for fuck sake, why did I ever came there. The smell of fresh gasoline when up in the air. Memories awaken . I remembered home, my Dad, walking the dogs. Home made dinners, my bed, LP collection. Family album light up in my head. Sweet taste of home was sitting in my mouth. The high kicked in. Slowly. Melting inside and out. I let this city taste a bit of home made blue fire and took off.

Walked throw rows and rows of book shelf's, counters, people wearing name tags, same faces same greetings, same tasting coffee, same special "K" morning serials bowls, sketch books, Pakistani owned newspaper agencies. Snap! My studio, paper rolls, ink bottles, paint tubes, pallet, mind maps, project books, paintings. Snap! Home, doors = five, shower, track lists, books, old Russian cinema...Snap! I'm Alice and this is throw the looking glass. I have finely found it! Snap!

P.S.
"there are no means for escaping this world
it penetrates even into your sleep
and is his substance
you are caught in your own dreaming
where there is no space
and a hell forever where there is no time
you cant do nothing you aren't told to do
there is no hope for escape from this dream
that was never yours
the very words you speak are only its very words
and you talk like a traitor
under its incessant torture

there are many who have designs upon this world
and dream of wild and vast reformations
i have heard them talking in their sleep
of elegant mutations
and cunning annihilations<...>"
Current 93


Good night,
Dietrich
Alice

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