Their eyes were warchimg her, unknowingly and from the safeness of distance.

Take your time and get to know me: we'll see each other for a coffee date tonight and you will twirl your hair on your little finger,smoke your sins and never look me in the eyes. Sometimes being shallow is the right thing to be so we shall ramble about pastel colours and past dreams.You'll say that I am young but ancient and trust my oracle once more.My visions shall be reassuring and we'll both smile then chat some more.

There's a name for it you know,that empty feeling taking over you,breaking physical confines and releasing itself into the world.There's a certain feeling,an unpleasant tingling,like stubby needles growing in your skin.It's a private affair,a profecy fuffiled in silance-for you have pretty eyes they say,and tears would surely spoil them.Mother nature sent some rain tonight soat least,I may have the comfort to listen to the sound of tears.
I live with a reasonable doubt-that no light outshines the darkness and my eyes shall always be misleading.I will smile at you next morning and a frightening emptyness shall ooze from my lips.You'll think of kissing them and then we shall both be empty,empty and lost .

wrwr

I live between cotton candy pink sticky walls, with the windows always shut as I live in the permanent state of a blissful summer and needless to say it is the summer of insects.My glossy courtains of bubblegum plastic have become saturated with the dust of fluorescent moths and radiant butterflies.They come from nowhere,as if they're spawned from these thin pinkish membranes in one orgasmic act of creation.
I can't let the sun come in, for the light sticks to the walls and I find it rather depressing -getting up each morning to rip faded sunbeams,one at a time,then cover the smudgespots with transparent nailpolish.
On the walls I have pictures of men attacked by fireflies and grasshoppers feasting on souls.

www.boston.com/bigpicture/2010/04/more_from_eyjafjallajokull.html

She smiled a lot today.She's the girl with many friends,dancing the night away while dreaming she is somehere else.

Owls 2

Let's sin tonight with guilt and glory; we'll start early as there isn't much to do -after all,it sounds better to pretend we are blasee instead of bored. :those afternoons we spent listening to music and watching smoke suspended in mid air.We crumbled the charred matchsticks between the tips of our fingers and used it as warpaint in our dreams. Life was passing us by,as the present,from our point of view, was inssuferable and could only be ailled by procrastination.We stood in awe, contemplating how
Oh the places we'll go to and people we'll meet, the nights we'll loose in meaningful debauchery,the clothes we shall wear-, we the children who pretend to be the first to have discovered life.

We find ourselves old children,grown men with petty names,women perpetually worrying for what just yesterday were laughter lines.Drained and sullen,we gather from time to time to hum the songs we sang at sixteen and gossip the people we loved at twenty three.
We go to the same place and make sure everyone knows,like a badge of courrage.

Owls 1

Happy Valentines

She...(III)

She waited for adventure and spent her childhood learning Kantonese and desciphering maps. On nights long and quiet, so stil the silance came upon her as a heavy burden,she stayed awake and said her littany for the world:Katmandu and Nook, Andora, Aurora Borealis, Bali,Zagreb,Zanzibar ..She spelled her dreams,filled with hope and vowels,ignoring the blank spaces,monsters and storms.

http://galeriaposibilapublications.blogspot.com/
Paperback
128 pages with over 90 duotone illustrations
English / Romanian
Published by Galeria Posibila
Price 56,13lei / 13,99 € / 18,99 $
ISBN 978-973-0-07153-5

available at following bookstores:
from 11 february 2010

Anthony Frost - Libraria Engleza, Biserica Kretzulescu, Bucharest

distributed by Galeria Posibila
Str. Popa Petre 6, Bucharest, Romania
tel. +4 021 211 7933
www.posibila.ro
galeria@posibila.ro

Cartea PETITE HISTOIRE se concentrează pe fotografia anonimă din România, dar nu se vrea nicio istorie, niciun album nostalgic: Gândită pornind de la materiale selectate din diverse colecții, PETITE HISTOIRE e un eseu proaspăt, o privire actuală asupra imaginii fără autor, o carte care să lărgească perspectiva față de experiment şi eşec în fotografie.
O serie de texte completează această abordare, lămuresc relația dintre gândirea contemporană şi intimitatea experimentalismul fotografiilor unor amatori. Proiectul a luat în seamă drumuri parcurse de Tacita Dean, Michel Frizot, ori alții, însă particularitatea lui constă tocmai în geografia pe care această producție fotografică o locuieşte. Această primă carte deschide calea unei mai ample serii ce își propune să contribuie la înțelegerea fotografiei în România și a unei noi estetici propuse de artiștii contemporani.
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I had an exam this morning and I'm preparing for another allnighter.Caffeine,my dark mistress,I would be lost without you.

This makes me hate The Beetles less.

Last night, I had a dream so vivid, I remembered how it's like to live again.I spent the day scribbling details,page after page -notes that may turn to a story, that may turn to a novel.I feel I am a silent observer taking no part in this act of creation. This night,I shall pray for nightmares and under their spell I may venture again to the streets of London.I have found my centrum mundi where it was least expected.My little corner of the world has again proven to offer only the promise on inspiration and deliver no goods. Who knows,maybe Baba Yaga is waiting at the Charring Cross...of this I shall soon find out.

She..(II)

She had a dream to flee to Montevideo.One day, while washing the dishes,her reflection got caught inside a porcelain cup. She would not take more than one glimpse before drowning it in dirty foam.
She had a dream to sleep under bridges and wear her jeans until they fade to nothingness...not much to dream about, just a different kind of obscurity to long for.She wanted a past she could grow out of as to embrace the comings and goings of old age.She felt undone- after all instead of going to Montevideo she had danced the night away, then changed into her work clothes and went on with her life.
The moment one regrets how one wasted its youth-that is when there is too little left to change. Dreaming of South America, she carried on and on.
She was never happy. A story needs to have a real beginning in order not to crumble under its own web of lies.

She...(I)

She had both the grace of well hidden dispair and the serenity of youth.