Writer’s playground (Proza scurta)
Penniless writers will do as they please.
They’ll slander, they’ll corrupt, they’ll go as far as their souls can stretch, they won’t look back and they won’t live in the real world.
They will redeem and punish themselves again and again through each one of their characters.
They’ll coat their words in honey, then swear, then face you the next morning as if nothing happened.
But what happened are pages of delight, are pieces of souls.
Penniless writers have no home: they have money for drinks but no money for rent. They live on the streets, together with the dogs and the words of beggars, bracing the cold of the alleys where something wrong will happen, scurrying through the darkness like rats, coming back like kings.
They’ll reign on you, from the first moment you said “one page more…”
They’ll wait this moment feverish, long after their book is done- although their books are never quite done- like a stalker follows you from the shadows. They’ll stay up late at night, imaging your reaction, seeking your fear at the repetitive sound of a gun shut they’ve described, longing for tears of joy, for your moments of breathlessness, for your despair at the sad outcomes. And then they’ll hate you for it, for you’ll never be able to fully grasp what they tried to put in it.
They’ve tried to make a bridge, but then you crushed it down.
Penniless writers can be miserable artists due to a lack of talent or a series of unfortunate reasons. It takes a while for them to realize that the most precious story they have to share it’s their own. They look into your eyes, challenge your words, and seek a bridge to your soul.
You’ll often fail.
They’ll rather go on inventing stories about an announcement in the newspaper or family drama. Penniless writers are seldom geniuses.
They will write almost anything, even though the same theme will come slanting, repetitive and absolute in each and every story.
Until they’ll find their breaking through masterpiece they’ll fuck up.
Penniless writers will write anything from exaggerated drama to your stand –up comedy to that erotica that you will read without confessing to anyone, to essays they’ll poorly appreciate as priceless.
They will pour around verses that they’ll be afraid to show you, in fear that you might memorize and steal their them. But they will show you in the end. You see they are exactly like the murderers of a perfect crime: no matter the accuracy of the execution they’ll still want an audience, somebody to appreciate just how perfect the crime was. And so they fall…
Penniless writers get twisted and out of control. They talk about things you won’t understand and they’ll laugh at your confusion, not because they believe you inferior, but because they wouldn’t expect anyone to understand and it pains them like hell. They’re sadists like that. They’ll behave in a certain matter and always push their limits, just to see if they’ll snap, just to get the feeling.
It’s the feeling that you search for when you go in places your mama advised you not to go, when you jump of a parachute or you’re in a fast car. They won’t dare to breathe when writing a certain scene.
For them the world is not a scene, the world is a movie on fast-forward. For them to start a book and not knowing yet how it will finish it’s the supreme passion. To let their characters rule them, taking a life on their own and rush towards an end that they’ll barely control it’s the supreme pleasure.
That and your appreciation because they cannot live if you won’t read. So bring them to life.
You’ re hooked on a book? Can’t go to sleep, although it’s 4 AM? They made that to you, deliberately; they filled you up with something so precious you feel like floating, don’t you? You adored that book, your fingers praised every page, your eyes rushed along the line, your heart jumped at a certain line, your whole head felt dizzied and your heart small. They did that to you. They did that to themselves.
Beware of the authors that will dedicate their live to an idea. Cherish to the hell and back the writers that will dedicate their life to an idea. For they have put into the words that you read in the silence of your room the screams of all the generations before them. For their lives have been nothing more but the quest to show that idea to you, for their characters will live in the same room as you, go to bed with you, and fight for your conscience in every action you’d do after your finished reading their book.
No matter how much money will make, or if they’ll go down in the gutter they’ll always stay naked in their vibrations:
~ Penniless writers that will do as they please.~
Photo from themoviebanter.com
This liquor, oh, this liquor! How it sways in our glasses, making us wanting it to last. How it lies to solve our problems, how it takes of our thoughts. Every sip takes away a part of us. Every drop is a promise of better things to come.
We smoke when we cannot kiss. We drink when we cannot touch. We get high when we find no other rush.
But the liquor comes in various doses, as the words of your enemies come crafted in voluptuous forms. Sometimes we carry it around us in form of beer. We make it join us at evening parties and long-awaited meeting with friends. We order it to help us laugh and ease our thirst in order to say the best joke or find an excuse for getting just a little bit tipsy.
Other times we ask for it in silhouette-shaped glasses and from overly handsome bartenders. Women like to mix a lil’ bit of real alcohol in their colored liquors when they go out with their best friends in their best attire. And they call it cocktails. For men… they like to buy it for the ladies as a way to introduce themselves. We’re all just a little bit idealistic and imagine that there really is a story behind Tequila Sunrise or Bloody Mary.
Sometimes we go classic. Wine has always been a friend, a deceiver, a smooth-tasted companion. We gulp down a glass of wine to prepare ourselves for a night to come, we heat it up and add cinnamon for the coldest days of winter. We can swallow a whole bottle of red wine if the situation requires it. If there’s no other way to have the guts to say the things we want to say and no other way do the things we want to do so badly. If red wine is the unwritten rule for being seduced, if white wine is your proud offering to your curious guests. Wine is for all the times when the sweetness of the grapes wasn’t enough.
And for real cases of rebellious times or screwed up life periods use becomes abuse. Beer becomes vodka and Tequila Sunrise just Tequila. If we’re young enough for our stomachs and livers to take it, no party can go on without a few shots. If we want to drown our sorrows some whiskey should do it for the night because the ones we loved won’t do anything for us anymore. Love problems, money problems, future problems, friends in trouble… every sip is for another issue, a way to delude ourselves that there is release from all that’s eating us up from the inside.
Just for the night.
It starts with water and beer and then it goes on with wine and vodka. Like lovers whose moves grow in intensity with each disregarded piece of clothing. The same way we raise the dose in search of something to more. For each word we swallowed we swallow some more beer. For every time we paralyze we take another step into dizziness.
I bet the liquor would have the best stories to tell. No skilled writer could match the raw emotion in all the stories that the bottles saw unfold. No body of a beautiful woman has been more cherished that a glass of wine when it was really needed. No bottle of Jack had been truthful and helpful to any of the avid consumers from this world. But everybody has a Tequila Story.
Write me a story about life from liquor’s point of view and I’ll show you the shame of this world. Then the raw emotions, the tumultuous nights, the broken hearts, the lost memories and the hope of a better dawn.
Just for the night.
In hope that you enjoyed it, two more things to say: 1. Enjoy your liquor with a certain measure and 2. No, I have not become an alcoholic. 
On the night train. Passer by lovers know so well what they want… passer by lovers are like hunters that please their preys. They get what they want and they leave behind a trail of want. And then they’re back to their alone selfs and photos in the shelves.
Baby, it’s wild horses, lack of second thoughts and a new perfume. We’re not that smart and grown up yet. We don’t know what we want yet.
You two are there where no one else is supposed to be, but where all lovers have been at some point or another. You two owned the night, but too bad that so many couples rent night for different affairs. Love affairs.
Baby goes down a dangerous road. He and his black car are about to hit stars. He has two mermaids in the back and they say they know the meaning of the word „delight”. So he takes a dangerous curve while they pour themselves some Gin and start to dream. He is thinking he got lucky, he’s far into the night. Baby, you could’ve gave up beers and have me. Substance abuse isn’t too much of a big deal these days anymore. You’re out of fashion and you’re out of love.
Blue jeans and eyeliner. James Dean is a bad guy and he lives on the other side of the river. All the bad boys do in these cities. The good girls go there to wonder with chaperones and little doses of alcohol. So nothing wrong happens. So they don’t have a complete story to tell while their excitement is visible in the high-pitched voices and rapid movements of their hands. Their blood runs fast and hot, but they’re almost glued to their chairs in fear that men with guns and cigarettes from the movies might come true in that same second. They kinda hope that.
And the girl… she is smoking a cigarette outside the door by herself, in the cold evening. There’s a video camera watching her and her thoughts but she decides to ignore it and looks above the line of the trees and remembers the words her old lover said. She hears the echo of the sounds her new lover made.
And then there’s this guy who pretends to know her name, and starts talking in a language she doesn’t really understand. His words come out wrong and tainted and she refuses him once, twice, until the cigarette is burned by itself and in vain. Then she turns her back and hopes she’ll never see him again. Baby runs upstairs to the comfort of her headphones, to the memories that are still warm.
Johnny was playing the saxophone while waiting for the muse. In his dreams she always wears a blue dress and walks up to him from a fully lit Eiffel Tower. Sometimes he dreams her wide awake when he draws his eyes shut and focuses on the music. Sometimes when his lips touch the instrument it would have been better if that cold would have been her lips. He puts so much passion into his songs because he imagines her and forgets all about the ladies swooning near the stage. Wearing insanely expensive and low cut dresses just to get into his good graces…
And Lyra is waiting on the tram stop again. First there’s 9 and then 25 and they both come from his direction. He said he’s going to give her his final answer today so she sits in the freezing snow in her thin, fashionably coat, shaking from her every limb. The blood red nails of her fingers touch her lips sometimes, in the places where his body has intersected with them. People are rushing by and into the numb of their daily route, but he is not coming… yet…
And you… standing there in the middle of the street like you are something more than any other guy that just crossed this road. Like a look could really change a thing. Did it hurt when you didn’t feel a thing, did you care when you saw her in the same state of mind? Do you ever find a cure, or just the disease? Do you plan on stopping or just speed further with the tyres screeching and your heartbeats rushing to a certain risk? Stop for a little and take one look at me.
Love affairs. Conquering territories made exclusively of skin. Losing our minds. Getting freaked out by our own dark sides. Being enranged at ourselves and then embracing it. Kissing the wrong person just to prove that there’s something right with this world. Some of us are just not ready to grow up yet. Others already did it but they still look so amused at us. They still don’t want to tell us how they survived, how they woke up one morning to be holy and wise.
That’s not a way to live. So baby take one last sip, raise your eyes from the floor and go there into the big, bad world. Gather your wits, take life’s twists and for the hard times pour yourself a drink. Just don’t give up and don’t give in.
Leave him there and call yourself a cab. It’s no use to steal his shirt like it was no use for him to steal your heart.
It was just an love affair, remember?
Photo from: weheartit.com
-Uita-te la film!
-Nu.
-Oh, come on, e un film fain!
-Ah, serios? E un film pisicesc.
-Nu, e un film care arata ca, pana la urma fiecare fata isi gaseste printul.
-Ah, nu zau, si tu incepi? E un film siropos despre lucruri care nu se intampla niciodata in viata reala. Pentru gajici sub 16 ani. Maxim.
-Esti naspa.
-Sunt realista.
-Hai, ai un pic de incredere.
-In cine?
-In dragoste.
-In dragoste am, in printi n-am de ce.
-Hai, nu serios, nu fi asa de pesimista! O sa vezi ca intr-o zi o sa gasesti un baiat fain cu care o sa te potrivesti si o sa fiti fericiti si o sa faceti copii.
-Mvai, mai ramane sa-mi vorbesti de Fat – Frumos.
-O sa fie Fat-Frumos-ul tau.
-Sa mori tu? Nu esti normala. Femeie, pe ce lume traiesti?
-Intr-o lume in care fiecare are pe cineva.
-Da, dar nu pe Fat- Frumos.
- O sa fie Fat – Frumos pentru tine.
-Nu, mersi, n-am nevoie.
- Da’ de ce tre’ sa fii asa imposibila? Daca nu traiesti cu speranta ca intr-o zi o sa fie un tip care o sa te faca sa intelegi de ce nu a mers pana acum cu toti ceilalti, atunci la ce mai speri?
- N-am nevoie de un tip sa…
-Femeie independenta, implinire profesionala, bla-bla… Whatever!!! O sa vezi intr-o zi ca toate astea n-or sa insemne doi bani fara cineva la care sa te intorci noaptea tarziu, fara cineva care sa te salveze de tine atunci cand ai nevoie.
-Ah, vai draga si o sa vina direct din basme la usa mea.
-Dar…
-Nu, stai! O sa coboare din masina lui faina si o sa bata la mine la usa cu un buchet enorm de trandafiri. O sa se bata cu pumnul in piept si o sa se dea de trei ori peste cap si o sa scoata un inel superb de logodna. O sa facem o nunta ca in filme si trei copii frumosi, inteligenti si sufletisti. Aww… magic!
-Fit-ar! Nu, n-o sa te gandesti acum la ratatii din jurul nostru. Mai sunt multi ca ei dintre care poti sa alegi. Si intr-o zi o sa intalnesti si ratatul ala potrivit pentru tine!
-Oau, esti profunda astazi.
-Si tu o frustrata.
-Chiar te pricepi sa faci ziua cuiva mai buna.
-Pot si mai mult de atat.
-Te rog, demonstreaza-te.
- O sa te uiti la film, chiar de-ar trebui sa te leg de scaun…
-Vai, mie..
-… O sa-ti pui dupa rochia aia faina si o sa iesim in oras…
-Ma duci la agatat?
-… dupa care o sa fii asa draguta si simpatica cum te stiu eu si o sa vezi cati tipi faini sunt in jur.
-Nu inteleg, te plateste careva sa faci pe Cupidon?
-Tu esti atat de in nevoie incat fac acte de caritate!
- De aia esti singura?
-Nu, azi nu-ti iese sa faci pe cateaua.
-Multumesc frumos.
-Revenind la printul tau…
-Oh, Doamne…
-Daca n-ai mai fi atat de negativista poate nu te-ar intreba toata lumea constant cum de esti singura?
-De fapt ma face sa ma simt bine.
-Faptul ca esti privita ca o ciudatenie?
-Faptul ca I still got it!
-Si ca te irosesti.
-Ei, hai ca-mi tii morala.
-Nu crezi ca darurile alea ale tale s-ar inmulti cu un baiat fain alaturi?
-Nu pot sa am mai mult de doi sani.
-Dar ar ajuta sa se intample ceva actiune acolo jos.
-Oh si pentru asta am nevoie de un print?
-Daca barbatii obisnuiti nu mai au farmecele sa ajunga acolo…
- Si de peste noua mari si noua tari o sa vina un print pe cal alb care o sa ma implineasca!
- Da, in sfarsit, esti de acord!
-Ti-ai pierdut mintile. Serios, te stiam cu picioarele pe pamant.
-Si eu pe tine putin mai artista.
-Arta n-are nici o legatura cu basmele nemuritoare. Si stii la fel de bine ca mine ca povestile de care imi vorbesti se intampla doar in carti sau in filmele siropoase. Ca in lumea in care traim barbatii se indragostesc a naibii de greu si nu-i tine prea mult. Si se plictisesc usor de Ileana Cosanzeana, oricat de frumoasa si talentata ar fi ea.
-Ma deprimi.
-Oh, dar bun venit inapoi in realitate.
- Nu fa pe desteapta, stiu si eu cu ce se mananca, dar n-o sa-mi traiesc viata lucrand ca sa-mi platesc taxele.
-N-am zis asta…
-Si o sa-ti organizez nunta.
-Nu ma marit.
-…o sa fii superba si o sa radiezi. Si eu o sa ma razbun purtand cea mai decoltata rochie de domnisoara de onoare, ca sa te oftic ca n-ai vrut sa crezi.
-… Nu ma marit.
-Oh si de-ar fi sa-ti cumpar eu inelul de logodna, tot o s-o faci.
-Cine esti tu, Xena, printesa dreptatii?
-Decat Morticia Adams…
- Draga mea, te complici…
-Cum vrei sa fie viata ta de acum in continuare? Serios. Vrei sa traiesti din aventura in aventura, prefacandu-te ca nu te indragostesti de nimeni si mergand mereu mai departe cu bucati din inima imprastiate peste tot in orasul asta? Sau vrei sa ramai o pustnica, o anti-sociala pe care o s-o uite toti barbatii pentru ca s-au saturat sa alerge dupa ea.
-…
-Ei, bine?
-Tu esti perfecta?
-Poftim?
-Esti tu femeia aia desteapta, frumoasa, devreme acasa, iubitoare, care gateste fantastic, stie Kama Sutra si poate sa fie in trei locuri in acelasi timp?
-Da!
-Nu, nu esti. Si nici eu nu sunt. Iar un barbat perfect – vorba vine – n-o sa accepte decat o femeie la fel de perfecta. Si asa ceva nu exista. Nici el asa cum ni-l imaginam noi in momentele noastre de tampire cauzate de alcool sau filme siropoase, nici noi asa cum ne-ar vrea ei.
- Nu-mi place asta.
-Oh, vai, ti-am spulberat visele… Auch!
-O meritai!
-Serios, chiar mi-ai dat una dupa cap?
-Mai vrei una?
-Nu, mersi, n-ajuta. Nu stii ca sunt legi impotriva violentei?
-Sa vezi tu cat ma preocupa pe mine legile cand tre’ sa te educ pe tine!
- Am o mama!
-Da, dar nu si-un barbat.
- Sufar. Nu chiar.
-Ba suferi. Si nu vrei sa vezi.
-Psiholoaga lu’ mama! Vezi ca o dai in patetic.
-Uite cum imi pasa!
-Xena, Xena…
-E, clar, tre sa-ti gasim un barbat.
-Ei, hai ca ti-ai mai coborat standardele: de la Fat –Frumos la simplu barbat?
-Daca te multumesti cu atat de putin…
-Suntem toti la fel in lumea asta. Si pe cat sunt eu de buna sau de rea, la fel de bun si de rau o sa fie cel care o sa-mi fie alaturi. Simplu.
Inspirat de stilul de scris al inspiratei Amelie Nothomb. Sursa foto: weheartit.com
That song that the band plays right now… the best thing I’ve heard in a while.
The place I’m in… I missed it badly until tonight.
There is an aura of smoke surrounding her as she dances, around her ruffled hair. And there is sweat on her body glistening in this dim light. She had a few cigarettes between her lips and she has skirt swirling in the air, as her hands are gripping his for balance. As she stepps back and forth, then turns around.
Oh, my, what a lovely view!
The delicate shoulders, the long neck and smooth skin just above her breasts. The short and straight legs that move so swiftly on those high heels. The lips that are always moistened by the tip of her tongue, the starting of all disasters; she uses that tongue to mould words that seduce, to inflate a kiss.
Look at her, look at the way she smiles as if she’d hold the whole beauty of this world in the curve of her cheek! Look at the way she reveals an inch of skin, as if it would be something wise men would have looked for a few maddening centuries! Look, look at the way her palms touch mines and the way their warmth makes my skin feel blessed! Look at how she lets me pull her closer, move her around this dancefloor!
And yet, when I ask her to go further with her hands she tells me:
“Honey, I’ve broke some rules, but I’m not going to prison.”
Picture from: tilatequila321.buzznet.com
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