Vi presento un dipinto molto sigificativo, allegorico e di rottura, nato dall’artista viennese Gustav Klimt! Nel 1899 crea Nuda Veritas, come provocazione, come espressione di un’arte che non si conforma allo stile pittorico dell’epoca. L’oro e i decori sfarzosi sembrano cozzare col bianco luminoso della Dea Verità. Provocatoria, quasi indisponente, di un’esuberanza sfacciata evidente dal colore della chioma e del pelo pubbico. Impugna uno specchio e lo rivolge proprio verso l’osservatore. Un invito esplicito indirizzato all’ipocrita società viennese, sempre pronta ad indignarsi. Un invito all’auto analisi, a guardare se stessi e ai propri difetti. Un’opera straordinaria che ha il potere di parlarci. Infatti unisce potere visivo ad un messaggio scritto, intarsiato nella cornice dorata del quadro. La scritta recita uno dei messaggi più interessanti della cultura moderna: “Se non puoi piacere a molti con le tue azioni e la tua arte, accontentati di piacere a pochi. Piacere a molti è male.” Tale messaggio anticipa la cultura di massa, la mentalità odierna massificata, il concetto di quantità, opposto a quello di qualità e lo critica. Uno sguardo lungimirante, che comprende anticipatamente i limiti di una tendenza che inizierà proprio col ‘900. Infatti, ancora oggi lo specchio di Nuda Veritas è rivolto verso di noi; possiamo ancora specchiarci e vederci attraverso l’arte! Quell’invito all’autocritica è ancora valido, anche per noi. A presto!

Fotografi te siperfaqes se Marsit me rezolucion te larte na japin nje pamje te panjohur te mistershme te planetit me te afert me Token. Disa prej fotove duken te pabesueshme por qe jane te verteta. Secila prej tyre ka dhe shpjegimin perkates keshtu qe apasionantet do te kene me cfare te merren per minutat e ardhshme pasi te klikojne ketu.

Boston.com

Questo è il quadro di cui parlavo nell’altro articolo; Colazione dei canottieri di Renoir. Ha un vero e proprio ruolo nel film francese “Il favoloso mondo di Amelie”. Ogni anno il burbero personaggio soprannominato “l’uomo di vetro” riproduce il dipinto famoso, facendolo diventare quasi una metafora del mondo e degli uomini, in una visione indurita e immutabile della vita. Il quadro nel film ha il ruolo di un’immobile istantanea di una società stereotipata, ma sul finale… Anche il più vitreo cuore si scioglie e l’ingiallito quadro si colora di nuovo!

Gjykata e larte ne Argjentine vendosi qe eshte e pabazuar ne kushtetute te denosh njerez per perdorimin e marijuanes per perdorim/konsum personal.
Vendimi vjen pas ceshtjes se 5 te rinjve te cilet u arrestuan me disa cigare marijuane ne xhepat e tyre.
Por gjykata shtoi se perdorimi nuk duhet te demtoje te tjeret dhe e beri te qarte qe ky vendim nuk eshte mbeshtetje per nje dekriminalizim te plote.

Per me teper lexoni artikullin origjinal te /BBC/

L’arte – {lart} – any pattern of foamed or steamed milk resulting from a pour into coffee or espresso; derivative – “latte art.”

Gearing up for the great Intelly Chicago Roasting Works Ground Floor Latte Art Throwdown, we decided to do a little practicing today after cleaning the roasters, using Black Cat on the La Marzocco GS/3.

Quando eu era pequeno, ou melhor, novo, era apaixonado pelos quadrinhos do Angeli. O fato de meu pai desaprovar a leitura da “Chiclete com Banana” só ajudou a despertar meu interesse pelas tirinhas de Bibelô, Rê Bordosa e Bob Cuspe.

O tempo passou e descobri o trabalho do Laerte. O poder de síntese, o traço direto e o elemento surpresa, sempre regado ao nonsense, garantiram seu lugar num pedestal alto, como um tipo de “santo dos cartunistas”.

A década de 90 foi dominada por esses dois monstros, e muito do que foi feito dali em diante bebeu do trabalho de ambos. Agora, nos últimos anos, uma nova geração de cartunistas parece ter despertado. E dessa leva, na minha opinião, Rafael Sica é o cara.

Sica é sem dúvida um dos mestres das tirinhas mudas, onde você lê (ou vê) e chega a ouvir o som na sua cabeça. Recomendo.

Para saber mais: Quadrinho Ordinário

Ma ville Kazimierz autrefois. Les aquarelles de Zygmunt Vogel  (1764-1826) .

I’ve all but accepted the fact that I’ll never be an actress. People don’t enjoy watching me onstage and it’s hard to enjoy the experience when so many people just watch you in anticipation of the other actors’ appearances. I know where they think I belong- I’ve seen the looks, listened to the reviews, picked up the vibes- it’s just that I’m not content with being in the chorus anymore. I’m sick of not standing out and I’ve always been afraid of disappearing…
It is a very selfish thought that I should deserve to be a main role because of how long I’ve been doing theatre, but it’s also very easy to say “Why won’t they just give me a chance?” It is easy to wish for the lives of the recognized and praised actresses and despise my own stage-presence.

The thing is, I am given a chance, I just don’t see it a lot. People want me for my abilities, not onstage, but behind it. They want the costumer, the writer, the designer or all three. Why am I not content with that? Lately I’ve been wanting to try on every costume I create. I’ve caught myself whispering lines of the things I write on a number of occasions. I’m good at costume design and writing. I know I am, but this mysterious stage that I’m never given permission to step foot on has me going crazy.
I don’t know what is going to happen onstage- under the influence of the lights and audience-driven energy. Unpredictability has always lured me in. I’ve always wanted to dive into something without knowing what it could cause. The complete powerlessness of ambition is too appealing for my own good.
I have tried spontaneous ambition, hoping for that manic situation of knowing what you are about to do will either crash and burn, or amaze beyond compare. Thing is, this blind ambition always morphs into planning and organizing and, well, loosing it’s spur-of-the-moment-ness.
This, again, might be considered a good thing- a blessing- but it’s not what I want. I want the adrenaline. I want the adventure. I am a junkie for that unpredictability. That persona of myself, that wild and beautifully dangerous creature inside me, fights sensible, patient, forgiving me.
I want to move. I want to dance. I want to improvise. I want to stop thinking and just move. There is rhythm here and a reason to rhyme. There is wind to excite my feet and there is longing to move onto that dark stage as the lights flash on. There is a desire to dance under strobe lights and confuse the audience with obscurity and present them with something. anything.
me.

Of course,  I can’t. I know where they say I belong, I know where they’d put me. And my biggest fear is a cage. To stay behind until use and old age accept them and all chance has gone beyond recall or desire.
It is sad to say the reasonable part of me decides that a cage is what is best for me- so I fall in line. I tell myself it is for the best.
This is what I am best at- this is all I will ever be good at.
It is for the best.

The Feelings Inside Are Good

By Molly Miller

Scene 1

GIRL 1- I grew up watching movies of authors; Jane Austin, Sir J.M. Barrie, Beatrice Potter. They have shaped my life so thoroughly with the epic scenes and dramatic character moments, that they have brought pretending into myself.

Please pretend, with me, for a moment, that my life is as beautifully dialogued and practiced as their lives. That my hair and make up is always just so, even after night after night of sitting on my bed, crying. (Never standing, for fear I’d fall…) Pretend with me, and maybe, just maybe, it’ll come true. After all, that’s what we’re taught, right? Believe in something hard enough and it’ll happen?

“I have to keep on pretending with you ‘till the end.”

Blackout

Scene 2

GIRL 2 holds two dolls, dressed in over-sized clothes and acts with them to herself.

GIRL 2- “I have a new game I want to try.”

“What’s it about?”

GIRL 1- Everything is dark. There is only a tiny light right at the bottom of the door, where we tried to stuff a blanket to keep the light from coming in. We wanted to be engulfed in the blackness.

A tiny stream of light appears, quickly consumed by a blanket.

GIRL 1- Of course, there is music. There is always music. It’s whatever soundtrack we feel suited us, but that usually means Lord of the Rings or Whale Rider.

Whale Rider sounds

GIRL 1- Sometimes we sing along.

GIRL 2 sits in a dimly lit room, pushes play and sings along with ROTK’s Pippin’s song

GIRL 1- Sometimes we stay perfectly still, moved beyond action while the notes surround us. This is the moment that I live for. When the sound becomes so alive that all I can do is wait for it to overcome me, swelling inside me, then die.

Blackout

Scene 3

GIRL 2 walks on, casually, throwing everything off the bed; creating a nest. First the blankets, then the pillows, then herself. She dials a number on the phone and waits for a moment.

GIRL 2- Hi! Yeah, sure. Where were we?

GIRL 1- I don’t know how long that went on. I don’t really know at what point it stopped being pretend. Dragons. That is what this was all about. Good dragons, bad dragons, pretend dragons…

A thing in a white, neutral mask and white gloves creeps up behind Girl 2.

GIRL 1- Real dragons.

The thing stands next to GIRL 2, offers her a phone.

GIRL 1- We talked endlessly, at all hours of the night. Slowly, the real dragon, this thing that has no name and all my newfound fear, slowly it took over.

The thing takes the phone and mimics speaking into it. GIRL 2 steps toward it and it drops the phone harshly. They circle each other slowly a few times. Then, suddenly, the thing steps toward GIRL 2 and raises a hand to slap her. She falls. The thing circles her again, then places it’s hand upon GIRL 2’s shoulder, running them down her arms (GIRL 2 spreads her arms and then raises them above her head).

The thing helps GIRL 2 to stand and GIRL 2 puts her hands in front of her as an offering, the thing slaps them down, then recoils a moment and offers it’s arms to GIRL 2 as an embrace.

GIRL 2 closes within herself and begins to shake. The thing steps towards her, she sinks against the thing and cries.

GIRL 1- Both abandoned, and comforted, I knew not what to do. Confused by gentleness, I did not see it’s betrayal.

Stupid human that cannot tell the difference between love and escape. Silly child that chose wrong.

No, it was my own voice that was talking, so I knew that this thing was a part of me. I could no more shoo it away then I could cut off a limb.

GIRL 2 is on her bed, weeping. The pillows and blankets still litter the floor.

GIRL 1- Yet every night as I tried to sleep I wanted to throw it away. I screamed at it!

The thing kneels before GIRL 2 as she shouts

GIRL 2- What are you doing to me?! Get out of my head! I cannot abide you! You are ruining everything! I can’t even talk to her anymore! Have you thought about that? Maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it… Maybe this maybe that! When will you SHUT UP?! You’re just lies! Pretty little lies!

GIRL 1- “Secrets. Some secrets are to keep. Some to share. But so many? I cannot tell. I long. I hear. It feels nice to hear. But it is just kindling the flame. Playing with fire is dangerous. I can suppress it. Only until someone mentions something that leads to it. It is weakness. I must purge weakness. No! I must cast it off, like a robe!

Girl 1and 2- Begone Secrets!”

The thing buries it’s head in it’s hands and weeps.

GIRL 1- But a robe lying on the ground attracts attention to it.

Blackout.

Scene 4

GIRL 1- I couldn’t hide it. Once I had taken it off, it was always before my feet. I did try to hide it. I put on a face every morning and at night I’d take it off again, trying to ignore the hurt of each drop of glue, used to make sure the face stayed on during the day, peeled off and the skin that stuck to the paste.

GIRL 1- “Unseen by all,

These falling tears

Are only a constant reminder

Of my weakness.

I must be strong.

You cannot see.

I’m fine. I’m strong.

I’m sure.”

GIRL 2 cradles a doll close to her, then stops and reaches out. She picks up another doll and lifts her into the air, looking up at her with fear.

GIRL 2- “The Mask will enter the Stage today.

A fear upon the Jester’s face.

A fear for the play, the scenes upon the mask’s lips. But no more a performance of SILENCE.

The steps the dancer takes,

Though behind these cold, cruel bars…

Are perfect and perfectly FREE.

Has the Mask seen the Dancer?”

The thing dances quietly with herself

GIRL 2- “Late is the hour.

The cue is missed.

And dark is the blindness offstage.

And blind are the eyes of the AUDIENCE.”

The thing stops dancing and looks out, slowly lifting it’s left hand to beckon.

GIRL 1- (laughs bitterly) She thought it was I.

GIRL 2- “The Jester is a poor, suffering fool and very selfish. She should be freed. When the Dancer is released, she will kill the Jester and the Jester will find rest.”

GIRL 2 lays on the bed, asleep, while the thing lounges in the nest of pillows and blankets. The thing then, suddenly, looks around and takes out a piece of paper and a pen and begins to write.

GIRL 1- Needless to say, such evidence was found by unsuspecting eyes.

The thing, while GIRL 2 still sleeps, takes a doll and lifts it up to the paper. GIRL 2 tosses and turns over and starts up. She looks at where the thing is, alarmed, and screams.

GIRL 1- “You once commented on how Wyn took Serenity’s words and twisted them around and tortured himself with them…
You commented about a lot of things he did. But I just want you to know, its not just you…
I don’t know what to say now. I woke up with an urge to go on and delete the message, but I didn’t. I wondered all day if I told you too little or too much in that message. It still doesn’t seem real that you know… Like I still carry it all and can’t say it.
I’m sorry I made you cry. I’m sorry I blew up and couldn’t control my words. I’m sorry.
I feel empty inside now… like I’ve said all I could and now I have nothing left inside me. Naked. Exposed.
Next time we see each other, probably on Maunday Thursday, I will give you an old diary entry, before I felt like this… feel sad each time I force myself to read it.
I don’t want to forget our game. I don’t want to stop writing it either. I love our game. I feel so proud when I explain it to others, they always say it is so good… When I tell them of Wyn, I feel close to proud.

So what to say now? I don’t know. I don’t know anything. Even when I say I do, I don’t.
I don’t.

Are you angry with me?
I kept so many secrets… I lied to you… I pushed you away… I turned away…
?

GIRL 2- I want to talk to you… I call and call and you’re gone. Probably doing volley-ball or some school related activity or like.
It is so much later, and still my stomach churns with the thought of what I have just said. Did I really send it to you? Do you really know? Or is it just another dream..?
My dreams and reality isn’t supposed to mix. I am not supposed to hurt in dreams. I am not supposed to break down in reality… “There is beauty in the breakdown.”
I wish I could say that telling you has eased my thoughts, but the cruel voice in my head still says it is not true… I guess I won’t believe it until I hear your voice. I tried to imagine me telling you so many times… Every time the voice told me you would be angry. The voice said that I was to blame and still am. I guess I heard it enough that I believe it now.
I am not beautiful or talented or graceful, just a freak who is ugly and stupid and quiet.
But this is all repetitive now, isn’t it? I said all of this before. I told you. I don’t need to say it again.
But fear? You cried out of fear? Fear of what? And… No. I won’t ask the questions that rise up in me. But, your letter was so short. And I long to know what you think of what I told you. But I won’t ask for it, you will tell me if you want to.
I keep playing the song over and over, stirring the longing and holding it with all my strength.
I really want to talk to you…”

GIRL 2 dials a number on the phone, waits for a while, then clicks it off. She stares at it, and then tries again, moving to a new spot in her room. She tries several more times, with no avail.

GIRL 1- Of course, eventually she told me. “You have given yourself to the lord of the flies.” She told me.

GIRL 2 drops the doll and stumbles backward.

Blackout

Scene 5

GIRL 1- Hear my accusations; let me say them loud!

Demon. Evil. Manipulating. Taking a friend and leading her to downfall. Purposely, with the help of Satan himself, taking my best friend and destroying her. Creating a story in which I could control her and lord over her.

GIRL 2- A demon! For all that I could become, I was labeled “demon!” A betrayer, conspiring with the devil… To destroy her?!

GIRL 1- “In the days of her affliction and wandering she remembers all the treasures that were hers in days of old. There was no one to help her. Her enemies looked at her and laughed at her destruction… All who honored her, despise her, for they have seen her nakedness; she herself groans and turns away.”

GIRL 2 lies on her bed, weeping. The thing puts a hand on her shoulder, but she turns around.

GIRL 1- “Her filthiness clung to her skirts; she did not consider her future. Her fall was astounding; there was none to comfort her.”

Slowly the thing crawls next to her and lies near her, wrapped next to her.

GIRL 1- “Is it nothing to you?! Look around and see… From on high he sent fire down into my bones! He spread a net for my feet and turned me back! The LORD has handed me over to those I cannot withstand! No one is near to comfort me, to restore my spirit… No one!”

GIRL 2 sits on her bed, watching as the thing kicks the nest apart, throwing the pillows about and spreading the blankets around. The thing slowly stops and sighs heavily.

GIRL 1- “I remember my affliction and my wandering… I well remember them and my soul is downcast within me.”

GIRL 1 and 2- “Here I am. Angel and Demon as one. Waiting for it all to be done. And I pray to my father! Oh, God! I pray! Every day I hope you’ll see the human inside of me.”

GIRL 2- “Oh LORD my LORD, Oh God my God. How can it be that we are failing? Am I not allowed one friend on this earth? Not one vessel of your love? Do they all have to turn away? How can it be that this outlet of your love could be harmful? No! I won’t go into that. I’m weary. So weary of telling people why I am innocent. God, you know I am. Show the world!”

GIRL 1- “When Jesus saw her weeping, and the Jews who had come along with her also weeping, he was deeply moved in Spirit and troubled.”

The thing picks up a blanket and drapes it over GIRL 2’s shoulder and it’s own, embracing GIRL 2.

GIRL 1 (softly)- “The angel held her, close enough to feel his hot tears that understood hers. She had prayed for comfort and God gave her a comforter. She did not dare look into his face, fearing it to look like one she already knew. Nor did she speak, lest her words shatter her dream, as they so often did. But he knew what she needed without looks or words, for he listened to her whispering heart. And he held her as she wept. He held her in his arms and flew.”

Blackout.

Scene 6

GIRL 1 and 2- Upon a hillside, where the sun hit a lone rock in a sea of trees with it’s last rays as it set in a red explosion that set the sky on fire, there were two wolves.

GIRL 2- They had spent the day walking there, to their sanctuary; their moment in time untouched by the world. They were sisters, the wolves, and had shared many a hunt, run, play, or song together.

GIRL 1-They knew each other better then they knew themselves. And, outlined by the last glow of the sun, they emphasized each other’s beauty. The silver sister brought out her pure white sister against the snowflakes that were blown down off the trees by the wind. The white sister brought out her sister’s color, like the glass-like ice reflecting the moon.

GIRL 2-They looked down over the land. The canyons, the forests, the caves, their home. For many years they had lived in this land with their pack, yet separated somehow from their pack. Only truly connected with each other. Then they exchanged glances, and each sister knew the other’s feelings.

GIRL 1-A deep sadness spread about the forest as, in one movement, the wolves stretched out their necks and howled into the dusk. Their song was the only sound and it echoed it’s haunting melody through the land, the canyons, the forests, the caves, their home.

GIRL 1 and 2-The notes were perfectly blended in a strange mix of sadness, joy, memories, and pain. Their voices were made to be together, as one, for always. But this would not be so.

GIRL 2-And all the animals, people, spirits, and whatever else lived in the forest knew that this would be their final song. For all could hear in their song the pain of departing, the pain of wandering, the pain of separation.

GIRL 1-And it seemed, for a moment, that the wolves were not wolves, but two girls. Two girls whose looks emphasized the other’s, who were two sides of the same one, who were so different, yet only connected with each other, whose voices were created for the other’s voice.

GIRL 1 and 2-Who shared the same memories…Skipping across a bridge while music played and set the heartbeat’s tempo… Walking out of the theatre, cold, silent, never to be the same… Walking through the woods, silent, communicating with no words… running and never stopping as the energy of music drove them on… playing a game that no one would ever understand but them… sitting in a dark closet while a haunting voice sang “home is behind…” crying about the loss of innocence… swinging on a deck-swing and sharing memories never shared… sharing crushes and all that was just out of reach… teaching each other lessons that would never have been learned otherwise… becoming confidants… not wanting to let go.

GIRL 2-And as one sister, the white, looked at her friend and sister she skipped a note, wondering now why she was here, making a farewell that was sure to scar her forever.

GIRL 1-Then she was a wolf again, they both were. And as the sun set, the last haunting note hung in the air, the last note of a farewell. The last note of a friendship- a sistership.

GIRL 1 and 2-And they parted there, on the hillside…”

GIRL 2 puts the dolls in a little box and shuts it. The thing stands nearby.

Blackout.

Scene 7

GIRL 1- It hurt. Of course it hurt. It always hurts. There is nothing on earth that hurts more.

GIRL 2-“But my heart still beats, oh so softly.”

GIRL 1 and 2- Slowly I heal.

GIRL 1- “I feel like a song. I feel timeless feelings that cannot be grasped or tamed by any words. I feel ageless, like I never will change. I feel so wise and old, even though I know I have not yet begun to understand. I feel like I am wise in something no one else is.”

GIRL 2 and the thing clasp hands and spin together.

GIRL 1- “It is a special feeling that comes to me when I write, sing, dance, or play music. It is a feeling of freedom and escape and release! And no words, songs, poems can capture it. But all share in it.”

They spin faster and faster!

GIRL 1- “And I feel blessed to have that feeling. I laugh now, as I am called a ‘fool’, for a fool I might be, but God has given me a gift of wisdom and feelings that I shall never let go of!”

They release each other and fall back, laughing.

GIRL 1 and 2- “No matter what may come!”

Blackout.

Fin.

All materials in quotations are taken from either a diary of Molly’s, the Bible, Finding Neverland, or (once) from Return of the King by J.R.R. Tolkien.

Giovedì notte, ho stampato fino alle 3 di mattina. Ho stampato delle tiscert da consegnare a un negozio all’Isola (zona Garibaldi) a Milano. Poi vi farò sapere l’indirizzo preciso. Se ti interessa una di queste magliette PASTAFARI, scrivimi a infochiocciolatiscertpuntocom – o puoi andare a vedere il mio sito web a tiscert.com

Ce matin, c’est une tourterelle qui m’a réveillée, avec un rayon de soleil à travers les persiennes… Comme un début de printemps… !

Et hier, la journée était idéale pour qui veut mettre en pratique le carpe diem… ! J’ai retrouvé mon amie Sandrine sur la place du Palais Royal, devant notre illustre Conseil d’Etat pour aller voir l’expo Christian Lacroix, Histoires de Mode aux Arts Décoratifs… ! Lacroix, c’est un de mes chouchoux, un des dieux de ma triade capitoline, comme tu le sais déjà… Et j’ai 20 ans comme sa maison, forcément, ça crée des liens !

Christian Lacroix et Lucien Clergue, lors de l’installation sous la Coupole de ce dernier, en octobre. 

L’expo a un goût d’exceptionnel puisque c’est Christian Lacroix qui l’a organisée, et qui a choisi les pièces, c’est lui qui nous guide tout au long des salles avec de courts textes, à la frontière entre l’expérience du créateur, son enfance, et l’histoire… On se promène dans de vastes pièces blanches, laquées, parsemées d’immenses vitrines, classées par thème : le Blanc, les Couleurs, les Pois, les Fleurs, les Rayures, le Patchwork, le Lamé…

L’expo est très intéressante, et parfois même assez déroutante puisque sur un même portant se côtoient d’immenses capes du XIXème, une création d’il y a deux ans, un tailleur New Look, et même une culotte bouffante pré-révolutionnaire… La pièce la plus ancienne ? Une robe de 1680, en tapisserie ! Tu te rends compte ? Un bout de tissu qui a connu Louis XIV ? La révolution, deux empires, cinq républiques et cinq rois en tout ?!

On ne pourrait reprocher que deux petits détails, dans la façon dont tout ceci a été pensé : les fiches sans lesquelles tu n’es rien, où est décrite chaque vitrine, et pour lesquelle tu reviens sans cesse sur tes pas, pour les reposer à leur place… Et l’absence quasi totale de banc… L’expo est immense, et les pieds fatiguent vite !

Nous sommes ressorties épuisées… ! Après un bon déjeuner, nous avons profité du soleil dans les jardins du Palais-Royal et avons été faire un tour chez Marc Jacobs, bien évidemment… !!

Ensuite, nous avons vécu un moment historique : Sandrine a découvert le Bon Marché !! Elle n’y était jamais allée, habituée à feu la Samaritaine, et je me suis donc chargée de lui faire une visite guidée en bonne et due forme ! C’était assez amusant, d’autant qu’a priori, elle n’apprécie que moyennement les magasins de vêtements ! Il semble qu’elle ait changé d’avis ! C’est le calme et la tranquillité du lieu qui l’ont surtout séduite, loin du foisonnement continuel de touristes aux Galeries Lafayette… !

J’en ai d’ailleurs profité pour regarder à nouveau mes premiers repérages… Il y a quelques pièces qui m’attirent particulièrement, chez Vanessa Bruno Athé et Maje… !

Après une petite pause au Délicabar, et un tour dans la Grande Epicerie (où je ne regarde plus les confitures “Carla” du même oeil, va savoir pourquoi… !), nous nous sommes séparées… J’avais cours à 18h… !

Ah, et les vitrines du Bm sont terribles !! Je te recommande de passer les voir, ça change de ce à quoi nous sommes habituées !!!

 Nuages à 17h45 rue de Sèvres… Paris 6ème !

Aujourd’hui, grande balade dans Paris, déjeuner avec mon meilleur ami, et… café avec ma prof de français de… 3ème !!!

L’expo Christian Lacroix, Histoires de mode dure jusqu’au 20 avril.

Et toi, tu a profité du soleil hier ? E cosa fai oggi ?

Me and my friend were wandering around W. Village on my birthday, when we stumbled upon heaven: L’arte Del Gelato. We had almost given up and gotten a cone at Mary’s Dairy.

Good God and all that is holy. The biscotti gelato at L’arte Del Gelato is amazing. They have an incredible array of flavors and are more than happy to let you sample them. All of their gelato has the perfect texture and flavor. You definitely cannot leave her unsatisfied. I got the Italiano Cone (i think) which is a cone with 2 flavors: biscotti + pistachio for around $3.78 if memory serves me right.

Great deal if you ask me. For only $4 you can get 2 scoops of heaven on a cone.

Now I know West Village is kinda hard to navigate, but fear not! L’art Del Gelato is actually in a fairly easy location. Just go down 7 Ave until you hit bleecker. Hard to miss.

After looking at their website, they also have a location in Chelsea Market. So no excuses. Go get gelato. NOW.

My back hurts from the ashes of a dream.
My ears are ringing from the echoes of your scream.
My feet wonder when they’ll dance again,
barefoot as I run through the rain!

My mind wanders to a distant faraway.
My mouth is parted as my body decays.
My dreams are deep and silent tonight
I dream of you, I’m in your arms. You hold me tight.

Hold me tight, I’m dreaming again.
That I’m alive…

I had a strange dream last night…
It began with me standing on the ground of 9/11 where the first Trade Tower had just fallen. People kept crowding in to get pieces of the building and look for their lost loved ones. I tried to warn them that the other tower would soon come down, but they didn’t listen. And as long as they were there, it seemed, I had to stay there as well. Finally, as the second tower swayed and fell, the people panicked and ran, I along with them. We ran from the big cloud of gray darkness that rolled down the street. We turned corners, and ran along the streets. We ran and ran.
Suddenly, I looked to the side of me and saw a house with a green lawn and I stopped running. There was a young woman from the middle east standing on the lawn, stuck. I moved towards her, but she took a step away, shaking her head at me. I told her I wanted to help and she called me a coward, saying “You’re always afraid! You’re afraid of me, and you’re afraid I’ll kill you! You’re afraid of dying.” I thought about those people who had hijacked the plane, knowing they were from the middle east, and I told her “I’m not afraid of you.” very soothingly. I took a step towards her again, this time she turned and fled into the consuming gray cloud. I called after her, “I’m not afraid of dying!”
I couldn’t run after that, but I calmly walked into a building and into the lowest level of it, where a large group of people were gathered. Someone told us all to keep our mouths covered so we wouldn’t inhale the dust. Also to prepare for a great weight that would press down on us when the cloud caught up with us. I did as I was told and as the gray dust rolled into the building, and onto us, I noticed that it was all ashes. Everything had burned. Fine ashes, death ashes, hit my back, knocking the wind out of me as we were buried alive.

Ha, I guess I’m going slightly mad. I once was mad, but now I’m free. I’m slowly converting all of my fatigue and anger into flightiness and wonder. Still doesn’t change the fact that I’m invisible though. It would be a nice little trick, if I was a superhero or an invisible fey or something, but as a human girl? Nah, not so much. I’ve always wanted wings… flight is not a dream taken lightly by me. It has something to do with my obsession over wind. It’s like a form of clothing over bare skin. And the effect is has on my hair is exactly the expression my soul would take if it weren’t captive inside my body. If I could, I would run away with the wind. Ha! The invisible human loves the invisible Wind!

There is great awe here. Inspired by something deep within me, I feel an overwhelming sensation to sit in a corner somewhere, alone and touching a light source. It is a silent moment of reflection that comes, between me and God alone. In the daylight, the morning  hours, there are many people and so their presence fills the room. But without the faces, there is so much empty space filled only with thoughts and prayers. Strength fills me and my thoughts turn to all I could ever be. I am overwhelmed with what I feel- what beauty I see before me. I want to break the silence with music, words, anything, but my spirit is quieted there. I am a still small voice and God is listening. My mind can think of everything, nothing even and he will hear me. He will hear me when no one is around, when no one is listening, when I’m too small, too young, too simple to be heard. When my soul wants to speak, I am not heard. But when my pride is broken, here in this place, there is one who hears me. And words can not express how awesome he is! His presence fills me here!

I am sitting in the front row of chairs, near the center aisle. There is red everywhere, that is the first thing I notice. The pointsettas for christmas sit on the stairs leading up to the alter, are red. The flag of America and the Christian flag both hold symbols of red standing out so bright against the white. Roses for valentine’s day and for His love sit upon the piano and are reflected in the single stained-glass window.
The alter is directly infront of me. It is very bare today; there are only two long, thin candles, a cross and the Holy Word next to it’s stand upon it. On one side of the alter is a wooden candle stand with two circles as the only decoration on it. Then there stands the flags, one on each side of the alter, symbolizing love for both church and liberty.
Then there are the pulpits, wooden ones, where the Pastor will help us understand the Word. On one side then, is the choirs chairs neatly in a row, with a plant at the corner, and the piano holding the roses. On this side, my left, are the four grand windows that cover one wall. Only one of these is stained glass, imprinted with roses, vines and a picture of a Bible, though there is plans to make all four windows stained-glass.  Outside these windows, three grand crosses stretching beyond the celing catch my eye.
On the other side lies the baptismal font with a plant behind it and the plate to collect communion cups.
All around me is a sea of green chairs that replace pews. There are four sections, with three aisles. The main aisle is next to me and it leads from the door to the alter, so those that enter here may see the Lord’s table. And those that place their lives upon the alter, in service and dedication to the lord have a clear path to the doors.
These doors have a single window over them, near the celing, which make me wonder what one would see if they were to fly up there. If they were to fly up, up and through the cross into the vast sky beyond…

There was a tragic, beautiful and extremly violent movie that I went to see today. It is the story of a girl, looking for an escape from a place where the only thing more common then breathing was breathing your last breath. The horror around her was imense. Her mother was sick “with baby”. A terrible pregnancy that left her mother screaming and pouring sheets of blood and eventually, dead. Her step-father, the Captain, shaved every morning, ripping out his hairs very slowly and diliberatly without ever cutting himself; a parallel to how he valued life. Those who resisted imediate obediance were tortured, healed and tortured again.

So this girl, Ophelia, searched for a different kind of life in fairy tales. She found them to be real inside a labyrinth and agrees to complete a series of tasks in exchange for a way to leave the dark, crimson world around her. She faces an infant-eating monster, a greedy giant toad and, finally, the Captain himself. All she wants is escape, but at the end, she chooses life over dreams. She chooses to protect a small, newborn life, rather then a dream-life for herself.

It was both horrible and stunning. Wonderful and terrible. It said so much to me, and connected to many of my ideals. I really like it, though it is in a way difficult to understand, because of how much darkness was in it. But I did, I really like it. Don’t go see it if you look at how much evil can be in a person, for there were so many evil persons in it and their numerous deeds match their hearts, but if you look at how much strength can be found in a soul then see it. Yes, see it then.

I am an idealist. There is a part of me that will, no matter what happens, see other people as an ideal in my mind. A part of myself that will forgive them no matter what they do to me, because I see some sort of ideal in them that I am willing to look past the wrong choices they make to see. That same part of me wants to help them see that. I want them to see what their possibilities are and strive for them. I want them to see who they are to me and I want them to like the image that is my hope for them.

There is a picture I made a long while ago, of a bloody wolf-print in the snow. It is funny how, with a few strokes and circles and three different colors (black, white and red) I could make a picture with a story behind it. There is a story behind it. Just like there are stories behind each picturesque ideal that we want ourselves, and others to be. Stories are such wonderful things!

Running the risk is something I have to do. I have to write this down, sort it all out so it doesn’t feed the flames inside me of everything that is going on right now.

I’m so disapointed by everything- everyone. *Everyone*, including me, is fustrated. There is not one person in the group that is “fine” or “ok” by how things are going. I’ve talked to pretty much everyone about it, but the responses I get are those along the lines of ‘we aren’t focused’, ‘we aren’t connected’, ‘ever since Kari left…’, ‘you’ve got too high of expectations’ or ‘they’re only teenagers.’ Ouch. First of all, I don’t have too high of expectations. We’ve been good, we’ve been on the road to something better, but we’ve stepped away. I’m not the kind of person to lower expectations. I just REFUSE to say that we aren’t as good as I think. We are, infact, we’re better. That is that. Second of all, we aren’t ‘just’ anyone. We are not bound by any limitations- that is what I love about art. There are no limitations. If we were painting, and we dropped our brush, we wouldn’t say ‘oh well, we can’t expect anything good now because we’re just an artist without a brush.’ Well that painter can use his fingers, and he can produce something brilliant! He won’t be ‘just a finger-painter’, he will still be an artist. We aren’t ‘just’ teenagers. We are teenage artists who can and sometimes do work harder than adults, but we also (just like adults) can fumble.

I say this, because I’ve seen us become artists. It’s so clear that when we shed ourselves and when we take off our age, our outside influence, we become limitless and it is in that moment that we become artists. When I was in martial arts, we had a practice where, before stepping onto the wooden floor where we practiced, we would bow. This simple gesture represented taking off anything that would hinder us, whether that was stress, age, time of our attention span… it all had to go before we could learn anything. When we stood there, ready for class to begin, all we were was raw ability, art and the desire to learn wrapped up in a form that was us.

I take this practice with me wherever I go. If I am going to theatre class, I know that the only way to become the actress that I wish to be is to let go of everything else. How do I know this works? Well, when I first joined this group, I was facing so much crap that I couldn’t handle it. I was alone and depressed and trying to show the world that I wasn’t. I was wearing a mask and would not take it off to save my life. But, upon joining this group, I soon learned that art has a way of getting back to you. It’s easy enough to deal with all the crap during math class, but when you are playing off your emotions as much as happens in art, you lose it. Plain and simple. It gets to you and will not accept your mask as an excuse for lack of emotion. The only way, therefore, to hold yourself together during art is not to keep away the emotion that exposes your thoughts, but to get rid of the thoughts that keep your emotion captive.

I think a lot of people forget this. They think that if you are good at memorizing lines and if you can speak in public, you can act. Well, you can, but it will only get you so far as your mask allows. But you can do so much more if you take that soul of yours out of hiding. It’s so hard, because if you so fully expose yourself like that, you can fall. And you will fall hard. That is what is so scary about theatre. You can’t just blame something when you fail. When you fail it isn’t your body, your shell, your mask, that fails… it is you.

That is also why it is so hard to have theatre troupes. Especially if the people within the group don’t trust each other. If the relationship between the members of the troupe waver even just slightly, then the masks will be drawn back and the souls will withdraw. And every single actor or actress is guilty of this. I especially notice this with me. If something isn’t going right between someone else and me, the first thing to happen is that mask shoots up. By that time, all of the things I’ve shed to become an artist, comes back. The pain of the day, the dissapointment, the blame. Then I snap.

And I don’t understand why people don’t just accept that fact and put it into practice. But, then, I don’t even understand who I’m suposed to become or why I connect with this idea. That idea of me being insane brings a possible answer. I used to say that “the fools steals my sanity.” It’s true. Sanity is one of those things needed to be shed to become an artist. And I’m not saying that the mask needs to stay off for all times- just when you create art.

As for what is going awry in this group, I haven’t the faintest idea. But I know that it’s grown so that I withdraw into my mask often when we’re there, and that is a bad sign. I also do know that the feeling of raw emotion and the fullness below art is beautiful. If this sounds a bit corny, I’m sorry. But I hope you can look past the corny parts and try to find something in this that will make you want to create art.

Gatos: Bigodes ao léu, coletânea de tiras publicadas no caderno Ilustrada do jornal Folha de São Paulo, de autoria do Laerte, que trabalha desde 1973, com o objetivo de comprar ração e areia [frase da contracapa do livro].

Primeiro que Laerte é meu Pastor e nada me faltará; segundo que ganhei de doizamô ;o) , terceiro, quarto, quinto… que o Gato e a Gata arrasam.

Just finishing up these words. Once again, I find myself writing for another. Why? I know not. Yes, I have sworn never to write for another, but this is different. I am not giving a part of myself and I am not even creating a very interesting world. I want to, but I’m not. Oh, why did I swear myself to silence? My whole being longs to write for her- for them once again! I shall not, and shall not even lose another word over it. I am a woman of her word, I will keep to the promises I have made.

In another creative area, the sewing is almost complete. I have yet to construct belts and gloves and embroider the runes, but besides those, I am done. Je finis. I am quite pleased with them, but the real test will be tomorow when I present them before Mut.

The tree in our house smells wonderfully. A bit of forestry in the home. A sense of forecoming and dreams come true pushes through the death that has been lingering within me. Just as there is a new hamster in an old cage, now there is a new dream rising within an old shell of a soul that is what lies inside me. I am aware, and careful of this presense of death, but maybe this time, if I let the pheonix out she will create and leave the destroying to everyone else in this world. But maybe she won’t, do I even care?