A Note from a Poet, at the Shakespeare and co in Paris

“Be not inhospitable to strangers lest they be angels in disguise”

It nutrients me, to make up stories in my head, dot them down… They excites me, mostly a lonely thinker that sit in a random corner somewhere, or in a bar (during day time), maybe at a cheap cafe, on the stairways of my neighbors apartment, or in the park, with a coffee in a glasscup, (not a takeaway paper cup)…. with round glasses and a dirty shirt. Once in a while they look up, with floaty eyes, like their mind was challenged in some sort of epic turbulence of unconscious… They might see, but I never have a clue about if they really “see” or If they just notices, then drift away to the endless circle of metaphors, playing with shadow and light. Falling further…. out of the objectified body. I wander if they can see that I focus on “seeing” them beyond that silhouette, that shell, read them, read those unpredictable expressions. Maybe to complete the empty spots in my fantasy… A little daily play.

Urban Flashback

Music is flowing, warming the rooms with melancholy words of loneliness and neglected love, the smell of new baked bread from the bakery next door is teasing here appetite, leaving the thoughts of tonight’s nightmare, slowly finding here way to a fresh, pure mind while the sun is shining trough the tiny white windows, forcing the eyes to protect itself against the strong light. It is true that light get the body energy, kicks the tiny little ass out of bed, starting the day with a smiling face, with easy movements, she looks like a dancer who is improvising a scene in the kitchen, making breakfast with delight. The greek yogurt and the small colorful berries, blue and red get blended together with some organic muesli, and a couple of nuts for topping.

Collected here being, grabbed the closest pants, big, long ones, tied her hair in a bun, dressed herself in a leather jacket and beige sunglasses, made sure she had her book, pencils and writing block with here. Headed out on the street among the early workers. Surprised over the busy street of Paris, A business women in black running on the clean pavement. She though she was the only early bird out this Friday morning, but that was not the reality.

In the storm of movements, the flashback of tonights dream discover its way slowly towards her memory, breaking up the connection to the now, reaching senses of the surreal world she experienced. Like a aggressive bulldog it bites her neck, the body weakens as the spine collapses…. Agony and a distanced being, confused by the surreal and real. She cant keep them apart any longer, those weeks, late nights, the struggling remains against…

No idea what?

Or why?

A process of loosing the control, eaten by…

?

She do not understand, what she do know is that she can not confront it here, not now, among red flesh, and superficial smiles. It requires a safe space as pure as the untouched nature, exploded with organic growths, like the newborn spring. Smell it, touch it, experience it fully. The only safe space on earth where no human ghosts can drill here mind, manipulate it with dazed distractions, and pretend they are the king of all thinking.

Saskia De Brauw is a multi-talented artist, model, and full of expression, witch enriches the fashion business.  For me “Art is a matter of expression of honesty within, a pure channel processed by experiences,  brought to ones hart, and then out to the universe” That is why I appreciate, respect and adore my talented friends who is digging underneath the surface of today´s consuming society. Inspires me and others to see, feel, sense the truth of human beings, the seed of meaning.

Face Phase