Ptuj.

The hopes will gather

Like kids around

A pot of stew.

Ilija Trojanow, Straddle

I think I found one way to live in an ideal world for a few days.

It was my first time being in the backstage of a festival ever, at the end of August in a charming little Slovenian town. I only had a distant childhood memory of this medieval cuteness called Ptuj and it didn’t fail the reality of its completely not pretentious, but will-win-you-over streets. And when most of them are devoted to poetry and wine, well, what else do you want? Continue reading “Ptuj.”

La Grande Motte.

“The way you are, overfilled with shadows

turned into a Shadow yourself.”

– Katica Kulavkova, Epistles to Julia (7.)

Continue reading “”

The poetics of the streets

Montpellier.

I rarely search for art in the streets. But, I guess that’s because I never have to. The best moments, those pleasant surprises, happen when you don’t look or expect much, anyway. I sincerely didn’t in Montpellier. Still, I found the best kind, I found poetry beneath my footsteps… Oh so poetic in itself, combining random wandering with my other favourite art. Reminded me of how the first time I fell for street art, that altered, rebelled life of a simple wall, was in France, although London followed soon after and the city that later won the game for now was on the other side of the globe. (I truly miss you, Valparaiso. I never quite got the pieces of my heart I had lost there back. No worries, I’m already thinking of coming back to lose some more.)

Doesn’t just mentioning South, either of France or of America, automatically bring a smile on our faces, regardless of pretty images and lovely words on its charming narrow streets? Maybe, it’s only this long winter and timid spring… Yet, truth be told, we’re going to escape there in the summer, too, let’s just admit it and hope it’s coming soon…

For WPC: Smile.

Quicksand

Sometimes, we spin around a patch of sand for months, years really,

walking carefree around its edges,

round and round,

touching tickling blades of grass, we forget,

deviate,

step among the nearby trees, luscious, drying,

and come back,

completely oblivious of its languid existence,

its lively nature,

carelessly step into it, still enjoying the intensive sun,

because there is no shadow,

and don’t even notice we’re in its mercy,

don’t think about how one step reversed the positions of power,

it slowly swallowing us,

while we still believe to be in control,

and it’s too late, too late,

we’re in its trap.

We only realize it when the sand is in our eyes,

and the next second, we are gone.