my pornography

visualize.us

if life gives you snow, make a snowman.
v zasneženem tivoliju, z mokrimi čevlji. sva zobala korenčke in delala mini zaljubljene snežake.

morem priznat, da zadnje slike nisem jaz slikala, sem se samo pustila slikat medtem, ko sem (neuspešno) probala prilepit nos mojemu snežaku

a bautiful, gorgeous photo by laura evans. see her etsy

ko prvic sneži in se sprehajaš po ljubljani ponoči, preden vsi ostali vstanejo in grejo po svojih opravkih, je sneg še povsod nedotankjen. ce takrat poiščeš klopco, tako z lesenimi deskami, ki je pokrita s snegom, zgledat kot velik, s sladkorjem potresen piškot.
(ta sicer ne, je pa vseeno lepa)

Lately I've been wishing I had one desire,Something that would make me never want another, Something that would make it so that nothing matters, All would be clearer then. But I guess I'll have to settle for a few brief moments, And watch it all dissolve into a single second, And try to write it down into a perfect sonnet, Or one foolish line. 'Cause that's all that you'll get, So you'll have to accept, You are here, Then you're gone. I believe that lovers should be tied together, Thrown into the ocean in the worst of weather, Left there to drown, Left there to drown in their innocence. But as for me I'm coming to the final chapter, I've read all of the pages and there's still no answer, The only words before I know will soon come after, It’s the only way it can be. So I stand in the sun, And I breathe with my lungs, Trying to spare me the weight of the truth, Seeing everything you've ever seen was just a mirror, Spend your whole life sweating in an endless fever, Laying in a bathtub full of freezing water, Wishing you were a ghost. But once you knew a girl and you named her Lover, And danced with her in kitchens through the greenest summers But autumn came, She disappeared, You can't remember Where she said she was going to. But you know that she's gone, 'Cause she left you a song, That you don't wanna sing. Singing: I believe that lovers should be chained together, Thrown into a fire with their songs and letters, And left there to burn, Left there to burn in their arrogance. But as for me I'm coming to my final failure, I've killed myself with changes trying to make things better, But still ended up becoming something other, Than what I had planned to be.
All right!
Now I believe that lovers should be draped in flowers, And laid entwined together on a bed of clover, And left there to sleep, Left there to dream of their happiness.
-brighy eyes-

volevo dire che io la voglio, la vita, farei qualsiasi cosa per poter averla, tutta quella che c'è, tanta da impazzirne, non importa, posso anche impazzire ma la vita, quella non voglio perdermela, io la voglio, davvero, dovesse anche fare un male da morire, è vivere che voglio. ce la farò vero? vero che ce la farò? -alessandro baricco-


(visualize.us, photo by Eliot Lee Haze)

visualize.us

visualize.us

Ballon Rouge

banllo rouge, albert lamorisse.
pariz, vintage oblekice in baloni seveda. must see!

vi.sualize.us

(from: vi.sualize.us)

teja bi eno majhno srnico.

(http://vi.sualize.us/)

winter mood, finally

zelim si, da bi bila zima, ki prihaja tocno taka

(source: vi.sualize.us. unfortunately i couldn't find the author)

There comes a time in life when you have to let go of all the pointless drama and the people who create it and surround yourself with people who make you laugh so hard that you forget the bad and focus solely on the good. after all, life is too short to be anything but happy.

SPOROČANJE

Kdaj ste nazadnje poljubili pismo preden ste ga poslali? Kdaj ste nazadnje sploh napisali pismo?

Golobi so se zredili in poštarji niso več nerudovsko romantični ampak nemilostno nezaželeni.

Jaz pa potrebujem nalivno pero. Z nalivnim peresom je laže pisati lepe besede in jaz morem pisati babici kaksno vreme je tu, pisati moram prijateljici zakaj mi ni bila všeč njena nova knjiga z lepo platnico, spomniti moram fanta, naj me danes ponoči sanja.

Mogoče res ne poljubljam pisem, jih pa kot vse deklice nadišavim, dodam sliko in posušeno marjetico. In seveda malo okusa po Neaplju.

***

ODKRIVANJE

Sprehajala sem se po velikih marmornatih sobah, ki bi morale biti hladne, ampak so bile v tistem jesenskem popoldnevu neverjetno zadušne. Kadarkoli se počuti človek izgubljen v neznanem mestu, se ahko zateče v muzej, prostor kjer se vsak človek, prebivalec sveta, počuti doma. Kipi, slike in palače so povsod doma, turisti so povsod enaki in v formalnem hladu muzejev si lahko človek zamisli, da je kjerkoli na svetu.

Ko vstopim skozi visoka vrata pridem v ta brezčasni prostor, v katerem izgubim percepcijo svoje sedanjosti. Ko izstopim sem skoraj začudena, da je onkraj vrat realni svet. In to tak, ki nima s hladom in mirom nič skupnega.

***

POSLUŠANJE

Obstajajo mesta, ki imajo svojo glasbo. Obstajajo mesta po katerih se lahko sprehajaš in ne potrebuješ slušalk v ušesih. Taka mesta imajo svoje notno črtovje, zapisano v obrisih streh, anten in električnih žic. Glasba, ki jo ustvarjajo je polifonija hup, rešilcev, kričanja, zmerjanja in cviljenja gum, ampak ima isto usodno privlačnost kot najboljša orkestra. Sprehajala sem se, poslušala koncert, ki ga je ponujalo mesto in se spraševala, če lahko en sam človek sploh ujame in sledi utripu take orkestre. Ali je še vsak prebivalec ali mimoidoči vagant obsojen na neuspeh – prvi pogled, sramežljiv nasmeh, negotovo ljubezen, strast, neskladnost, razočaranje?

***

OPAZOVANJE

Popolnoma beli marmornati kipi nimajo penisov, imajo pa nosove. Gledam iz oči v oći Sokrata, Evripida, Herodota, Sofokla, Ajshila, Zenona…

Sprehajam se po sobani, ki gotovo nima louvrovsko zaščitenih šip in strogih paznikov, ima pa čudovita lesena vrata, ogromna in bela, z zarjavelimi železnimi kljukami, ki odpirajo pot na dva notranja vrotva, kot vse tu urejena in vendar divja.

***

SPOMINJANJE

Čudno je razmišljati o ljudeh, ki jih poznaš že leta in leta, ko si daleč od njih. O ljudeh, ki se jih spominjaš iz otroštva, ki jih povezuješ na točno določene prostore v svojem spominu. O ljudeh, ki te poznajo skoz in skoz in vendar o tem določenem, majhnem, tako zapletenem koščku tvojega življenja ne vedo nič.

Tisto jutro sem se zbudila in pisala sporočilo svoji najstarejši prijateljici.

***

METAMORFOZA

Danes sem bila Rim, bila sem bele strehe in kupole, bila sem pašta in rdeče vino. Bila sm črtast prt in bila sem rdeča vespa.

Bila sem espresso.

Potem sem se spremenila v premikanje, v negotovost, v gotovost, da nekam greš in nikamor ne prideš. Pocutila sem se varno in zaspala sem na toplem.

Sanjala sem spomine in nehala sem biti stvari in postala spet samo jaz. Lažje je bilo biti marsikaj drugega kot samo jaz, ki se spominjam spominov. Spomini ostanejo zalepljeni na telo kot smola iz dreves in zaradi njih si spet ti lahko samo ti. Nimaš več moči, da bi se spreminjal v prt, drevo, košaro, samega sebe.