miercuri, 31 martie, la Centrul National de Dans Contemporan.


a mic mare

then there are the days i dream about sleeping for days and days.

while we waste

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way back in1st grade we had to do a collage out of coloured paper.
my parents, as usual, forgot to buy it for me so i was left with not much
cut-up material. so i thought why not chop up pieces of trash that
were lying around the house? having no other alternative i did.

i don't have the collage anymore, but i remember i glued parts of
napkin packages, aluminium foil from chocolate wrappers, any little
crap i thought could fit. the end product was a trash can filled with
multicoloured junk. my colleagues thought it was actual trash when
i brought it in school the next day. but i didn't see why.

here's the photo that got me think of doing a comic on waste.
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țâțe și țațe

cover for new petit magazine, out starting tonite at OTA.

while we wish

13th and 14th of March were two of the best days.
saturday was the flea market, clothes on snow, muddy ground sucking my souls, wet feet,
a small desert of concrete, barren fields, artificial landscapes and industrial frindges of town.
sunday, the roots and gil scott-heron blasting in my ears, peddaled outside of Bucharest, to the
middle of what i thought was nowhere. But it turned out to be a spot the Oilers had checked out
long before me. wish i could escape like this everyday, with no sense of direction, just a purpose
in mind.
for more high res photos try vazelina.

und das ist die neu header auf freshgoodminimal.

like spinning a thin line between disillusion and illusion.
making sense of reality is part of digestion.
events get clogged somewhere along the way of the lower intestine.
neurons fire without signal or impulse,
accelerated heart beat, cold hands, no patients.
addiction is popular amongst the living dead,
industrial pipes and fumes parade around our collars.

and coming out of that cloud, all was nothing but a wound up game.
one more trap to domesticate yourself into settling for marked ground.
where's the evolution in that?
walls are built for those left with senses to feel when they've hit one
but there are fields, labyrinths and years of them,
at some point i'm certain i won't see the walls anymore,
i'll even start decorating them with memories of wonderful previous cages
i'd abandoned, thinking myself finally free.

passport part6

spent part of this week watching strangers in a train station waiting room and in restaurants.

some old ladies started talking to me and asked for portraits, i didn't draw any of them, just
of unsuspecting victims. here's a bunch. i'm sori if they don't enlarge, there's a bug
in the blog, and i've run out of insecticides. all i have left is flypaper.

cautand Urmuz am dat peste Eli Lotar, fiul lui Arghezi, cred.