bristolin'

I broke the spell and uttered a sentence.

"We have to talk."

The words kicked back from the walls. The only thing which stayed was silence, hard and misunderstood. 

The bells rang.  

We spoke a bit, about weather and kids and work. His hand held mine. Glances never met. 

And there, on the border of our heavily guarded worlds we made a silent pact which pronounced us friends.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

We never saw each other again.

the traffic on (the?) M4

When we are together

elaborate witty jokes

or talks

decide to sign off for the time being.

Small talk takes a break

and runs away to the nearest woods.

(laughing out loud, I presume)

News of the day

are not new and not today's job

anymore

For he is around.

The list of questions

I gathered so carefully

unlists

and loses all the question marks

I want to be interesting

I want to enchant

I want to use all the little tricks

all the big words I know

But small ones

keep coming their way

and stop

and watch

and giggle

(I am sure)

Its him and me and silence.

"The traffic on (the?) M4

was awful today

wasn't it?"

not even that line would work

but hey, girl,

thanx for the tip.

aaargh!!!

a) the italic things in the last post are from wikipedia

b) I apologize for crazy formatting and i will never push that button again

maybe.

hihihi

St Pauls Carnival- facts and starters

The story of St. Pauls Afrikan Caribbean Carnival is one of a community's success; from its small beginnings in the late sixties to the present day. The whole event now takes over the neighbourhood of St. Pauls in Bristol and involves schools, community groups and host professional performers. Until recently St Pauls has had a large Afrikan Caribbean population demonstrated by the strong community spirit shown in this annual carnival.

It took ages to find a parking spot. So we were officially late for procession. Luckily, it also took ages for procession to start. So we were just on time. We saw feather~people. Dance of labelled T-shirts. Leaders of tomorrow. Hopes for today. The drums poured the rhythm in. The alligator~bike passed us by.

When crowd became too big and claustrophobic we found a grass spot. And sat, vine tasting, life feasting. Enjoying.

When I first came to Bristol, I was advised against coming to this part of town.

"St Pauls is an inner suburb of Bristol, England, situated just north east of the city centre and west of the M32. In the early 18th century it was laid out as one of Bristol's first suburbs. Its turbulent history has been marked by rapid growth. The area was damaged during World War II followed by large immigration after the war which left the area a bit neglected, with crime and drugs becoming common in St Pauls."

"Do you know the story about the carnival?"

"No.", I reply. 

I hear about immigration. I hear about race issues. Story leaves st Pauls behind and goes deeper. I learn that only white children were evacuated. Black ones stayed. To be bombed. I learn that one of those who were left behind never left. He stayed to help. To be the voice of neglected. PR of silent ones. Frightened ones. Even now, years and years after, every now and then guest pops in just to say how much of change he brought.  

I see feather~people and flocks of rainbows around us, on a grass triangle at the end of city road. 

I hear story about amazing man.

There is a myriad of theories explaining why people choose to behave in one way or the other. Empirically, and when it comes to others, I completely agree with some things said. Yes, you need love. Yes, you need crises. Yes, that which does not kill us makes us stronger but, to quote Gaiman: "...but which does kill us, kill us and aint that a bitch?" (Signal to noise, Neil Gaiman & Dave McKean).

How do you know which is which

how to choose

when to start

and when to stop?

Are great men born or nourished, in this series of experiments (LIFE)? 

Is fear there to stop us or to inspire us? (YES)

What will happen if I push this button? 

 

'

once upon I time, all I did was not to turn around.

the season passed.

the moon changed phases

and I had a chance not to turn around again.

missed it.

under the pale blue skies

I did not do the part of storytelling

the glances did not do the part of meeting

at first, there was not too much to say.

that is, until the lips met.

and when they do meet

who does the part of talking?

and when the talk is important

who breaches the silence's ties?

when all is as it should be

and all can be

as it did not happen...

and so it happened

sunday, 7:30 pm.
A friend and me are off to meet my biological father.
And this is how it happened:

me: (ringing the bell)
a woman at the other side of the door (double glazed glass, so we can't see her properly):
Who is it?
me: Jelena
(off she goes. we wait. after half a minute, she comes back)
and says: What do you want?
(still not opening the door)
me: To meet my biological father. (duuuh!)
(off she goes again. after a minute or so, she comes back. still not opening the door)
and says: There is no one at home
(guess she went to double check it)
silence.
a friend says, for I really really can't speak at the moment:
She just wants to say hi (me mumbles thank you)
she says: I have no idea who you are but this is none of your business.
me: Ok. when shall i come back?
(off she goes. we wait. and wait. wait a bit more)
she: Do not come back, Jelena.

I read.

in the last week, i've read three books- fugitive pieces, miss smilla's feeling for snow and curious case of the dog in a nighttime. i bought one, too- marvelous human mind, for 1.5 £ in Amnesty international shop at the Gloucester rd. always wanted to have one. Now I do.

My words, from the other hand, became scarce. Maybe it's just the city, it is overstimulating.

Maybe it is poets whom I made friends with- they speak my worries and my fears in a manner I could never do. 

Maybe the time has yet to come to write all of this down as supposed to.

When i become old and bold, and could not care less what would be thought about my words and deeds and genes.