Happy artists

Stumbling across unknown happy artists who are having fun, and spreading the joy to anyone and everyone willing to listen

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Social woes

Maybe I am that person who walked out of the gathering early
Maybe I’m forever doomed to be an anomaly
Too honest amongst a hoard of fake smiles
Yet guarded enough to be confusing
And sensitive enough to be a diva.

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The bloke at the airport

The bloke at the airport. London town, all year around. With heavy London accent and a surprisingly friendly assistance. Took ama across the airport; an old one pushing one older. Tattoos on his arms indicate years of wrong decisions. But this is London town, his home, his land, and his particular accent says it all. A friendly old bloke at the airport. The pain in his old hands, but the shining youth underneath his sparkly eyes. Hands worked over the years, yet eyes remained bright. The happiness in them overlook the hardships. Rationality is forgotten and he becomes a London lad yet again. I saw his hands and his smiling face, and I gave the five dollars not knowing pounds. He beamed brighter; his eyes victorious over the wrinkles, as his aging hands took the very money to add it into a bank of air. Another hard day at work, another cigarette. London town is calling outside, and he–a part of it, thrives in it quite passively, unaware.

Travel writings, 2009/06/01

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To be like him

The ride down the lane; down the tube like straight roads of my memory. Blurred visions outside of lights passing by amid the darkness. The lack of conversation and the lack of memory of the few brief things we talked about. I was too consumed with comfort of a ride home from the place I interned at. No bus tonight. It was a smooth drive with a professional man who earned a living, who had a Russian accent, who had a place of his own, a car of his own, who paid his own bills, and who offered to drive me home from our office. I was just a poor graduate student who mostly associated with other broke students. Opening the door to his car, it felt like I was touching something valuable. And when I sat down, I felt so relieved in the presence of a real grown man. We were essentially working in the same department, but he had a legitimate higher position while I was a temporary intern. It was the first time I fell in love with the thought of being like him. I could smell the freeing scent of becoming a self-made woman one day; earning my own money, owning my own place, driving my own car, of being a professional, of being powerful, self-sufficient, just like him, someday…

Written 2014/06/12, based on past

Somewhere on a horizon

It’s somewhere in between the orange and the blue hues of a sunset,
somewhere in the horizon where the sky meets the ocean
I don’t even recall who you are
nor which one
but your voice holds me, unclothes me, caresses,
kisses
and spins me,
as we dance in the shower
of raining orange flowers
in tangerine scented dreams
somewhere far, in the depths of a horizon

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