The Elderly Lady With An American Accent

She may have passed away a long time ago, the elderly lady who taught me how to pronounce “refrigerator” with an American accent. I wonder if she could hear my whispers, the unspoken words. Continue reading “The Elderly Lady With An American Accent”

The Young Man

 

It was a warm and beautiful summer afternoon. I remember it so well. I was wandering along the narrow streets in Lübeck, a northern German city.

 

The glow of the sunset fell lightly on the colourful high windows of St. Mary’s Church.  The small round iron tables outside a vintage café looked familiar. Weren’t they of the same style of those portrayed in Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night?

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Loving Vincent

Hiding myself in the corner of the cinema hall, with the lights turned off, I have been thrown into the life Vincent Van Gogh lived in Hague, Paris, Arles and Auvers-sur-Oise more than a century ago. The mind is struggling to follow the plotline; it is lured into every scene that makes the heart tremble. The thoughts are wandering from Starry Night over The Rhone to Café Terrace in Arles on a September night in 1888, and from The Yellow House where Van Gogh shared rooms with his painter friend Paul Gaugin to Wheatfield with Crows, which is believed to have been painted shortly before his tragic death. A story about Vincent is taking shape, slowly, in my mind, and in my heart.

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Patti Smith and my sickbed

 

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I crawled into a sickbed and was then wheeled into a hospital room where I would be waiting to take a few tests. It was quite embarrassing as I considered my health conditions to be stable. I was wasting the resources that could be useful and even crucial to genuine patients. A category I did not consider myself belonging to.

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A Thing of Beauty is a Joy Forever

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Her heart was beating fast as she swiped the card. It was a considerable amount. The dark-blue velvet box was being wrapped in carefully with silver gift paper. The movement of her fingers was flexible and gentle. The woman in the jewellery shop knew how to treat items of this kind.

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The cafe was closed

The wind was howling in the streets. The winter sun didn’t provide much warmth. Wrapped in layers of clothes, I could feel the wind penetrating my winter coat and wool sweater. The weather forecast set on my phone showed minus twelve with strong southwest wind.

I tried to push the door open, it was locked. I knocked on the door, no one answered. The cafe was closed. I had been longing to cuddle up on that Baroque style sofa covered with velvet in purple. I had been longing to get myself lost in some passing, incoherent thoughts, smelling freshly brewed Americano and cinnamon buns and hearing some nice pieces of Jazz. I had been longing to feel the charm of Australian accent.

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