Storytelling Now: Purple (H)ortak & CO.

Disbar! All the lawyers who confusedly use the kitchen as an office, pretending that it is a study; who utilize the sink as a type-writer, thereby showing complete disregard for the typist; who deprive themselves of the right to participate in a global cultural exchange on an equal footing with artists, musicians, performers, et al.

MAY THE SPIRIT OF ZARR(Y)E, YE GROOVIOLOGIST SHINE EVER SO BRIGHTLY AND CAST LIGHT ON THE DARKEST OF NIGHTS OVERSHADOWING DAYLIGHT!

Disbar! All the barristers, unstable upward climbers, who use the banister to ensure unshaky grounds for the mountaineering  camouflaged as unshakable devotion to the love of law.

MAY WE BIZZ(A)RE-GOOD-SELVES WITH RECEIVING AS MANY OF THOSE EMBALMING RAYS AS POSSIBLE UNTIL THE LAST STRONGHOLD OF INNER LAZINESS GETS TOTALLY DISSOLVED IN A SPECTRAL OCEAN!

YO! / YO! 

I saw  a spectral ocean in a flock of birds. Each feather like a cloud. Free floating vessels. Soaked with stories from distant corners of the universe. Stories of easy travelling. Across the spaces where to have lungs does not entail production of carbon dioxide. I saw myself in your eye looking from behind the feathers. I didn’t see you since then. I think I saw myself in the echo of my own steps as I was walking through the misty night. Feeling the protective fabric of the hat over my head, I thought that inanimate things can speak. Because my hat told me how I felt. I was glad I could understand that language. Unlike now.

The spirit of zarr(Y)e Ye grooviologist shines in Abrëville. Mother of the Artic gem. In the air, energies are emanating from the anteceding genes. Vehemently warm Apennine  wind meeting charming freshness of northern moors. In the fusion called The Kids. Forest, mother of all oxygen. And the living word in the unheard voice of bizzar(E), that mysterious bard of a self-proclaimed pangalactic apocaliptico-scientific dream. Purple (H)ortak  is listening to his favorite band. From the stereo, vibrations are pleasantly disturbing the air. Towards Purple (H)ortak’s ear. (H)I Kartina is lying on the floor. Drawing. To the beat coming from the stereo. At the moment when a delayed end of the sax solo is fading into a sweet turmoil of drums brushes stroking the top head, (H)I Kartina raises her eyes from the drawing. And smiles. The air in the room smells like woods. Purple (H)ortak smiles, too. Smell like an image: outburst of bubbles over the rim of the chalice. Doesn’t feel like automated email messages. Like the keyboard on the computer.

I felt peaceful while I was listening to the echo of my steps sagging into to microponds on the pavement. I don’t need music when there are micromirrors on the sidewalk. Because when I look down, I see myself looking at the mirror image from above. That’s how I learn language. Because that’s how I learned the word integrity. That’s why I don’t need music when I see that image. Because echoes of my own steps tell me how to listen. I was glad I heard that. Unlike now.