Alternative Venice

Venice could so fuck with the world one day. A day, when they decide not to let any tourists into the city. Only citizens could stay and work there. Only gondoliérs would shop at the expensive designer shops, vendors from the fish-market would sit at the coffee houses after work, only the museologist girl with the nice ass would be walking along the shore of the Canal Grande. No Bollywood shooting teams, noone buys tickets to go on the vaporetto and not one person would stop at The Bridge of Sighs to take photos. A lot of people would enter The Doge's Palace for the first time in their lives to see the exhibition. A lot of people would photograph themselves with their wives while leaning on the rail of a bridge for the first time in their lives. A lot of people would notice for the first time in their lives that the tower of the nearest temple really is slanting.
It would be weird. Weird, but nice.

Connection

The soot of the night has stuck to me.
A man in front of me. Alone.
My personality is faced with me
on the dark, humming train.

Now I am woman. I could be man.
I could ask: why is it that I am woman?
I hardly ever find an explanation to
questions beginning with why.

I look the man in his forties up and down.
Jeans, cell phone, family. Somewhere.
His personality lights up in the night.
Rattling in the heart of the Budapest train.

To keep my womanhood, I smile.
I don't look at him. It's fair to him this way.
The connection responsible for us
still filters through the soot of the night.

That's how we rattle - that's how we have to rattle -
all the way to Szeged.
This is the night state of mind.
I think, probably, even God can't
find an explanation to the whys of our lives.

Reporting a state of mind

The Sun bleeds all over the horizon when twilight comes. The blood dries up during the night and the following day's morning, but only to cover the scenery all over again in the evening. The gore floats over barren soil in the form of big red veils and gets stuck in the branches of dead trees.

The heat is unbearable in the desert at noon. The hills and valleys of sand-dunes don't move, because even the wind doesn't come out this far. Shadows form faces with the eternal death-scream frozen onto them. Human skeletons drag themselves tirelessly in the sand. Their bone-fingers dive into the grains of sand and they keep crawling in the swelter. They are damned souls, mortal remains of optimists. They are the ones who said life was beautiful and that there is always sun above the clouds. They are the ones who lied and said everything would be all right. They are the ones who never gave up hope. They are still looking for their oasis, the land of promises. And the sand will forever guard the trails of how they dragged their own bone-bodies.

Grey oceans ripple ruefully under the cloudy sky. Their surface is covered with rotting whale- and fish carcases in a way that the water itself and the rainbow-like oil stains on it can hardly be seen. The stenchy remains rise and fall along with the waves into eternity. Sometimes rain falls out of the clouds; slow, drizzling rain, just like when someone cries.

There is no life on the old continent. The last shreds of skin of civilization have long disappeared. A rusty coke can lies on the rubble of the desert as a memento to the fact that people lived here once. The buildings have all crumbled to the ground. Screaming vulture-skeletons float around the castle ruins, while skulls of rats are watching them from the dried-up, cracked ground.

During the night the dry vastness of forests are filled with ghosts, their moans rustle between the creaking branches. Dead pieces of trees keep falling to the ground, making billions of tiny clicking sounds. Ghosts fly around weeping in the moonlight, resting on stone-dry tree trunks and only the first pale rays of the Sun can shoo them away.

The planet looks pathetic even from outer space. It's just floating in nothing, like a dead fish in a river. You can hardly tell the lead-grey seas from the slate-grey shores.

In the spacestone-zone behind Mars, God's corpse is floating along with angel cadavers and their frozen wings.

Crazy beautiful

- You're crazy beautiful.
- Crazy AND beautiful?
- Crazy AND beautiful AND crazy beautiful.

Catch the moment ...

Sometimes I'd like to catch the moment when things change. The moment when something really important turns into something quite insignificant, the moment when you laugh at the impossible lies you hear instead of getting angry. The moment when you turn a dream into reality, all alone, the moment when you scatter your secrets in front him (and not just your secrets - also your scarf, your pullover and your stockings) and nothing hurts, even though he doesn't value that moment as much as he should. To catch the moment when solid knowledge takes the place of uncertainty, the moment when the scale turns to the other side, the ever-changing becomes stationary, the moment when pieces of the mosaic become one clear picture.
I'd like to catch the moments that are uncatchable.
Changes always come with the wind and they always leave a trace behind them when the storm moves away.

Your secret from Jean-Sebastien Monzani on Vimeo.

Nocturne

Let me tell you a little about my Mr. Actor.

Mr. Actor is a little narcistic, like most actors I suppose, he's a little immature, like most men in their thirties and he's a little annoying, like most men.

Mr. Actor has wonderful curly hair, smiling eyes with an impish look in them and he has the most exquisite taste. His fingers are the most beautiful works of art I have ever seen. Mr. Actor has this air about him that will sweep you off your feet in a second, great sense of humor, always knows what to say. He's flirtatious. Mr. Actor is confident, yet he needs constant reassuring. Mr. Actor is a typical actor.

Mr. Actor was waiting for me on the corner of the street and as I approached him in my white skirt, my legs were shaking. Right in the first ten seconds, he made two compliments and by the time we got to his house, I had fallen in love with his dimples. Mr. Actor's cat is huge, distrustful, a little hostile, but after a couple of minutes she was curled up and purring beside me. Mr. Actor gave me yummie cheese and wine, I got tipsy of course. Mr. Actor kept sitting closer to me, I could feel his attraction, we laughed, we played around with our words, we flirted, I wanted him. He hugged me, caressed me, came closer into my aura. We skipped a couple of steps. Mr. Actor sat at the piano, played Chopin and amazed me, I watched him with trembling legs, touched by his music and I fell in love with his fingers as well. Mr. Actor's tongue is sweet and playful, his arms are strong, his skin is magnetic, his hair screams for fingers to play with it. We slept cuddling., with kisses, with the cat, with the sound of buses under the window.

Mr. Actor is all over the place, he beats about the bush, he can't pronounce the words, I don't need you enough. Mr. Actor pushes me away, but my hands won't let go. Mr. Actor doesn't want me, but he is jealous. He is easy to offend and it is hard to placate. Mr. Actor is unsolvable. Mr. Actor can come up with the most unexpected, illogical, wanton ideas. Mr. Actor has tied me to himself with a string that just won't break.

I really like Mr. Actor. Coz why would it be simple when it can be complicated, too, right?