reminds me of the choo-choo of trains sliding through foggy nights in mountains breaking the acoustic atmosphere with their speed like a knife cutting butter. reminds me of something nostalgic, lost, long ago, from childhood. something beautiful and tragic at the same time.
trieste
reminds me of whispered stories told under trees in neglected gardens at grey sunsets in winter. i think of white, harsh light, of grey shoes of leather, of dark brown cracks in the surface of tea in an old cup, of somber, subtle thoughts of the past. of dark blue ink in water. of thick steam from cooking pots. of loneliness and old books. of cinnamon. of an old man smiling, sighing, remembering. of an abandoned cottage house in the woods. of a lost life, a lost love, a lost way of looking.
guadeloupe
makes me think of jell-o, of wiggles and waggles and people dancing the twist, of little richard, of children bouncing balls in streets, of a mouth full of marbles or whipped cream, of happiness and joy, of a laugh that lasted so long it turned into something awkward, of the book "mrs piggle-wiggle", of tickleing friends, of turtles and canalization, of open fire hydrants in hot, sticky summers in new york.
bangladesh
reminds me of yoyos, of mashed potatoes, of mixes, of raps, of missy eliott, of elephants stomping fast, techno-like rhythms, of oskar with the tin drum, of quick-wittedness, of bollywood, of squirrels, of bongo drums, of teenagers in bands rehearsing in cellars, of yellow and orange, of the 70s, of furry carpets, of lava lamps, of john travolta, of a stinky, staunch character watching tv and smoking while annoyed of the neighbour´s noises, of duane hanson sculptures.
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