PEACE FOR UKRAINE

MY PUPPY VALKIRYA

MILK CHOCO WAY

I know how important presence is. To be there, what a beautiful word. Beyond distances, time and logic, we are able to carry within us even those we can no longer have close to us, and this strange measure of things betrays the embarrassment that certain distances have, when they forget the infinite importance of memory. . Memory is stubborn and when it takes it into her head to save a memory, it saves it. And he knows how to defend it and he knows how to protect it. For example, I only think of you twice a day. When I’m alone and when I’m with someone else. You are ubiquitous in me. Even now that you are not there and I am writing to you without you knowing. Perhaps, if I had told you, you would have understood that everything I want for me I want for you too and that even if it is often not right, it is always for a good purpose. Of everything I like, I’ve always taken two, one for me and one for you.
Sometimes you meet a person who is not meant for you but you keep bumping into that wall. I am tired of apparent solutions. About my stubborn feelings and all the times when reading a message or waiting for it I thought “Maybe I’m the problem”. In the end, I admit, you were right. You were right when you said I was too impatient. Impatient were my feet, my hands. But the heart no, he knew how to wait, to wait for you. And if I think about you, it’s because my organism after a while I’m away needs to think about the things that make it feel alive. I had the words impatient that they could not shut up when they wanted to be right. I had to stop contradicting you when you said you weren’t the right person for me. You were the right person to understand that decisions made when excited then make you feel damn stupid when exhausted. Now I don’t want to be too happy because of you. I always run away and I never have time to get attached “.

WHY AMLETA CREATES SOMETHING

Art is his need. An instinctive need to create. An instinctive need to be and communicate one’s being to others. Affirming its existence with the creative act is the only way for Amleta to live. Feeling such a force within oneself, an energy, an immense explosion, a storm that never settles down. A sea that is always stormy to its depths. Being a river in flood, dangerous for others, not accustomed to strong liquid currents, but a natural and splendid element for her. Art is its power. The power to create from nothing. To give life to what has never existed, which has never been seen, which has never been read. A sublime, divine, most envied power. Art feeds on souls. Art is insatiable, it is its fierce demon, and it has walked this path all its life looking for an escape. But you never get rid of art because only art makes it free and alive. It is like a second skin and if you take it off you become skinned and you cannot live anymore. Amleta has art in every cell, like a deadly virus, which never becomes a disease but which accompanies it throughout its life as a faithful travel companion. Art grinds the flesh, the spirit, the whole life. He raises it in the highest sky, being able to see without eyes, hear without ears, draw without using his fingers; and then makes it descend into the most terrible depths of the human abyss. Art is a miracle of life and death. Whoever possesses the gift is condemned to a parallel life. Amleta goes in and out as if from a window. She enters and exits herself, feeds herself to the pigs, gives her vital breath, remains in pieces and then begins again. Who would ever want such a life? Yet many envy it and do not know what it means to have the fire of inspiration that consumes! Art is its condemnation. She didn’t choose to start drawing, then painting, writing and playing at the same time. A dark force took his hands, and guided his dark energy. He was thus able to empty the pain he felt while living and to enclose it within his creations. Nothing remains of that period: everything burned. Unfortunately, something was saved from his subsequent dark periods, still not gone and up in smoke. Hamlet was born on a cursed island, in a sick country, and soon she got rid of her life and the pain took her far away, where she continued to suffer and create, create and destroy, herself, paintings, installations, plays, notebooks, sculptures, … Amleta creates and destroys what he creates. Hamlet is and is not at the same time. He yearns for this perennial creation and has tried several times to free himself from his prison without success. This gift, this power, this torment of colors and words, is the nectar of his days. Everything else is just a bitter side dish.

SEARCH FOR FEMINIST EDITOR

 

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I’ve received the first mail from feminist editors.
If any of you know a best feminist editor in US or CANADA or somewhere else, please tell me. I need your help.
I’m searching for a new publisher 😊

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