Ana Toader

A knot. And the world braids and unbraids from it, flutterring like ribbons, like blind Medusa.

“Shhh, Shhh
It’s nice and quiet
Shhh, Shhh
But soon again
Shhh, Shhh
Starts another big riot” – Bjork, It’s Oh So Quiet lyrics

Last summer, Miro taught me the aesthetics of objects in pure space. Gracias. Free pass to my carnival. Fill the space with rose tints today.

Come Aristotle and Plato eating cotton candy, insane apple tree blossom snowing down your throat, drown fragantly, baby… dumdeedam, Marie Antoinette dancing like Salome to get her head back, served on a tray from history students’ cafeteria, the ferris wheel spinning classicism, baroque, romanticism, realism and Protheus of modernity, how many 8s can your belly do, Scheherazade, rambla pa’ aqui, rambla pa’ lla, esa la Rumba de Barcelona, juggle hearts and porcelain tea cups and don’t drop any, Alice, mirrors in the funhouse for Quasimodo to live in a world where everyone is distorted and in the middle Picasso with a paintbrush and Dora Maar with bleeding fingers from playing too much 5-Finger Fillet, Degas’s ballerinas spilled like a basket of flowers, I wear a blue cardigan and pale skin and everything runs, throbs, flows, yells, transforms, takes shape and melts into everythingness only to be born as something else, somewhere else, at some other time and the music never stops, never stops.  

Come, sweetheart. You are among friends.