Eve asks:

Once upon a time, there was a long bearded blind old man, two young dogs in leash beside him,
I wonder what it means...

Sour Times - Re Joy

Another day, nice enough for a long walk and he had finally the time. There was a frantic freedom in walking, lightness reverberating all through and there was a new smell in the air today, neighbors burning leaves in their backyard, the fire disseminating their essence:
‘Good morning!’

The adrenaline started working: he found himself humming a song to the beat of his heart, rhythm of his walk (it reminded him of Michael Douglas). When was the last time he felt that way? The rhythm grew faster as he thought of her, her face, her mouth: ‘what’s wrong, baby?’ - a different rhythm, a beautiful day today.

Back in the house she pulled her hair back up with an effort and turned on the TV. The ladies on the ‘V’ discussing elections, talking over each other, 'a vagina dialogue of some sorts’! Suddenly she heard one of them distinctly: 'I don't want to be perceived as semantically incorrect...' The phrase was surprising and her laughter filled the empty room.
'That’s good!' her mood changed, she was breathing easy now.
The room felt cozy and warm, the smell of quince and apples, a jargon of a different time.
She was ready to start working now, at the same computer he worked a few hours ago...she remembered his sunken chest, the pain in his eyes.

Another rainy day when they first met. He touched her hair passing by, the flow of fresh air fed with energy the tiny foils at the back of her neck. 
'I'm Chris, what can I do for you?'
She was waiting to meet with someone else but his smile lowered the pressure in the room and all the aggravation outside, his soft voice confident, no modulations of his trade. 
'Nothing lingering about this man, someone who swims easy through the city's disturbance: I'm Helena, Helena A.’
‘I know!’ he replied. His eyes were dark, brightened with joy.
’Don't look into my soul...not yet’ she prayed, instinctively withdrawing her hand.

- Fragment by Ioana Lostun - Sept. 2008  and 2013

Sour Times - The Call

'After all Helena, you’re not yet a known writer, it’s always about first impressions, readers expect something else from women writers!' – her publicist was not taking it well. 'The reader would rather be enchanted!'
'Some characters are vile indeed but they are also victims.'
'Let’s be reasonable here, I don't even know how to define your writing!'
'Think of black tea, no sugar!'

Left by himself at the table, he snored the remaining lines and stepped into the men’s room: same white towels and there, he remembered the first time he had sex with a man, a team mate in spite of his fears, it gave him a sense of belonging and much needed security: ‘brothers’ they called each other  - when one got the 'call',  all others knew: 'today is the day, let’s make some history!’ - just like the ‘brotherhood of lay’ somebody suggested, dropping it like a can of beans.
They got themselves rings encrusted GIG ‘greed is good’ in gold and diamonds, a motivational gadget;  he looked at his:  ‘What happened to Ethan's? Oh, fuck Ethan, the loser! always a pussy!...I have to go home, I know what’s going on here!’
‘Bye Erick! You take care darling and see you soon!’
‘I’m not coming back to this shithole’ he said to himself, 'shithole' he whispered to the bodyguard in his way out.'

By Ioana Lostun - Sept. 2008 and 2013 - Image 'The Lighthouse" by Ioana

James Turrell - The Joy of Sensing

Sour Times - Fragment - Ana in Her Own Words

Ana left the room somehow blurry and indistinct. On the top cabinet she kept, there were clean and clear, the glasses.

Back home she was a pretty girl, boys asked her to movies. 'I had a boyfriend' then 'the person from a modelling agency showed up'. He stopped her in front of the gym class and talking, he opened his wallet loaded with money and cards, showed her ID,  his mustache darker: ‘I promise you, you have everything going for you! There are many, many beautiful girls, 'but there’s something special ...’  and with feline knowledge, slid the card back into his leather wallet.

Four more weeks only, she decided to take the plane. The plane flew high up, height of her dreams, pink summer clouds reflecting softly on her white silky scarf and pearls...she was high up there.
At the airport, man with a basketball cap, cardboard under his arm, she saw her name. After formalities, he pushed her in the back of a dark window car. The other man with gold rings and 'gold bracelet with an ‘Y’ on it', pulled her. She did not understand. ‘Another virgin, Feo, I don’t know where Pauly finds them, he’s the best!’ She fought, screemed and scratched.
‘I should-of-know!!! Feo stop the fuckin’ car! We have a job to take care of over here’,  he said with a fake Italian accent. 'And I fainted '.

The following two or more years were locked into her brain, 'they gave me drugs and I took them'  the only thing she could remember was one day, day she escaped and a man, the guard who turned his back, leaving the door open. 'I think his name was Nick or Nicky'.  She rushed out in the traffic, light blinding, car screeching, piercing sound of siren she was hoping and waiting for for years.

'In the news tonight, the driver of a white Mercedes was unable to avoid hitting a woman who appeared out of nowhere and seems to have jumped in front of the car. The driver was the one who called the ambulance, the condition of the woman is unknown at this time, will continue to follow the story for you'.

At the hospital, 'all were very nice' trying to make her eat and sleep and while she started eating gradually and getting used to the light, she could not speak for two months. 'My voice was not coming out'.
They examined her and concluded that there was nothing basically wrong with her except for the many bruises and cuts; police came with many questions but after a while, at doctor’s orders, they stopped asking so that she can recover.
‘I can’t go back like this’, were her first words in two months.

- Fragment by Ioana Lostun 2013

everythingliterature - Lewis Carroll

FEED YOUR MIND - fragment

I wonder if there is such a thing in
nature as a FAT MIND ? I really
think I have met with one or two :
minds which could not keep up with
the slowest trot in conversation ; could
not jump over a logical fence, to save
their lives ; always got stuck fast in a
narrow argument ; and, in short, were
fit for nothing but to waddle helplessly
through the world.

Then, again, though the food be
wholesome and in proper amount,
we know that we must not consume
too many kinds at once. Take the
thirsty a quart of beer, or a quart of
cider, or even a quart of cold tea,
and
he will probably thank you (though
not so heartily in the last case !).

everythingliterature - Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking

I have been a writer my entire life. As a writer, even as a child, long before what I wrote began to be published, I developed a sense that meaning itself was resident in the rhythms of words and sentences and paragraphs, a technique for withholding whatever it was I thought or believed behind an increasingly impenetrable polish. The way I write is who I am, or have become, yet this is a case in which I wish I had instead of words and their rhythms a cutting room, equipped with an Avid, a digital editing system on which I could touch a key and collapse the sequence of time, show you simultaneously all the frames of memory that come to me now, let you pick the takes, the marginally different expressions, the variant readings of the same lines. This is a case in which I need more than words to find the meaning. This is a case in which I need whatever it is I think or believe to be penetrable, if only for myself.