We're all mad here!

I entered the small office and, even though I tried to keep my gaze steady on the doctor's face, I couldn't help but glance around the room. Was this really a psychiatrist's office?

The wall right in front of me was covered to the top in shelves and on the shelves sat dolls. Dozens of dolls, each probably collector's items, but dolls nonetheless. I was less concerned with their quality than I was with their very presence there.The dolls sat quietly and motionlessly, their eyes affixed frontward, as if staring at anyone coming through the doorway. Some people are afraid of clowns. Some people might find dolls particularly creepy. And let's not forget, this was the office of a doctor in a mental care hospital.

Sitting at the desk right in front of the door was another doll. This one was flesh and blood, objectively a really beautiful young lady. Her attitude though was cold and curt, with a hint of arrogance. Quite a doll indeed.

And the apparent owner of all these dolls was a stocky middle-aged woman, looking quite bohemian herself. She was soft spoken and well mannered, but the air about her was off. As if she was playing a role in a strange little play.

While we were talking, she had a lit scented candle on her desk, which she would pick up, move around, then occasionally dip her fingers inside. She didn't seem to mind the flame. She questioned me with the curiosity of an aquaintence listening to slightly scandalous gossip. I was not her patient, but she treated me as if I'd been.

I studied her in turn, just as intently as she was studying me. She knew I'd seen the dolls and the assistant. She knew I was looking at her twirling her fingers over the lit flame.

I wondered if she was aware of my questioning in my mind her sanity and her fitness as a psychologist. I wonder what her assistant thought. I could only imagine what her patients must have thought.

While I was going out the door, a little saying kept running through my mind... The blind leading the blind.

Happy birthday, Romania!

Today is the 1st of December, Romania's national day, the day when in 1918 several territories, among which Transilvania, were united with the rest of Romania. We've lost a few bits here and there along the way, but nonetheless, it's still a great little country. Happy birthday, Romania!

There were several military parades and festivities in honour of this day. I watxhed the main parade on TV, since I wanted to see things up close and also the commentary was interesting. There was supposed to be an air show too, but the weather was too bad for low flights. Next time I'd like to be there in person too.

I have a lot of respect for our army and the similar and complementary services. I admire their discipline and dedication to our country and our allies. So I watched the parade with a lot of interest.

Later in the day, I decided to paint on my last piece of brown cardboard a painting inspired by today. I thus took a still image of the parade video as reference and began the arduous sketch. Then I painted it in watercolour. The same set like the one I used to have as a child.

Mom thought it was good, but asked me why I hadn't chosen a "nicer" subject, such as our own replica of the Arc de triomphe, which was the site of the parade. I had instead chosen to paint a Romanian tank, a TR-85 M1 Bizon. With the Romanian flag on it and a member of the military sitting in the turret saluting. My little homage to the people who helped make the union a reality.

Watercolour on brown cardboard. How bad could it be?

Once more, I find myself coming back here after a pretty long break. It is true that I have posted a couple of poems, but not much else. Life has been hectic. Life has been cruel. And I was the one who caused it all.

But I am not here to talk about that, even if I keep saying my memoirs would definitely go under fiction if I ever wanted to write them down and publish them. But since so much of my life is quite personal and I enjoy my privacy, I will probably not write my memoirs after all. It might be for the better.

No, what I am here to write about is another of my artistic endeavours, a relatively new hobby I picked up in the recent year. Watercolour painting. I guess it got triggered by my mom starting to paint herself, but with acrylic paints.

I had bought a tiny box of watercolours that is the same as I used to have as a child. Probably cheap, low grade paints, but I don't care. I'm only doing this for fun, just playing with it.

I started watching tutorials on Youtube, like I often do when I want to learn a new skill. There are many good resources out there. After a lot of such tutorials, I finally decided to give it a try. I had attempted some paintings before, but I wasn't happy with them.

So, I thought I'd make a few small practise pieces. I didn't have proper watercolour paper, so I cut up a small cardboard box and painted on the pieces. Brown cardboard, roughly 10*10cm. Was it a good idea? Probably not for watercolour.

My first attempt was a mutant flower in a blurry field under an overcast sky. I thought it was a bit childish, but my mom liked it and put it in her kitchen on a shelf.

This week, I was at her place and she was doing her painting and I thought I'd practise too, on a new piece of cardboard. I chose a nice landscape, made the sketch and painted it, all in a couple of hours. I had to use white for the sun, since the white of the paper I was supposed to have used was in fact brown cardboard. I also painted over my sketch and got distracted, so I made a couple of perspective errors. The sun rays are not coming from the sun and the bridge's reflection is a bit too low.

But anyway, mom liked this one too. And I must say I'm also proud of it. I guess I'll remake it on bigger proper paper and next time I'll actually avoid the errors I made on this one.

Let me know what you think as well. I don't mind criticism either, I do prefer honesty to flattery.

Broken pencil poetry. Broken?

Broken?
18th of July 2022


Its back is bent,
Its shoulders are hunched
And its head is bowed down -
Is it tired, defeated,
... Broken?
Sitting at the table,
It is maybe a little bit of all.
But more than that,
It is hunched over in concentration,
Its fingers careful and deft,
Working without hesitation.

The last rays of the setting sun
Glimmer off its metallic skin,
Shine into its optic sensor eyes
And warm its cold brow.
Yet it sees and feels none of it,
Applying itself to its task,
Tinkering away
At the small device in its hands.

If you saw it, perhaps you'd understand.
The robot with the metal flesh
And artificial brain
Is sitting hunched over the workbench,
An empty cavity gaping in its chest -
It's working tirelessly
At fixing its own heart.

Broken pencil poetry. Agoraphobia

Agoraphobia
5.5.22

Like from dry ice
Your soul suffuses from your body
And leaves its carcass behind.
Where to?
Now that you're free,
What will you do?
Kick that ankle chain away,
Don't even think
To put it back on!

Try as you might,
Your sky is still blue,
Your eyes are still hollow
And your mouth is still shut.

Those giant arms holding your body
Have released you.
Swim, little puppy!
Else you will drown
In this empty endless blue sky.

Bitesize fiction. A nightmare - part 2

Who are you? Are you really here to save me? I know I can't say this out loud, but I am yelling it in my head.

You take me by the hand and help me to my feet. Your face is obscured, but your eyes have an earnest look in them.

You motion me to stay low and lead me running down a paved street, flanked by austere concrete buildings. My heart is thumping. We are out in the open, what if someone shoots us?

Soon enough though, we duck inside a building and you close the heavy metal door behind us. We stop for a beat to catch our breath.

I raise my eyebrows questioningly. I still don't dare say anything.

"It is ok," you whisper. "This is a safe place. We won't be shot in here. This place is empty, abandoned by the family that once lived here. They have long run away over the border."

"Where are we? Why are we in the middle of the fight? Who are you? What happened to the people who kidnapped me? Wha-" You motion me to stop. I cease my torrent of questions.

"Don't talk please, just listen. We don't have that much time." Your eyes are pleading, so I keep silent.

"Thank you. I need to tell you, I need to show you... come with me!"

You take my hand again and we climb up a flight of stairs and go up to a window. You keep me out of sight and we peer together from behind the dusty curtains.

You whisper on "Look, those over there are the rebel fighters, who have risen against the dictatorship in this country. Those over there are the army... Some of them actually feel doubt in their hearts about the cause of the regime, but they buried it deep and replaced it with blind obedience. It is easier not to think." You frown. "So many people die when enough people are mindlessly following orders... Just following orders."

You grunt for a second and then turn your gaze back to the rebels.

"There is their leader. He used to be in the army too, until he deserted and formed this opposition. His military knowledge has helped the rebels get this far and survive for this long. His ideals may be fair, but most of his life has been a fight. Now violence is his only reality. Is he maybe no better than those mindless soldiers?"

You pause and look at me. Your eyes are sad, but I don't dare interrupt.

You turn back towards the window. The dust and rubble rises in clouds with each shell exploding. When it settles, it all looks slightly different. Just like a slideshow...

"Most of the rebels are just normal people, farmers, clerks, people just making a living. Most have families, children. They sent them away to safety and they stayed behind. To fight for their freedom from oppression. The hope to see their loved ones is what keeps them going day by day... Pay close attention now! This is the final battle... The army will destroy the rebel base and their armory and try to hunt down the freedom fighters."

I get a knot in my throat. Why tell me about these people, who are just going to fail? To fail and to die?! You turn to me and your eyes smile sadly.

"War is no joke," you say. "People forget how to be human, they forget the others are human too. If they remembered, they would not fight... Innocent lives would not be severed." You frown in silence for a moment. "But there is a silver lining. The rebels have called for outside assistance from a sympathising country. Their cause will win, after all. The war will go out, just as a forest fire eventually goes out. Leaving behind destruction and death."

I should be relieved, right? But why is there still a sense of despair in me?

"You need to understand. Even if people try to keep living their lives in a battle zone, when the fighting happens, time stands still. No progress is made, evcept towards the fight. Resources and lives are lost. The soldiers fighting in the war go in it innocent, like children. Then they are forced to grow up. Yet their own normality is set aside, stuck in the paused time bubble. And then, at the end, when it is all over, it needs to struggle to catch up. Some never become human again. Some, although losing their limbs, regain their sanity."

I suddenly feel sick and close my eyes, trying to drown out the images still burned on my rhetina. You squeeze my hand and I open my eyes. You say nothing more, just point outside.

Time has skipped forward, it seems. The fighting has subsided, there are no more explosions, no more gunshots. It is eerily quiet. The rebel leader is limping badly, supported by a comrade. One of his legs is severed, from the looks of it by an explosion. He is going forward to meet his allies, thanks to whom he has won the fight.

"I know I said this man's only reality has been only fighting, but I think there is hope that he has regained his humanity."

I look at his face. He is smiling a sunny smile, like a child.

"There will be time to mourn the dead and rebuild their lives later. But right now, they can be happy. They are free!"

And with those last words, your eyes smile and you let go of my hand, which has been gripping yours for dear life until now. Your hand, your smile, the window, the curtains, it all collapses together into a flurry of pages, as the book I have been reading falls to the floor.

But I can't pick it back up. Not yet. It just... still hurts.

Bitesize fiction. A nightmare - part 1

I had a terrible dream. I was in a war zone, a terrible, horrible war. And some people then came and pointed guns at me, pointing towards a car. I don't remember what I said, but one of them hit me over the head and I blacked out. Just a dream though, nothing more. A terrible nightmare. Time to wake up and...

Boom!

Was it my head exploding in pain? Or was that... a real bomb? Am I still dreaming?

I try to open my eyes, but a cloth is tightly tied over them. My head is reeling with a dull pain and I can taste blood in my mouth.

Boom! Bang! Bang-bang!

I can feel those resounding in my brain. More explosions? Gunfire? I need to get out of here!

I try to get up, but I can't. I can't even feel my arms, but I am sure my legs are tied up. Then reality comes smashing back and sheer panic overwhelms me.

"Help! Someone help! Don't hurt me!" My voice comes out raspy. I must have breathed in a lot of dust.

A sudden thought stops me. What if I am actually making it worse? I should shut up and listen, get my bearings, make a plan of escape.

There are definitely sounds of gunfire and bombs, followed by buildings crumbling and people screaming.

Where am I? I am lying on my side, but on something soft, maybe a sofa. I can't stretch my legs, something is blocking them. Am I in that car? There is no movement, no engine running, maybe not.

Where are those people who blackjacked me earlier? Maybe I'm in that car, but then where are they now? There is no other human sound close by.

I wriggle my head against the cushion I am sitting on, trying to loosen my blindfold. I manage to peek under it to see I am indeed in a car -

The door opens quickly and I hear a hushed voice urging me: "Don't say a word! I will get you to safety."

My hands and feet are untied and I painfully regain feeling and movement in them.

I push off my blindfold, turning to face - hopefylly - my savior.

Broken pencil poetry. Maladroit

You hesitate...

Don't.

Your arm is rusted in place
And a pain shoots through your shoulder.
That hand that used to be yours
Is staring at you empty
And helpless.
It's covered in cold, slimy scales,
Like a reptile's claw,
Like a snake's claw.

A snake's claw?
Hahahaha!
Your laughter echos in the dark,
But you know that it is true.
Just like a snake has no claws,
So is your own hand... not your own.

You give up
And stare at it in despair,
Afraid you've irretrievably lost
A piece of yourself.
Have you?
You want to cry,
You want to scream,
You want to smash that foreign appendage against a wall.

But no,
You don't,
You can't,
Because your other hand,
Your warm and feeling other hand,
Is stopping the claw
From getting hurt,
Cradling it, protecting it,
And you can finally breathe.

Slowly, gingerly,
You pick up a pencil and paper.
You will now have to learn
To write with your other hand.