Posts in adminNatasha
Once Mr. Stanton decided it was time to embark on his writing journey. Having lived a long life and immersed himself in many literary treasures, he felt the urge to create something of his own.
It seems to me that everyone around has his or her own opinion about how the Universe is designed. And I have listened to all their theories - incredibly interesting, of course - and the more I listened to them, the stranger I felt.
There comes a moment in a person’s life when they stop for a while, look at their existence, and feel that something is missing. You have a degree or two, a great job with a manageable amount of work and free time.
Since I believe that the past, present, and future are not some continuation over time, but rather concrete components of the present moment, I began, like a cat with its tongue, to pass through my entire life with thick strokes, straight from childhood, illuminating, like an X-ray, with sunlight all the moments of family and closeness that I experienced, all the signs of lack of love and disconnection in my family.
I remember you. You were a translucent jellyfish, shimmering with air bubbles within your watery body. You soared as the black silhouette of a pelican over the waves of the Atlantic… you fluttered as an iridescent butterfly above my head.
I am a unique specimen. Well, wait, I’ve heard this somewhere before. I’ve said it. Thought it. With pomp. Eyes closed. Brows raised in a Pierrot style. Suddenly, it seemed to me by chance that everything is not turning out the way it should for me to be happy.
And when the warm orange air spilled sand onto the shore of the Atlantic, I felt the urge to run barefoot through the cool ocean foam, to leap from unexpected waves and squint at the sunset rays. I kicked off my sandals and flew to the water's edge, stepping on rare shells and gray algae that found refuge from the elements on our shore.
Once upon a time, when we met after hours of separation, we couldn’t help but hug each other. It felt so good to embrace, to feel like ourselves again, you being you, me being me, us being us...
If Mark Foster were a bit more exalted about his uniqueness, he could very well have turned into a decent David Lynch. But Mark doesn’t take the easy road. How many times can you bleed out before it turns out that you’re finally dying on the Brooklyn Bridge due to some burst tire?
Don’t believe anyone who tells you that New York is a blend of glass and metal, a cold city pierced by towering skyscrapers, with incessant advertising on the streets and the biting winds of winter evenings, piles of garbage on the roads, and crowds of dubious characters…