Stii sentimentul ala cand simti ca o iei de la capat, ca se repeta? Ei bine pentru mine e ca si cum as fi din nou in clasa intai. Cu emotii vreau sa vad cum o sa fie si cu un gand atat de optimist stiu ca o sa fie bine, insa de cele mai multe ori ma insel. Ma insel pentru ca sunt naiva, prostuta si neincrezatoatre........De fiecare dat incep totul cu zambetul pe buze si cu dorinta de a face ceva bun, insa pe parcurs acest foc se stinge, ajungand chiar la nepasare.
E un nou inceput pe care vrand nevrand trebuie sa-l termin cu bine, mandrinduma cu mina insami.
jeudi 21 octobre 2010
samedi 26 juin 2010
mardi 15 juin 2010
Hai sa facem teatru...........
Poate va intrebati "oare ce a apucat-o si pe asta cu teatru?"...Ei bine imi place teatru si nu de cateva zile nici de cateva saptamani ci..........de cand eram mica.Am descoperit din intamplare ca asta imi place sa fac pentru tot restul vietii mele pentru ca ma simt bine pe scena aceea intunecata, avand spectatorii in fata ce ma privesc cu multa curiozitate dorind sa afle ce va urma.E greu sa faci teatru, e multa munca si mult talent, dar cand primesti aplauzele uiti de tot si spui "hai sa o mai facem o data!"Nu va spun prea mult restul ramane in culise, voi.... mergeti la teatru, inveseliti actorii.
mardi 27 octobre 2009
"Please," he whimpered, eyes cast up from the polished linoleum as if in prayer, a single rivulet of blood trickling from a nostril. "I… I have a family."
"A family?" Charlie glanced from one crumpled heap of flesh and gristle to another, a distinct disinterest building behind insect black eyes. "How many kids?" "I… t-two.""Boy or girl?" "Both boys."He squatted next to the man, spinning the massive .357 on his finger like the protagonist of some spaghetti western. The barrel whirled around the blur of his hand like Death's private helicopter, gaining and losing momentum in a peculiarly evident yet indecipherable rhythm. He blew a breath out his nose, tightening on the smooth wooden handgrip.
"Shame," he said, shifting his gaze to the man's eyes. He donned an expression of false concern, snatching the tail of the man's hot pink striped power-tie and roughly wiping away the bloody nose. "There we go. Shame. What're their names?""… Please…""Both of them? Not terribly original."The words that next tried to free themselves from his throat garbled and mushed into each other, a river of wailed vowels that brought a small smile to Charlie's lips."That Swahili?"The barrel met the man's temple. Charlie sighed slowly and deliberately."Try again, Dad. Their names. First and last.""… Brian and Tucker. Davenport. Please. Don't hurt them.""Why would I care in the slightest about them, Mr. Davenport?"The man tried to look up, but saw very little. One eye had swollen shut. The other could focus on nothing but the gun and the whirling cage of white teeth behind it.
"Don't mistake my intentions. Please. Oh please oh please." A throaty indigo chuckle loosed it self from a neck coated in strange, gray veins. "You are nothing to me, Mr. Davenport, just as you are nothing to anyone else you've ever encountered. Your friends, your teachers, your clientele… nothing. You're just dust. A shadow on the back of their brains, already long forgotten. Such is the nature of this life, Mr. Davenport! We are in it only for ourselves, and to Hell with the next guy."Gingerly, he placed two fingers under the man's bruised chin and pushed his face upward."But family, family is different, isn't it? Family cares. Family will always be there. Blood is thicker than water, after all. Speaking of."He drew his right hand between the man's nose and upper lip and wiggled his fingers, throwing flecks of deep crimson into the man's already-teary eyes. "The wife and 2.3 children will be really upset if Daddy never comes home. And that's how serial killers are made, Mr. Davenport. A weak or nonexistent parental figure during a child's developmental years, paired with some radical trauma. These are the seeds of neuroticism, the lightless pit from which psychosis crawls."Davenport stared up at him, quivering, terrified to move. Slowly, as if with great effort, Charlie lowered the gun."Get up, Mr. Davenport."In seconds he had scrambled to his feet, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his business suit."The last little bee in the hive," Charlie said, clucking his tongue. "You don't have to worry about your children, Mr. Davenport.""I… I don't?"The pistol flashed up suddenly, two dime-sized bullets tearing through the double-breasted pleats, ravaging his sternum and the organs within. Exit wounds the size of golf balls punched through the back, spraying the wall with a macabre rainbow of bodily fluid."I'll tell them you died on your feet like a man."
"A family?" Charlie glanced from one crumpled heap of flesh and gristle to another, a distinct disinterest building behind insect black eyes. "How many kids?" "I… t-two.""Boy or girl?" "Both boys."He squatted next to the man, spinning the massive .357 on his finger like the protagonist of some spaghetti western. The barrel whirled around the blur of his hand like Death's private helicopter, gaining and losing momentum in a peculiarly evident yet indecipherable rhythm. He blew a breath out his nose, tightening on the smooth wooden handgrip.
"Shame," he said, shifting his gaze to the man's eyes. He donned an expression of false concern, snatching the tail of the man's hot pink striped power-tie and roughly wiping away the bloody nose. "There we go. Shame. What're their names?""… Please…""Both of them? Not terribly original."The words that next tried to free themselves from his throat garbled and mushed into each other, a river of wailed vowels that brought a small smile to Charlie's lips."That Swahili?"The barrel met the man's temple. Charlie sighed slowly and deliberately."Try again, Dad. Their names. First and last.""… Brian and Tucker. Davenport. Please. Don't hurt them.""Why would I care in the slightest about them, Mr. Davenport?"The man tried to look up, but saw very little. One eye had swollen shut. The other could focus on nothing but the gun and the whirling cage of white teeth behind it.
"Don't mistake my intentions. Please. Oh please oh please." A throaty indigo chuckle loosed it self from a neck coated in strange, gray veins. "You are nothing to me, Mr. Davenport, just as you are nothing to anyone else you've ever encountered. Your friends, your teachers, your clientele… nothing. You're just dust. A shadow on the back of their brains, already long forgotten. Such is the nature of this life, Mr. Davenport! We are in it only for ourselves, and to Hell with the next guy."Gingerly, he placed two fingers under the man's bruised chin and pushed his face upward."But family, family is different, isn't it? Family cares. Family will always be there. Blood is thicker than water, after all. Speaking of."He drew his right hand between the man's nose and upper lip and wiggled his fingers, throwing flecks of deep crimson into the man's already-teary eyes. "The wife and 2.3 children will be really upset if Daddy never comes home. And that's how serial killers are made, Mr. Davenport. A weak or nonexistent parental figure during a child's developmental years, paired with some radical trauma. These are the seeds of neuroticism, the lightless pit from which psychosis crawls."Davenport stared up at him, quivering, terrified to move. Slowly, as if with great effort, Charlie lowered the gun."Get up, Mr. Davenport."In seconds he had scrambled to his feet, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his business suit."The last little bee in the hive," Charlie said, clucking his tongue. "You don't have to worry about your children, Mr. Davenport.""I… I don't?"The pistol flashed up suddenly, two dime-sized bullets tearing through the double-breasted pleats, ravaging his sternum and the organs within. Exit wounds the size of golf balls punched through the back, spraying the wall with a macabre rainbow of bodily fluid."I'll tell them you died on your feet like a man."
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