You have to be careful in the land of the free

Thursday afternoon, dating the sixteenth of a June in bloom, blood trickled over the streets of Birstall in northern England. A woman was lying on the asphalt, her skin torn by bullets and the sharp-edged blade of a knife. Although her hair had a chocolate-coloured touch rather than one as black as ebony, this Snow White also had a taste of the ruby-red apple dipped in poison. Jo Cox, on the up and up of Britain’s political ladder, ate of humanity.

One Hundred Years of Solitude on an unGodly Earth – part 1: the existential loneliness

Caution – I have not penned an ode to Gabriel García Márquez’ downright magnum opus (if you wish me to soft-soap this tremendous author in an abundance of superlatives, I’d gladly be your guest). Before you send me to the gallows, I might be able to offer you a Mad Tea Party as a substitute. The guest list consists of Alice, Frankenstein, and later on Brave New World’s cast and Nietzsche will join us. Caution again – a certain Hatter and March Hare are not invited to this kind of tea party.

Letter to a Woman with a Child Never Born

Today, splendid Child, as I was frolicking in the delicate April breeze, I have plucked you from the meadow, your honeyed odours falling in drops on the musings of my heart, apple of my eye. You lay sleeping, slumbering, rolling in the soft dust your dreams are made of, curled up between the early tulips in tones of orange and coral and cherry-red, but I only had eyes for you, stroking your petals painted blackest of night, beautiful one. Yesterday, heavenly Child, the pear-shaped tears of March’s downpours mollifying my skin, I have taken you from your bed of flowers, without permission, you were breathing my name, chiming like a cascade of water falling to splinters on the creamy lake of my eardrums, my beloved. You mirrored me, the one who gifted you with life, save my fair locks of hair, since I crowned your blossoms, those divine little ringlets, in gold, and I rustled the name I have picked for you in the ruby-coloured rose field, the name that my body has been reverberating ever since they have planted the idea of you there, my darling.

Little Miss Sunshine as critique on neoliberalism

I can still remember the first time I saw Little Miss Sunshine. Let’s say I was still in my pre-adolescent phase: naive, innocent but already unknowingly influenced by the big beauty  industry. Every time my mother took me to the newsstand, I couldn’t help myself from secretly peeking at those glossy magazines with beautiful women on the front page. I was determined that, when I was grown up, I would be just like them: tall, slim, blond, a white smile, the perfect makeup , not a single roll, not a single milligram of fat would cover my body.

Diversity in a galaxy far, far away

Before you read this, I want to state, for the record, that The Force Awakens was fucking awesome. It was amazing in so many ways. I’ve spent way too much money on seeing it (several times) in the movie theatre, and I’ll gladly do it again. The plot was amazing and I cannot wait for Episode XIII. For you three of four poor souls who didn’t enjoy the gift that is Star Wars, it is best to turn away now, because this post will be one big fangirl moment.

We melt into each other with phrases – about language and love

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Here you go. You have clothed yourself in captivating, mesmerizing, irresistible words, Nabokov’s language making love to the poetry of Emily Dickinson and T.S. Eliot, edged so wittily it would make Dr. House green with envy. By now, you know them by heart, as you have razed these words to the ground only to rebuild them again more absolutely perfect. Therefore you head for that person you like (but only secretly), your dress of words rippling about you. You’ll only have to utter two phrases, and it will be ‘veni, vidi, vici’.