Find herafter a big offer for the 12 illustrations made by Matylda Konecka for "Destiny of a postcard" with 12 little stories of mine on the back of these postcards.
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Dimensions of the postcard: 200 x 110 mm
I had left everything to dawdle along the Cordillera.
Valparaiso fell on me like chance falls on a lost soul.
I found myself there while exiting the funicular. I recognized myself because I have always been there. I was Maria, flower saleswoman. I sported a long braid and a roaring laugh. Further down, the metallic ocean revived the colors of the city. Just this card to send to myself without turning back.
From the north of Denpasar. In love with fish, my new passion, I opened a bar with the same name. Taken under the poisonous charm of all aquatic forms, I could have resold my watch, stayed in Bali, lived off of stale bread and water, but they freed me from the nets.
I’m coming back to you my Gandja. Your Rastafarian.
The moon, the moon, believe me or not, the most difficult is returning.
The moon, believe it or not, is not a fantastical thing.
There are stones everywhere and I will bring you under control of the bailiff.
The Moon, believe it or not, is an Earth of truth(s).
The Moon, if you don’t believe in it, fuck you.
After all, it’s my journey.
There exists on the other shore, an enchanting Carmel.
One finds everything there under rocks, even queens for a day who kiss penniless dolphins on the mouth.
But California is so sunny night and day, a scene in cardboard where I made out your silhouette from a distance in the burning shadow of my American plan.
Six days around Ammarnas.
It was April in Lapland, maybe on Earth. It was
without a doubt somewhere else, at the farthest limits of sky and snow.
The scenery between black and gray, we were carried by our winged dogs, we could slow down the time that was gliding past us in gusts of wind…
I will soon be there, still a bit far out.
One thousand and one nights without you in Baku are blank, stifling days, just the time to lay out an
embroidered tablecloth on the table, how she takes the wind of the hills, how she flies away over the Caspian Sea and how your parents share the lavash with me…
And now, following the Orient tradition with you.
A marriage? Why not..
I want to stay here, to live like a fool, to burn on the beach.
I want the beach, ending up like an overripe orange. I don’t care about the potholes on the way to the beach.
The beach and the ocean too. Floating, arms outstretched, daydreaming in blue, unlimited.
I want to believe in Beirut. I Would believe I am still in Beirut.
Ok, ok, I’ll leave..
I fell quite low before hitting the very bottom.
Even if I no longer remember the name of all the wastelands that have taken me to the end of the earth. I stopped myself at the last cliff before the ocean. I looked around me, there were these people of a rare breed that have a peaceful air about them. I remembered that I was at the Cape of Good Hope, and you see, I boarded the plane…
The bridge, a hipster in glasses, a little girl with a frozen hamster under her arms. A Mexican looking man pushing a cart in the snow. The line from a crowd bundled-up in front of “Cobble Hills Cinemas.” A cassette player salesman on the sidewalk.
All of these human beings in mittens (excluding the hamster and the bridge), are just a bit of Brooklyn in January.
That's the idea in Beijing, and especially elsewhere for that matter. Your rice, you eat it the way you want.
Your chopsticks you hold them they way you want or as you please, if you prefer. But you can take the fork, the Beijingese do as they wish. The fork is handy too.
And why not fingers? For soup, prepare your spoon,
and well…you see what I mean
It’s a postcard written automatically that says everything that comes to mind.
It’s a Buda with fat arms who stamps all the tickets from line 1.
It’s a little Pest who, at the core, is no longer such a deadly illness.
Must leave their forints to Buda.
Must plant a kiss on the Pest.
Must hope that both find their way.
Time to regain my senses, Danube leading me.
It's Beyond the hills, so far, so beautiful that SaPa itself resembles a slightly dusty memory. Upon my
arrival in the village that has no name, humanity raised itself like a lone man who immediately confused flip-flops for wallowing in the mud. Humanity and I situated ourselves around a beer, tapping each other on the back, chuckling like whales.