Werewolf

werewolf

Werewolf – Cocorosie

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Waves

In her dream, a woman was standing on a beach, wearing a dress. Her feet were buried in hot sand. A little girl with bangs and dark hair was standing next to her, holding her hand. The girl was looking up with worried eyes. Her eyes would meet the woman’s, and they would both turn their heads towards the roaring ocean that left little space for any more sand. The tide was strong and unstable, and the sea was biting more sand with each bite. It left, then came back stronger, more fierce, harsher. Ready to take over every last grain of sand. “Sand is made out of rocks that are attacked by the sea” recalled the woman. She tightened her grip on the girl’s hand. She looked behind them: a tall wall made out of old stones. The wall covered the whole extension of the beach to their left. To their right, the wall continued from the back of the beach to the depths of the ocean. This wall had a window in it. A small window that seemed to be the only way out, somehow. There was no way to know where it lead to. The ocean was roaring and threatening to attack them both – the girl and the woman who were holding hands and now standing on wet sand. They ran towards the window.

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The Awkwardness of Common Places Series: Elevated in the Morning

Elevators are particularly awkward in the morning. First, the rush in. Hands hold the door so it does not crush anyone. Then comes the pressing of buttons, clumsily, coffee in hand maybe, or music still crying out of earphones. A mix of techno with whiny morning music. The Kooks maybe? Someone screams ‘hold the door!”. Right when it is closing. “Do I still fit?”, and “how much do you all weight?” are classics at this time of day. Then the wait. Stopping in every floor is a must. Awkward silence. “It is cold today” someone will say just to avoid realizing that they are stuck in a moving box with strangers early in the morning. They were all cozy in bed not long ago. The dread of coming into work, delivering each of the passengers when the time comes and pushing them out into the start of their day.

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(untitled), 2×4, acrylic

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To sit in an art gallery. Behind a desk. Counting visitors. Surrounded
by a two-headed globe. An empty drum set. Words reflected on the wall:
can you tell me where my life went? It was a good time with no
beginning and definitely no end. I am marooned in this idea of love.
Trust yourself, tells me a neon pink sign. Trust me says the blue one.
Who to trust?
A woman piles up passports on the video in the back. She pays a close
look to her work. But then she left and left them all piled up on the
floor.
An explosion of hearts and rabbits in the back. A white blinding
explosion and then words.
And then there’s me. Counting the visitors. Looking at them look,
interpreting the look on their faces as they interpret the art. And
then interpreting the look on their faces as they interpret me
interpreting them. Did I become part of the exhibit?
There are no walls to cover me throughout these hours. The students
outside with their colored hairs and funky clothes get snacks from the
vending machine. A mere glass separates art from consumption. And a
woman sitting on a chair. In front of a desk. Surrounded by art.

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The reserved seat effect

Subways (or MRTs) are packed in Singapore – not Japan during rush hour packed, but packed enough. There is a special seat in each end of almost every row of seats – a reserved seat. It can be noticed that this seat will be left empty by respectful passengers and left for those who need it most. Said passengers will stand next to an empty seat and refrain to sit, they will look to their sides to see who is worthy of taking this throne. There are some exceptions, of course. Some passengers in no particular need of the reserved seat will take in nonetheless – maybe will a guilty look on their face, or maybe not.

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The month of the hungry ghosts

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To light a candle, to burn golden paper. The gates of hell are open. Fires lit in large metal cans. Food is offered in honored of the ghosts roaming Singapore. Incense lit. Burning of cars, money, houses. Feeding the ghosts, offering them enough to take with them only to return next year. 

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The mistery of the man in white


There is a man in the Malaysian mountains who wears white pants, a white shirt and a white jacket. He is fearless to dust. He is bold next to the fire that spits smoke while it warms those who go for a drink at the town’s bar. He looks at the fire and the dusty floor with superiority, he holds a secret. There is no one else in this dusty, foggy, mountainous town who would wear white head to toe.
The man in white walks the streets with confidence. The man in white loads a truck with bags of clean clothes into his car. The man in white owns the only laundry place in town.

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