From experience to cognitive complexity

A single experience in the moment, a period of peace talking to oneself in a nice environment, a moment of dialogue… and then the neocortex and words took over “re-birth” “redraw” “re-written” “re-life” “re-thought” “re-said” “re-explained” “re-understood” “re-what?” the experience is there, with 5 (or 6 senses) to record the information, everything else is cognitive interpretation and one can make it as complicated as needed to make sense out of it… personally I like it really simple maybe with some expertise in naïf art.

A belly, a character?

Hum… the dangerous may be the ones wearing their belly with pride and anger, high and up in the front, their stomach preceding them, like a weapon. It seems all their sense of power is there, adding sufficiency and contempt towards others: women, people of other countries called less industrialized, people less rich. The belly is not so large, still everything disappears behind it, the people around them, the individual they are; their thoughts remains… their pride, their salary, their fear of not having everything.

A shape, a character?

Sitting on the famous sofa, my eyes wander… Have you ever noticed how men’s bellies come in so many shapes? A shape, a character? One is coming toward me, timid, a little round, the belly towards the inside, all in good-humor –bon-enfant- without real pride. The belly weighs a little, not to the point of shame, rather a slight discomfort. It is not that the belly is too voluminous; rather its owner lacks this extra confidence in him, to carry his belly high and strong. “I’m shy” says the belly.

Good afternoon…

I am reaching the end of our conversation, phone stretching in my hands, and wish her a “good afternoon”. My phone jumps at me, angry and screaming “good afternoon, good afternoon yourself. Have you seen the morning I had so far?” I hear. Silence sits with me as I listen hoping to still be able to hang up the phone at some point. Of course I had realised the morning she had, and it would be terrible if the afternoon was as bad as the morning. Is it not what I was saying with my “good afternoon”?

After all…

Looking through the display of women equipment, from ruck sack to running shoes, my eyes sparkle pink stars, bubbles, and flashing lights. I pause a moment, close my eyes and reset my visual display to black, reopen them hoping for miracles… It’s worst… pink has now contaminated walls and advertisement campaigns. A doubt creeps in my head… I do not like pink that much… I may not be a woman after all.

Under the tall tree

The meeting point is clear. I have passed that tree so often it seems I’ve forgotten to notice how big it is, and here it is, a rock at the extreme side of the island, a flow of cars on each side. I stand facing it, people passing by on each side, walking slowly, faster, slower, toward the tree and the two pedestrians crossing, short bridges between pavements. I am another rock, another tree, flow of people on each side, timing lengthening to the exact moment… Damn… people should know when to be late.


Dress, cleavage and high hills

No hesitation this morning: dress, cleavage and high hills, and a touch of make-up. Last meeting they were all showing off, shirts slightly unbuttoned, nice cut trousers, a parade of unconscious seduction, just annoying enough to blind my thoughts once or twice. Time to be fair, time for my revenge of pheromones; we all know it, business is a game… euh… okay, okay… games… with a s.

The new Malboro’s man

Same sofa, same coffee place, same time, and here they are joining me again for breakfast, these two former rugby men, and the baby. Tall, muscular, caring, protector, like giants holding the most delicate crystal flowers of life, a small baby… That must be it, the new version of toughness and masculinity, the new Malboro’s man.