Daily Insanities, Part 1
Barcelona, 25-F, 2009
Roads, that are those long striving asphalt pathways, that meander in colour harmony with contemporary concrete constructions and antique architectures through cities and connect them with another in seemingly endless rays that cross woods and fields. Roads, that are resistant enough to maintain our need for speed, that withstand stormy weather, floods and constant chewing gum attacks. Roads, that everyone of us who wants to become famous hope to carry his name one day to remind the people who cross it in our existance. But what would roads be without its white painting: rays that keep us away from the opposing traffic, arrows that lead us the way (or lead us to confusion), and who sometimes serve as a patient blotter for neighbour kids' chalk paintings. But sometimes, white painting in uncommon forms might find its way to the solid venes of modern society.
One evening, when I walked back home from University, I was sunk in thoughts about this and that, while I watched the floor passing under my feet. I took out my keys and was about to open the door, when I realised the fine white rays, that almost parallely covered the road, crossing the kerbstone and hit the walls as white dots that almost climbed up half a metre. What the hell had happened here? I looked to the left and discovered the cause: a 10l pot of white painting was lying burst in three pieces on the asphalt, swimming in the major part of its former filling, while the rest had made its way into all directions. It reminded me in one of the moon craters. This painting meteorit though was not a remnant of the last Hubble external maintenence works, but had fallen from one of the upper balconies of our building. "What a shame" - "What a pigsty!"- "First they smoke marihuana, then they throw with painting!", we could hear our neighbours raging while Alexis and I took several pictures of this rare incident. "This could be one of Miró's", a giggling pedestrian remarked, while one of the neighbours called the fire brigade to clean up the unique coincidential urban artwork. After all, it certainly was a dangerous situation, but fortunately nobody had crossed the spot of impact while the colour collided with the surface of earth. There is yet no evidence of civilians in the zone of paint distribution, but if they had been, they would at least have got off whitely.
Barcelona, 25-F, 2009
Roads, that are those long striving asphalt pathways, that meander in colour harmony with contemporary concrete constructions and antique architectures through cities and connect them with another in seemingly endless rays that cross woods and fields. Roads, that are resistant enough to maintain our need for speed, that withstand stormy weather, floods and constant chewing gum attacks. Roads, that everyone of us who wants to become famous hope to carry his name one day to remind the people who cross it in our existance. But what would roads be without its white painting: rays that keep us away from the opposing traffic, arrows that lead us the way (or lead us to confusion), and who sometimes serve as a patient blotter for neighbour kids' chalk paintings. But sometimes, white painting in uncommon forms might find its way to the solid venes of modern society.
One evening, when I walked back home from University, I was sunk in thoughts about this and that, while I watched the floor passing under my feet. I took out my keys and was about to open the door, when I realised the fine white rays, that almost parallely covered the road, crossing the kerbstone and hit the walls as white dots that almost climbed up half a metre. What the hell had happened here? I looked to the left and discovered the cause: a 10l pot of white painting was lying burst in three pieces on the asphalt, swimming in the major part of its former filling, while the rest had made its way into all directions. It reminded me in one of the moon craters. This painting meteorit though was not a remnant of the last Hubble external maintenence works, but had fallen from one of the upper balconies of our building. "What a shame" - "What a pigsty!"- "First they smoke marihuana, then they throw with painting!", we could hear our neighbours raging while Alexis and I took several pictures of this rare incident. "This could be one of Miró's", a giggling pedestrian remarked, while one of the neighbours called the fire brigade to clean up the unique coincidential urban artwork. After all, it certainly was a dangerous situation, but fortunately nobody had crossed the spot of impact while the colour collided with the surface of earth. There is yet no evidence of civilians in the zone of paint distribution, but if they had been, they would at least have got off whitely.
