April (and May) ‘25

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April, just like dear poor March, passed under the umbrella of extrapolated silences, piles of words read and not as many written ones My drafts are looking at me accusatory every time I open a new document instead of finishing the ones I’ve already started. To which I look back with an expression full of thick skin-ness and a little sadness – I’m no longer the person who started them and I don’t know if I’m the person who will finish them. (For that, I have lots of other thoughts that may or may not see the light of day and get their place among the already published ones.) Lately, it turns out, I’m all about starting things, not finishing about finishing them. All of my summer vacation plans are like that – I know what when and how they start, it’s a mystery when and how they end. It reminds me of a past me that I thought I’d left behind. It’s the pink clothes and their contrast with my emotional state, mainly I returned to the homeland for a short while, was quickly reminded of what and how does not fit me there and how much easier I breathe up north. Both metaphorically and physically.**There are too many cars in Sofia. In Panagyurishte — a city 40 minutes walk from end to end — far too many.**Why was the city centre open to traffic on Good Friday remains a mystery to me, and the fact that the policeman playing traffic controller will receive additional pay for his “work” feels offensive to me. (It’s difficult for me to accept decisions that are far from optimal and efforts that are far from professional.)**Some battles, however, are not mine and I choose to pay taxes in a city where the efforts are spent on widening the sidewalks and narrowing the car lanes, not the other way around I was also reminded of evenings full of smiles, the laughter of my nephews, the warmth of their tired bodies when sleep refuses to let them go; of well-known movies and shared cherry wine.**I was reminded of mornings in which putting together a weird puzzle is the salvation from drowning in an ocean of worries; I was reminded of the comfort of knowing that I would always find someone to pick up a favourite poetry book so that it would reach me; I was reminded of the comfort of knowing that my friends know me well enough to know which painted Easter egg I would find the most dragon-like and recognize as my own. And to provide peanuts. Because I love them April raised many questions the answers of which I am still looking for in May I started collecting the absurdity of the Sofia real estate bubble with comments and drawings .Sadly, in Bulgarian only, as I will probably not have the time or energy to translate Earlier this year, I came across ceramic artist on mastodon, whose hedgehog immediately caught my eye and made me want to own a ceramic dragon like this. A few messages later about exactly what I was imagining and how much it would cost, a little time for making, firing and glazing, and my ceramic dragon arrived in its new home. His belly is now full of soft honey cookies. And so is mine I read poetry. I wrote some. I was sick. I baked croissants. And bread. I went to dates. I took apart and “bathed” Van Gogh and never found the strength to put it back together. I thought that I should probably start summarizing what was happening on a weekly basis, as I forget, miss and omit when I do it monthly Enough for today, or I will never publish it Zmeyche, Oslo18/05/2025