Seven years in Newfoundland. Needs a new sketchbook.

I had no reason to wake up. Why the sun had to get in the middle? Looking back. Can’t wait to keep dreaming. Sept 4th. Barcelona. #thefloatingworld

This time I felt slightly more confident than the last time I painted a door. My favourite is when painting everything white and start drawing with pencil. After that, is all doubts, anxiety and self deprecation. I should do it more often I suppose…

Fell asleep thinking of big topics: Taliban vs. Isis, refuge crisis, urban villages of China, Gypsy ghettos in Europe… Woke up today feeling  depressed and angry. I go downstairs to the kitchen and make coffee. While sipping it on the couch I see this couple fighting. They look late 40′s but they’re actually 35. “Pass me the matches” “You have them” “No, YOU have them. I gave them to you last night. You were drunk!” “I only had a shot of rakia”. “Four shots!”. Everything seems to be fine after one pack and ten cups of Turkish coffee. I put some music on and think to leave the big topics for the “real artists”.

Dear diary…
The Japanese guy grabs a beer from the fridge and says in bad Spanish: “frío, poco”. After the third one he starts to get sloppy. Drinks them like water. At the bar he insists with speaking Spanish. I can still hear his gibberish from away while talking to others. Back in the hostel his face is deformed by alcohol. He’s sweating and cursing a girl that’s not there. “Muddafuckerr”. He reminds me of the yakuzas on the movies that die on the first scene from a shot in the leg. I’m going to bed. Not even drunk I have patience for this. In the room there are twelve beds. I get out of the bathroom and the fat guy is there waiting in silence. He follows me into the room. I sit in the bed and he gets close and says: “what did you say about me to the French girl? “. “I said nothing, time for bed”. He asks again. I point to his bed. He keeps asking until getting ungry: “tomorrow… I’ll kill you…” While moving his leg like crushing someone’s head to the ground. He takes his t-hirt off and sits on the bed. A tattoo of an angry face covers his whole back. He repeats “Tomorrow, I’ll kill you”. I grab my knife and go to bed. I fall asleep with my eyes open. July 30th. Welcome to Bulgaria.

They ask for Florins or Euros, the rest of what the say I don’t understand. Some of them stick besides me but most leave fast. Sings, gestures or growling. Not the friendliest crowd. I haven’t talked to another human for a week, so this is close enough. Suddenly I remember I been warned about this neighborhood. It is too late now. The lines on the sketchbook are flowing and I like what I have so far. I guess it’s my fault, for drawing on a block where the corner store sells the cheapest booze around. July 5th. #thefloatingworld #vinobarato

Cochrane St., St. John’s, Newfoundland

Otra vista…

A falta de Staedler buenos son los Pizzini. Peatonal San Martín, MDP.