Cristian Dumitru

Vara asta am ingropat blogul , asta e , n-am mai avut timp de el. P-aici chestiile or sa devina mult mai personale , o sa tin blogul asta doar pentru aberatii d-ale mele si alte cacaturi , iar fotografia , chestie serioasa , e separat pe cristiandumitru.com/portfolio . Hai ca nu e greu. O mai ard pe facebook ba de p-acas ba de pe tel din vreo ghereta sau carciuma , am vazut live Zabiela si Alexandrina , ma pregatesc de viata de caminele din Bucuresti si puii mei , traiesc. Inca mai traiesc bine. Daca se mai intampla ceva cu mine va anunt.

Tot ce pica atunci cand ma intorci cu capul in jos si ma scuturi e irelevant si inutil , dar asta e scopul , asa merge smecheria; te chinui sa-ti umpli buzunarele cu prostii. Povestile in schimb nu pica niciodata. Pica oameni , pica maruntis , cartele de metrou , numere de telefon pe servetele. Daca il intorci pe Jean Baptiste Grenouille cu capul in jos n-o sa-i cada povestea. Nici lui Wladyslaw Szpilman si nici lui  Danny Boodmann T.D. Lemon Nineteen Hundred.

“Confidence Cohen , confidence.”

project about modern visual art . cristiandumitru.com/useless_wars/

Trust the story. Every chapter. Every line. Every word. Good is all that you can get.

speeding cars. trust the story.

Mind you, the ancient Egyptians believed that one can only create a truly original perfume by adding an extra note, one final essence that will ring out and dominate the others. Legend has it that an amphora
was once found in a pharaoh’s tomb and when it was opened a perfume was released. After all those thousands of years, a perfume of such subtle beauty and yet such power,  that for one single moment every person on earth believed they were in paradise. Twelve essences could be identified, but the 13th, the vital one, could never be determined.

No matter how breathtaking your essences are , you’ll always try to understand the mistery of the 13th. No matter how many  crimes you comitted you’ll always long for the first perfume.

Trust the story. My hands have always been tied. My eyes have always been half opened.  My neck has always been salted and sticky.  My feet are free. The road is twisted. I can’t talk and i can’t see. I’m just sitting on the edge of the cliff , smoking a cigarette , feeling that i’m not alone.

Trust the story. Fight for the story. Don’t die for the story.

Trust the story.

It was always about the dance. Sometimes a foxtrot , sometimes a waltz… after the midnight argentine tango… but it was always about the dance , about the game…never about the score.

Nikon D40