Diary of a blue bird
(60cm x60cm , acrylics)
At the end of the session,
my left hand embraced my right.
Then my right hand reciprocated—
both wrinkled now, and spotty—
moving to the rhythm of nostalgic recognition.
A feathery embrace
of gratitude,
congratulation,
and muted consolation.
my turquoise
(100cmx75)
At the end of the session,
my left hand embraced my right.
Then my right hand responded—
both now wrinkled and speckled with age—
moving in the rhythm of nostalgic recognition.
A feathery gesture
of gratitude,
congratulation,
and quiet consolation.
Perched Judges (sold)
So it goes…
Every afternoon after his retirement, around 4 p.m., he would step outside—
no plan, just a walk through the neighborhood.
One day, he saw a tourist looking around, clearly lost.
“Follow me, son,” he said. “I’m heading in that direction.”
And so they walked together.
Along the way, he asked,
“Where are you from? Do you speak the language? What brings you here?”
The tourist asked where to find a good, affordable restaurant—
and the cheapest alcohol.
They chatted a bit more, then parted ways with a warm goodbye.
Later, he stopped at the tailor’s to fix a zipper on his wife’s skirt.
Had a coffee.
Chatted with neighbors about the poison of shisha,
local gossip, regional politics.
He kept going.
Noticed a typo on a shop sign,
walked in, and gave the owner a lesson in syntax.
Then he saw a small crowd offering condolences outside a home.
He joined them,
offered his own quietly,
and finally made his way back—
eager to tell his wife all about his adventures that day.
Birds of a Feather
(100cmx75cm)
Suddenly, the people around me in the café began to fade.
I watched them transform into characters—
as if across a screen.
And I saw myself disappearing.
Just moments ago, I was one of them:
a familiar face among the regulars,
a radical fan of this place.
Now, I was vanishing—
drawn away by the steady pull
of reading,
of writing,
of slipping silently
into the world behind the page.
Original Bird (sold)
Suddenly, the people around me in the café began to fade.
I watched them transform into characters—
as if appearing across a screen.
And I saw myself disappearing.
Just moments ago, I was one of them:
a familiar face among the regulars,
a devoted fan of this place.
Now, I was vanishing—
drawn by the quiet, insistent pull
of reading,
of writing,
of slipping silently
into the world behind the page.