Близнецы Не религиозен Не курю Выпиваю в компании с друзьями
Hey you sweet woman
A little about me. The interests or rather the passions of my life are : I want to design, craft and make love to motorcycles, and the culture around it. I play and write music and songs, and want to be able to communicate in this international language around the world - from Mongolia to Argentina. My life is literature and literature is such a deep pulse in my life. I came from my mothers abdomen clutching "Eva Luna" by Isabel Allende - as you are about to find out.
Oh and my children are grown and responsible for themselves now. Thought you might like to know that.
Hmmm. what a strange and special challenge it is for me to be in a situation like this - on a site like this. There seems to be such a dissonance with the imaginative descriptions of yourselves and the realistic description of your future partner - or is it the other way around. Personally I feel that if I am lucky enough to meet a woman that matches me well and has as much to offer as she's willing to demand - well great. I would have to face that challenge of having another human being that close to me again. If I do not meet that other half of mine - well fine. I'm just going to have to face the challenge of being with myself - embracing that reality. What I mainly tend to do is to better myself. Wouldn't most things fall in to place if I did? I do not spend my time blaming others or demanding that people fit into my wishes.
But I would not complain if I was to meet an intellectual woman with imagination. Well read and with both feet planted in literature, art and culture. Culture is a word, by the way, that most people just trow around like some entertainment on the telly, like getting their hair done, like it ain't nothing to get worked up about. To me it is - to me it is IT.
If you want to correspond with me you have to express yourself an tell me who you are - what makes you tick. And I do not care how long your legs are, and even if you are good-looking, if you only write something like: I am looking for a financially stable, caring man with good sense of humor, I like nature, going out and traveling - oh great like absolutely all the other women on the planet. And if there are women on other planets - well them too probably.
So get down, get funky, make an effort this time around. If you cannot do that here, how am I to think that you can do it in a relationship anyway.
I am good at communicating and know how to express myself, but in my first attempt at writing a profile I might have come across as unromantic - well nothing could be further from the truth.
It is in the middle of the evening of a non-significant October Friday in Minsk. Some strange guys dressed in black, all carrying instruments, advances the streets. They stop in a little square and soon you hear the voice of a man. He is speaking in poetic terms to someone. It must be a woman, because he speaks of her grace and beauty. A little crowd starts to form, and now a small group of women enters a balcony directly above. The crowd cheers and the poetic force of the man, standing by himself on the square, starts to go wild. He is calling the most desirable of women in the world to the balcony to face her destiny. The sunrays turn golden, space and time seems to contract, as he compares her beauty to Hellen of the Greeks, stating that the beauty of her face will launch a thousand Porsches. As he speaks, she and her friends suddenly realizes that the square is full of Porsches of every color, every shape, every decade. Then the music starts to lift it's voice and the man on the square lurks Spanish-sounding tunes from his guitar, and starts to sing. He sings in Russian which is clearly not his first language, but it ads to the amount of effort that he displays - to the great appreciation of every spectator. The woman in question finds herself with a glass of champagne in her hand, the excitement of her senses rising with the bubbles. Eventhough time seems to stand still, the song of the courtship reaches it's end. Cascades of joy and laughter reverberates of the old buildings, and the attention turns to the two people of the evening. The man is now in a quiet voice (you can hear a needle drop) asking his lady of choice for a token of love. Now time stretches everyone's patience to the max. Some of her friends pushes her while putting a flower in her hand. The flower takes ages to loose to gravity, but her soother eventually catches it with his teeth, and the whole place goes mad. It all happens in a rash, suddenly she is down on the street in an inferno so unusual to the city of hers. Her breath stands still as her man approaches all too slowly. Her heart swells and threatens to take over everything that she is. The man infront of her seems nobetter off. His eyes are bursting with tears, his hands atrembling, but he gets his senses together, grabs a hold of her and kisses her, just like any woman would want to be kissed. His eyes are sparkling blue, and she doesn't know what realm she is in anymore. The whole square erupts and now the party begins. There is food everywhere and a whole squadron of bellydancers are dancing with the black-clad musicians. A jester appears and makes fun of everything and everybody in such an elegant, satiric way with lots of political and cultural references. She looks to her left and now it dawns on her that she is marrying Bacchus the god of extacy and sensual pleasures, the bellydancers are bacchanals and the black-clad musicians are satyrs. This is not real she manages to think.
And in a flash she is alone in her bed - bedazzled.
It is a gloomy-gray day in March, the clouds hang low - nothing seems to smile. She gets up, walks around in her night-gown till she opens her doors to the balcony. When she enters it is so different to her dream, even though spring finally seem to be in the air. Then she looks to her right and there is a bottle of prosecco in the corner of her balcony (must have been left by one of her friends). She says to herself "Oh let me just be decadent for once and have bubbles for breakfast", and as she does the clouds changes and come alive. She looks to the square and this sole black Porsche is standing there in the middle of everything. It has got mud all over it like the driver went across tundra and forests to be there. Then all of sudden a man exits from the car, and she pulls back by instinct, everything, including reality, turning around her. Her breath is short, her pulse is up, she is floating between reality and that opposite. But when she has the courage to look down again, the car and the man is gone. She throws her glass up into the air and waits for the sound - but there is none. When she looks over the balcony, the glass has landed directly on a rose and is now slowly bending it to the ground. She goes to the cabinet of her bathroom, finds the sleeping-pills, downs a few and then goes to her bed. She prays as she falls asleep - "By every thing that is sacred, please let me enter that dream again".