Mail-Art Cafe

Comment

Comment by Katerina Nikoltsou (MomKat) on February 2, 2011 at 7:50am

Cavellini! Wow...joining us at the Cafe, thanks Eduardo. I am stopping by for a cup of tea, ot maybe a hot chocolate to ward off this flu bug! Looks like Judy had a fun Happy, Happy!

Comment by Eduardo Cardoso on February 2, 2011 at 12:32am

I just found a sticker of Cavellini in the movie Leon The Professional

Comment by Judy Skolnick on January 31, 2011 at 11:21pm

Wow, off work, this if fun

Comment by Eduardo Cardoso on January 31, 2011 at 11:21pm

Happy Birthday, Judy!

Comment by Katerina Nikoltsou (MomKat) on January 31, 2011 at 10:56pm

OPA! Happy birthday, Judy...tis way after midnight here in Grece, already Feb.1. So, hope you have a great day ! (and kalinyxta zzzzz!)

Comment by Katerina Nikoltsou (MomKat) on January 31, 2011 at 10:45pm

It's your birthday, Judy, and IUOMA doesn't inform us of these very important things???? Well, if there's a bit of cake left :-) Shall we wait for Judy to finish at work before we start the celebration, music, dancing? OPA!

Comment by Rod Summers / VEC on January 31, 2011 at 8:32pm

Yeah cake for me too... after I've sung the birthday song to Judy... because it's not nice to sing with a mouth full of cake... crumbs fly, oh my.

Comment by Judy Skolnick on January 31, 2011 at 7:22pm

Yea!! You have all the fun while I am in the office I will see ya'll later.

Comment by Eduardo Cardoso on January 25, 2011 at 1:49pm

The poem is a metaphor for the situation we're living, in my city. People are lazy, and no one seems to have interest in art, or other rich things for the mind. Only a few people I know are involved in art. The city's galleries don't promote that much the local artists. And everything is made with a certain elitism, which sickens me. 

The young people just care about drugs, alcool, and futile things. It's a sad situation. And people look indifferent to that... Like ghosts in the walls of a coffin.

Comment by Eduardo Cardoso on January 25, 2011 at 11:45am

Ok, here it goes:

 

I exiled poetry from Babel's rubble

I embraced the marble as a way of life

And hung myself, hole of creation

Ghost on the walls of a coffin

 

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