MRS. MAD PROFESSOR

Welcome into my playground, where the restless spilling of crazy ideas is connected to the source that feeds on life, where i run, jump and let the mist get transparent, like the air in a summer morning. I pierce the brooch to keep the pages together, so the notebook smiles like a satisfied baby after sucking from the bottle. As you read these lines, I succeeded on the preparation of the culture medium; reaching, sharing and spreading mental and body health infection in a race against time and presumptions. You can call me Mrs. Mad Professor; I wear a white coat, a flawless canvas to be stained with drops using the color range between infrared and ultraviolet. Vomiting lines into the register, disordered perceptions I am engrossed with. These are the moments in which lucidity gushes out, the ones in which nightmares and fears get emulsified with the fruit of experience. And they populate the almost empty heights, where I bloom alone so joyfully, as the weeds are left behind, withering. I send a postcard every once in a while, with no intention or endeavor to give expression uniquely to the vivid nuances. There where there are highlights, there is also an invaluable presence: darkness, without which assistance the picture would be fogged. As well as my beautiful silence, in which I rest and touch an unfathomable ocean of wholeness, wouldn’t have any benefit on me without the vibration strokes. Here, sitting in the laboratory, I write as I cook, sprinkling on the plate secret herbs in between other ingredients, thank you intrepid reader, best regards from my kitchen. B_Nour