doubles

I am two and we both write. Sometimes simultaneously. Sometimes just one of us. We never quarrel upon words, as we never use the same. We are just occasionally confused about what we feel. One of us seems younger, annoyingly curious. Conflictual most of the time. Overly emotional, yet in denial. Incredibly stupid. However, it is that one that I envy. For her vivid dreams with skirts and red stilettos. Because that one can weep for long, laugh at heart, face her fears. Because she can dream of a redheaded alien that was hiding in the cellar. I mean, yeah, in fact it is nothing strange to dream of a redheaded alien wearing a long grey coat, and it is not that strange to hold him in your arms, to hide your hands in his coat’s pockets while placing your chin gently on his shoulder and whisper “you can hide in the loft, if you think it’s safer”. It is neither strange to wake up from your dream and nor is it to fumble in your book shelves looking for the book that may have the answer. Even if you know the cover but not the title, and on the spot you do not remember the author. The poetics of space is everywhere after all in its plain simplicity, unfolding before your eyes in various geometries and reasons. I envy her because she can make her mind dance, because I know she dreams almost every night. And I know she chose to make those images fade away before reaching my sight. I envy her for keeping her dearest dreams floating alive in an image database I cannot exactly access. I am just her dark shadow double, keeping her grounded to my own hell. I do not want to let her go, as long as I do not want to let her live either. She is my captive and I am her tormentor. Because I envy her for all she can be, while I cannot. And, because there’s always someone she can call when she senses the danger, even in her dreams. And there’s someone to answer her call, even in her dreams. And I want to be her too, to the point I crave to intermingle and get dissolved, until there’s no me anymore.

Photo: http://www.jacobsutton.com/index.php?section=exhibition_work&portfolio=underwater_girl

waves

Because of global warming Venice is sinking 1mm per year […] We will have again branchia.

So, we have again branchia. We send letters into air bubbles crossing the no man’s land water fields to their intended recipients. Like some sorts of word-carriers transparent balloons. And the messages are intimate as kisses maybe, undeliverable to the outside world as we take the bubble gently with our lips, swallow it slowly so the words could pour on our mouths. Taste of the words blooms like buds sending the messages up high like long expected echoes. We dance like the seaweeds, hoola hooping with the deep waves. We may go up close to the surface and coil around sunrays in a sensual and provoking pole dance, sending cartographic details of the skin while twirling. The message I got was seven letters long. Let us meet at sunrise in Venice.

We came ashore for a glass of air and a breath of smoke. To live and die simultaneously. We sat crossed-legged with wet hair on the stripped pavement of Piazza San Marco smoking a cigarette with a sweet scent of cherry and vanilla in the crude light of dawn. We may have looked like strange butterflies wearing transparent foggy wings attached our backs. Or, maybe some kind of polymorphic amphibians ready to fly at each blow of breeze in a totally reversed world. I wanted to dance with you in the middle of Grand Canale an old court-like dance wearing early morning sunrays as a carnival mask. We were slowly dissolving into the water with each spin. Breathing each other stories in a closed embrace until sun was all above and we were all gone.   

  

Photo:

https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe-NEuXCMz16aJGA5GOp1aoDK93D3A0pmjmD7BCpLoaM5g5gTpsd3vL5ZwObBBAqruIpSW9E0goZ6ACwPdVUPNGG4PTrPQ1Ddz_3OUs1yNDPU2_UHotCeTKTRC5SJBsNRwVlP_9KAfocI/s1600/luv,photography,silhouette,underwater,couple,kiss-47f8c295eef05904423a8eaea2e5dae0_h%5B2%5D%5B2%5D.jpg

Fragmentary beings

I am a fragmentary being with a colourful, different, volatile, incongruent, dyslexic almost world in my head. An uncountable amalgam of automated activities. A static noise bearing all sorts of thoughts, memories, fears, ideas, fragments of reality, overlapping images. Different voices, background music, various focuses, hidden pains. Like a solar explosion, sometimes there is a word or a sound emerging in full power splatting the conscious mind. Last time it came out loud and clear.

As if someone was slowly turning on a radio deep inside. And, that out-of-music morphine kept running and running for long, at different intensities. The same word, but different voices bearing other meanings each time; and at last, the way out of this labyrinth was to focus the rhythmic patterns of drums. You had been there in the middle of a live concert, and probably, that morphine having been hit my deep level of subconscious mind was at first gently passing through your body, your cells before landing on other remote places. You have that kind of pull, like gravity, keeping things on their right orbit.

In the end, it is not about time, but paths. And like that, I became suddenly aware that in my dreams, I have never seen or heard watches, but sometimes I dreamt maps. I remembered that I was looking at a map and drawing with my fingers the path to take, to reach the same unknown point outside the boundaries of map. Therefore, it was me heading south, and you heading north and deciding to meet I don’t know when and I don’t know how somewhere in the west.

 

You are there in different shapes, way too different to ever recognize you. Disclose yourself. Whisper me a hint. And, the hint was there all the time, but in fact, I was so afraid I might lose everything forever the moment it was poured into words. But there were no words. Only a hug from behind, close and intimate, and completely unexpected. For those few mind-created milliseconds, I felt safe. Gently touching your arm, I closed my eyes, and tried to save a file storing the warmth of your skin.

Photo: http://www.techhog.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/10/fragmentation-art.jpg



Magnetism

It took me a while to understand. Those things love to come poke my head in various ways. Delightfully visual, colorful, almost surrealist, and ambiguous. Last time my alternate universe was contracted in a squared room with dark brown-sugar wooden floor. Impeccably waxed. Maybe that was why two white seals defy gravity to live comfortably on magnetic board on the wall. Refugees from the north pole maybe. More likely, the magnetic north pole. It is all about magnetism after all. And I felt it. You, your naked back and waved hair, your hand. We seemed to run out of that squared room, run from people and waxed floors… then I woke up. That morning draped itself in simple words; we touch each other’s lips with our fingers, each other’s neck, and trachea. I can still see, frame by frame, your uncovered blade bone, your shoulder, but my senses cannot remember your touch, neither the texture of your skin. We touch various things having abstract names, but what I cannot touch in either way yet is me. And is you.

Photo: http://ntikhomirov.500px.com/

Personal Geography

I have borne these words in my mind for months. They were somehow inhabiting my synaptic defined space, and erratically emerge to grab various senses. There was no algorithm of such encounters other than spikes of emotions. Or, at least, that was what I thought. Unexpectedly, the trigger was a name. My secret name was written on a wall and I have seen it. For a split second. With neat and sharp line, elegant in particular way, indulging a wonderful asymmetry. “This is me”, I thought and I felt it was that hidden me I longed for so much to meet. I moved to New York with two suitcases and a goal to make ten thousand photos. So insanely courageous indeed. There might be a precise New York for everyone located somewhere within the inner personal geography. What if, somehow I would find that necessary and sufficient strength to say…that’s enough lack of horizon for one life. What if, after seeing the image of me there, I knew where my New York was? Even though I cannot say who I am but go for it and speak as if I knew it. Time is half of the story. My New York is fragile and under the radar, unidentifiably gorgeous and strange. I am still running around in circles, hunting down, putting on the right scent with bow and arrows. What I could do for now is just lay down in shadow and listen. Then I will go on writing till I drop & hoping that one day or one night you can read my words beyond my caring.

Photo: http://www.babel-voyages.com/mini/1000m600/photos/source/the_temple_of_transition_morning_light_breaking_th.jpg