but everybody looked just like their reflections..

"and so here I am
talking in a empty room
listening to my own voices
their echoes

inside this nothingness, the silence

many lifes have been left behind
and I've been left modeling the shape of my memories

you were always a better person
...before you got lost in darkness

in any case. I'm this container. of you. and all your faces.
let me dig a little deeper. i almost find you.

and sometimes i wonder if I'm digging to rescue or to bury you inside my many journeys
the real and the remembered ones

what will be left of me if you dissapear?
if there is no memory, emotions is what will be left.. perhaps
is that how I ended up being so full of them?

how did i get here, this empty room
will I be able to understand?
no-one to ask ... only this voices, the echos

and when it all will be finally gone

I will make you with my bare hands

out side
I guess I will always be a stranger"

                                           28 March 2009

bric a brac

I get to register in a ruled green book all the expenses for this regurgitated project.. I stick a receipt, draw a little picture of the purchase and write a little explanation of what would I use it for, or what am I expecting to learn from it, what little bit of atmosphere im wishing to gain with it. ..

at the end of the book, it will be filled with numbers, pounds, plus and minus ... little pictures









of course there is no need for the little crappy drawing.. but it distracts me from the monotonous task of register every single expense.. again in the hope, it then would be deducted from taxes, or taken as an evidence for some sponsorship, or so many other backward escalator that they told us to take on one of those ECCA lectures... yea yea... being an artist is possible in this country... yea yea.. so, since i have the feeling the whole task is absolutely useless, I might as well add a bit of more non-sense..

nymph in water

visible and invisible

“Absolutely visible body, in one sense, I know very well what it is to be looked over by someone else from head to toe. I know what it is to be spied from behind, watched over the shoulder, caught off guard when I least expect it. I know what it is to be naked. And yet this same body, which is so visible, is also withdrawn, captured by a kind of invisibility from which I can never really detach it. This skull, the back of my skull, I can feel it, with my finger. But see it? Never. This back, which I can feel leaning, against the pressures of the matters, against the couch when I am lying down, and which I might catch but only by the ruse of the mirror. And what is this shoulder, whose movements and positions I know nothing with precision, but that I will never be able to see without dreadfully contorting myself? The body-phantom that only appears in the mirage of the mirror, and then only in fragmentary fashion- do I really need genies and fairies, and death and the soul, in order to be, at the same time both visible and invisible? ”


‘Le corps utopique’ translated by Lucia Allais in consultation with Caroline A. Jones and Arnold Davidson from Michel Foucault, Utopies and Heterotopies, a CD release of two 1966 radio broadcasts published in 2004 by the Institut National d’Audiovisuel, Paris.

The First Fatality

a half forgotten word

hell is other people

Self consciousness needs "the Other" to prove (display) its own existence. It has a "masochistic desire" to be limited by the reflective consciousness of another subject.


and that is what you see in me. your echoes, your reflections.

there was nothing left of her but her voice.

American Romantic Movement

Yet, mad am I not -- and very surely do I not dream. But tomorrow I die, and today I would burden my soul.

somethings last a long time..

..somethings last for ever

sanity

and time is never lineal

journeys

are always longer when you do them in a spiral..