Thursday, January 29, 2009


Σα να σε βλέπω τώρα, να σε κοιτάς στον καθρέφτη επαναλαμβάνοντας συνεχώς τον ίδιο ρόλο και μετά να υποδύεσαι τον εαυτό σου στην καθεμία ξεχωριστά κοιτάζοντάς την κατάματα πάλι εσένα ψάχνοντας να βρεις στα μάτια της μέσα, να δεις το είδωλό σου να αντικατοπτρίζεται, για να σιγουρευτείς ότι παίζεις καλά.
Από την πολλή ανασφάλεια σε φούσκωσες τόσο, που δεν άφησες ούτε σπιθαμή για άλλον να απλωθεί. Κι έτσι, αφού στρίμωξες κι' έπνιξες όλους όσους διάλεξες να προβάλεις πάνω τους το 'εγώ' σου, κανέναν δεν κλαις από τα θύματα σου, γιατί πρόλαβες να τους αφανίσεις όλους πριν προφτάσουν να σ' αγγίξουν. Κλαίγεσαι όμως που μένεις τελικά μόνος πάνω στην σκηνή να ακούς τη ηχώ σου.

Ζωή κι αυτή...Να μην τη μοιράζεσαι τόσο επαγγελματικά, από φόβο ότι θα σε πουν ερασιτέχνη.


(digital painting: profane body)

Sunday, January 25, 2009

stepping stone or catalyst?




[for the moment I was curling on the ground avoiding shrapnel- knees tightly pressed on chest, hands covering head- when by pure coincidence, I was blocking your firm pace and you mistook me for a stepping stone which I had absolutely no intention of becoming. But, for that unfortunate moment, you are welcome.

I’ m no proud master of precious things
The majority are on loan.
The love, the caring tenderness,
The sweet caress, the listening ear,
These gifts of life so dear
I’ve learned not to cling on.
All carry expiration dates, 
when we must pass them on.
But my mistakes,
I am fully in charge. 
No borrowed things, 
just owned.
So chop their ‘l’ and cry an 'm',
for my mistakes I'll moan.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Monday, January 19, 2009


from 'zero positive'

f.e.m.ke.


ATTENTION:
WORDS IN PROGRESS!



Trick by trick, we are building the solid foundations of your deception to safeguard our future.
For your own convenience, you are kindly requested to crawl the silent way home. Thank you for your comprehension and cooperation.



Saturday, January 17, 2009

Thursday, January 15, 2009

'A room within the room' dream



She had never noticed the crack on the wall inside the closet. She hadn't been using this closet at all lately. The last time she opened it was when she was storing the coats and down jackets from her years in Boston, leaving behind and forever the freezing, astute winters and giving way to mild and tepid time and days. Now that she finally needed to use her ski jacket after decades, she found out about the receding wall and the crack. She touched it and a whole sheet of paint fell on the closet's floor only to reveal more of the opening in the wall. Being very curious, she started digging on the soft, moldy surface with her hands and the crack gave way to a hole the size of a loaf of bread. In a 'curiosity killed the cat' mode she ran quickly to the toolbox, fetched a hammer and a flashlight and sank deeper into her demolition mood. It was too easy. After a couple of good bangs the weak material collapsed completely and the hole became the right size for a small person to slide through. Just like Alice, she had to let herself be sucked by the hole. Biting the flashlight firmly against her teeth she lighted her way through the dark gateway to the unknown and slid into its darkness, adrenaline shooting stars in her head. The space she found herself into was cold and damp and smelled of abandonment. As she landed from the hole onto unknown ground the flashlight fell from her mouth and bounced on rough concrete directing a beam of light right at her opposite direction. A staircase. Bare and naked, made again of concrete with no railings. A cold, uninviting, unrefined, colorless and ghostly space unfolded in front of her. A hidden, unfinished house inside her own warm house revealed itself, as if halted from one minute to another and concealed in urgency behind walls, forever to be kept in the dark, a secret. She picked up the flashlight and continued walking cautiously towards the bare staircase. Step, step, step, step, pause. In front of her at the end of the staircase, a closed wooden door blocked her way. She reached out, turned the knob as if she was handling the combination of a safe and an enormous room unraveled its full dimensions. A queen size double bed in the middle of it defined it as a master bedroom with no windows to a world. There were closets on one wall and a chest with a mirror on the other. The bed looked as if it was made, but felt like it had not been used for decades. As she approached the closets, the heavy smell of time invaded her nostrils. Old and scary,familiar and warm. An ambivalent flow of sensations overwhelmed her as she was scanning this ark of a long gone past that was once hers. Her hesitant cold fingers opened one of the closets. She encountered her teenage clothes, folded with care from a hand that could only have been her mother's. She remembered wearing them. In the other closet she discovered her mother's clothes that she has been wondering for years whether they existed or if she had imagined them in the first place. The lace dress of the formal invites, the fur coat that she once loved to touch and caress, moments deep back from time that had ever since been buried in memories. Her forgotten graduation gown was hanging slightly discolored from a hanger near the mirror, and the long- lost bed cover her grandmother had knitted was lovingly embracing the bed. Logically (how ironic to be using this word) this must have been her parents' bed, a second one, a secret one possibly, since the one she was lazying on with her parents during her Sunday childhood mornings had already been taken care of and was donated to a nursing home many years ago. But now, this alternative version of a present past reality was here, as if her parents had never died, but had silently retired to a hideaway in between lives, bypassed and unclaimed from death, escaping refurnishing, renovations, new owners, new life. In between walls, a standstill. A waiting room between life and death...
A telephone ringing from a far distance, like a dream within a dream (this was the title of the first poem she ever learned to recite by heart) shook her up. As she jerked abruptly in bewilderment, her mother's broach that she had previously unclasped from her favorite formal dress fell from her hands breaking into pieces and a loose pearl rolled down and stopped at the tip of her shoe. She picked it up and shoved it in her pocket hurriedly - the constant need for tangible proof of a delusional skeptic - and ran out from the Lewis Carroll universe, down the stairs, across the empty corridor, through the wall and into her everyday world, locking the closet behind her.
The next morning, when everybody had left
for school and work, she opened again the closet impatiently.'Fresh paint, Keep out'. A message on a post-it in the middle of the wall. No sign of crack at all. Hand shoved violently in pocket in desperate search of a pearl...
Two days later, the doorbell rang. Three employees from the IRS had come over to measure the house after reports of a new extension
. She wondered whether her thoughts had been monitored.
' It's hallucinating...They even tax dreams nowadays...'

Wednesday, January 14, 2009


Robert Barry
Art Work (1970)



It is always changing. It has order. It doesn't have a specific place. Its boundaries are not fixed. It affects other things. It may be accessible but go unnoticed. Part of it may also be part of something else. Some of it is familiar. Some of it is strange. Knowing of it changes it.



John Baldessari

"I will not make any more boring art"





Vito Acconci
RE




(here)( )( )
( )(there)( )
( )( )(here and there ­ I say here)
( )(I do not say now)( )
(I do not say it now)( )( )
( )(then and there ­ I say there)( )
( )( )(say there)
( )(I do not say then)( )
(I do not say, then, this)( )( )
( )(then I say)( )
( )( )(here and there)
( )(first here)( )
(I said here second)( )( )
( )(I do not talk first)( )
( )( )(there then)
( )(here goes)( )
(I do not say what goes)( )( )
( )(I do not go on saying)( )
( )( )(there is)
( )(that is not to say)( )
(I do not say that)( )( )
( )(here below)( )
( )( )(I do not talk down)
( )(under my words)( )
(under discussion)( )( )
( )(all there)( )
( )( )(I do not say all)
( )(all I say)( )


Adrian Piper

[Untitled 1968 work]


Tuesday, January 13, 2009

καφέ





Τo καφέ καστόρινο καπέλο, διασκέδαζε τους σκυθρωπούς χειμώνες και κρατούσε ζεστές τις σκέψεις σου.
Το χρώμα έχει υποχωρήσει λίγο, διακριτικά σε απόχρωση ζωής. 
Σε βλέπω 
κάτω από το καφέ καπέλο να χαμογελάς με εκείνα τα μάτια που με κοιτάνε και τώρα από τον καθρέφτη της γκαρνταρόμπας. Κάθε φορά που το σηκώνω, περιστέρια φτερουγίζουν από μέσα του και οι στιγμές σου κάνουν μαγικούς κύκλους γύρω μου, είναι άραγε οι μνήμες σου. Άκούω λόγια σοφά και παλιά, ξεθωριασμένα νανουρίσματα. 
‘Εχει τη μυρωδιά σου το καφέ καπέλο. Η μυρωδιά πάντα αρνείται πεισματικά να φύγει. Μένει υπομονετικά μετά από όλα, επιμένει με τους ζωντανούς, παράλογα ν' ανασταίνει. Κι έτσι φτιάχνω με οσμές την αγκαλιά σου. 
'Κουκλάκο μου’...Σ' ακούω. Μα μιλάνε τα καπέλα; Καμιά φορά μιλάνε. Όταν οι μύτες μας βγάζουν αυτιά. 
Πόσα μόρια σκόνης που στάθηκαν στα μαλλιά σου έχει ακόμα πάνω του το καφέ καπέλο; Πόσα δικά σου ζουν ακόμα κάτω από το γείσο του;
Το καφέ καπέλο κάθεται πάντα στο ίδιο σημείο.
Σπάνια το αγγίζω μη και σε ξυπνήσω κι αποφεύγω να το μυρίσω για όσα μου ξυπνά.



diagnosis

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