This series is my contribution to the monthly text-battle
'The secret diary of somebody else' with artist Aino el Solh.
Thumping / Hammering (15.1.)
A script to walk under balconies
Coleman Hawkins -Out Of Nowhere tickles her in the back of her head. The sky seems to struggle with birds and heavy clouds. This years winter Linda was outside, when that apparently everlasting rain turned into snow. For weeks she felt like walking behind a semi-transparent curtain, the one with embroidered flowers, all in cream white.
The snowflakes are gaunt like fluffs, any trifling blow could change their movement upwards. Finally, after eight years or so, she got herself a hard-earned new winter jacket. The hallway of her cosy apartment is filled with jacket when she wraps it around her shoulders, with a fast twist. The door falls close, slow, with that imminent sound that tells the whole world that the neighbour came home late, again. The snow is still falling, meanwhile big chunks that have no time to loose. Lindas nose gets cold and her cherry cheeks make her appear joyous. With her hands in the wide pockets, her feet tight in the shoes and armed with the rumpled notebook, she continues to walk out on the white blanket. She remembers Benjamin saying that he dreamed of a frozen cake with the name 'Top Secret' and imagines him how he used to stretch his back to modern music in the middle of the room, wearing only his underwear.
By now the snow is masterminded by the steady piano of Duke Ellington, twirling around each other. The night starts to move closer from behind the five-floored houses and Linda wonders how many celebrities anybody can love at the same time? She stands still under the balcony to look at the windows being lit one by one, whereas the snow resembling a kind of distortion of times when we still used antennas to watch tv.
Living in the rearmost chapters of a novel is quite a romantic situation and she makes her way back home.
click here for 2014-2016
The field seems endless, especially in the dark. Far away the flickering lights (oscillation of electricity) of that neighbourhood which is populated with juvenile burger places, not worthy of the exhausting hill-ride. So I got out
of bed, as she advised me by texting 'get out!!' I can stay in bed for hours and hours, staring at the tree through
the stained window, while my thoughts change so abrupt, it would be out of the question to write them down.
The guilt often drops in unbearably.
I can hear my bike wheel scratching against the front fender while the only thing I can see is just a meter of a worn out white painted stripe in the middle of the old road, fading into the darkness, something like a Lost Highway,
being pulled smoothly after you let go. I am convinced there is no one else wandering through this vast dreamlike episode (12.2km2) and I hope they had not close the gate on the other side before I would reach it. Sure, you never know what will meet your sight, anything could turn out to be of inspiration, even a hermetically closed polyphrenic ejaculation of 90's pop. When I hear her say the line 'The community goes past me', I feel confirmed.
The grey and massive revolving door stays turning all night and I make my way out, passing the burger places, realizing that I can not play ping-pong with myself. Then again, finding someone's foreign language to translate,
is hardly an approximation of what is and can be. Eventually my cloudy blanket is the sanctuary called 'night', no
Hinter / Reward (15.3.)
'I could have flown to New York with what I spend on changing the flight dates',
said Julie on the phone, chit-chatting about the days to come and then hung up.
Yes, it might have been more romantic indeed, but nothing is for certain anyways.
This time she was gone for a month, she couldn't wait to get back, some months just feel lengthy.
She sits back continuing her writing while billboards pass by, trying hard to win back her attention.
The story in her notebook, written with that smooth pencil, starts with: 'Sam never really felt a shine for these huge clean vast spaces.
And he has been to so many...'
Julie was convinced, what ever the title would be, the tail had to be about that moment that was real, still queerly sounding like a movie.
What else is there to say, her imagination is inseparably connected to her own inner colourful church window, leading to a trail covered
with boxes and bags. Damn that guy stayed in her head, to make it evaporate only a flight above the clouds is the best course of action.
To name but a few intimacies.
No time to take a rest, but instead being forced to recognize the changes during her absence, after she steps off the train.
New white graffiti covering the entire front door, that just failed the key hole, if you look close
new barrister at the corner cafe, not knowing that she does not take a lid on her cup
new monumental painting, on the wall of a house, on the way to the studio, pretending not to be a house, but a staircase
old trees that got their branches trimmed, even a person witnessing them for the first time, would notice
the scaffolding wrapped around the house on the other side of the street, that looked totally fine, but seems in need of something different
new benches at the pétanque courts, made of yellow wood, shining in the sun, tomorrow it will rain again.
'Imagine I would leave for a year, to work full-time in another country….'
It is not that Noema and Noesis are bored.
Plenty of things that have happened and
even more people that have experienced them.
Whilst a soft voice in the radio was singing 'If I didn't care more then words can say…'
My friend told me that she decided to stop producing artefacts, to stop helping new things in to this world. What are the odds? The odds are long.
One side is coated with orange paint, which is shielded by a flat white rectangular piece,
on this rectangular piece are two blobs, the green one seems to slide down a bit and the red one has a little hole,
on the other side of the big block (the one with that orange side) something deep black is growing upwards or dripping down, the third side has something red attached to it, that overcasts almost all of that side with a smaller black piece coming out from it, the forth side is encased with something seemingly organic, dripping in full quantity,
the top is pierced by two pipes, one is going straight up, coated in green white and black drippings, completed with a baby-blue smashed ball, the other pipe sticks out at forty-five degrees, piercing three red-brown objects that could be flowerpots, topped with one green-white object, all emerges from an oversized industrial bag, the entirety rests on a pallet.
The room had the shape of a rectangular, roughly the hight of an ordinary apartment. The stone walls seemed merely painted black or maybe a very sooty grey. Outside the night was trying hard to keep the room gloomy and obscure. Broken by eight generous windows, the walls fragmented that same opacity. The entire floor was covered with lasting carpet, but the corners of the prism were impalpable. “confusion has always been at the heart of wisdom”, she remembers. The air was nebulous.
Nothing would hang on the walls, not one picture, no chair standing near the stairs, nor a wardrobe.
A tousled bed was standing near the left wall. They were alone and he offered her orange juice, while she stepped out of the bed. The mood was all quiet and stir, as faint as the light that evoked.
She was only wearing underpants and a soft white sleeveless shirt. He was studying her with all his capacity and with no interference. When the darkness was gently pushed aside by dawn, beams appearing like the effortless movement of silk underwater, she sat down on the floor with her back against the wall, facing him. The light rays shimmered on her body. She embraced her legs, pushing them effortlessly against her chest, feet on the ground, when he let himself surrender onto the bed,
but mumbling 'A geometric shape is the geometric information which remains when location, scale, orientation and reflection are removed from the description of a geometric object'.