Archive for the ‘ Picture ’ Category

The insular octopus

Through the sand, they dug and dug. They found a new world, orange and green. Flying fish glided in the air, and the giant octopus guarded the city. In its tentacles were the vulcanoes, smoking, smoking deeply and sighing noir words.

The city it brought on its back was idyllic, roads and fields sprinkled through the landscape with a residual population. The train tunneled through the invertebrate’s eyes and made way to the ocean, passing by submerse skyscrapers. Some who were lucky could provide oxygen for their plants, merrily located in the terraces of the now gloomy buildings. Most of them had orange trees and benches near platanuses. Some wisterias cascaded down structural beams, converging in complex aerial shrubs of purple, violet and white which apart from the spectacle provided shade. Orcas wandered through erstwhile avenues, dolphins invaded sunken apartment complexes, sharks bid their time in old stops.  Far away a caravel, with a symbol of the crusades in the mast, but much less threatening since it was now reduced to a mere anachronism. North of the octopus were ancient mountains, with waterfalls and cozy white peaks. Further down, wineyards that would wield sufficient wine to celebrate the end of the world. Everything looked perfect, people proceeded with their cruise-controlled lives in the village, cutting down trees to light fires. The villagers would piously pray in the church every day, begging the volcanoes not to spill and render the creature motionless. There were yet some other denizens who had escaped the aquatic disaster twenty years past, who were resourceful enough to gather patches of plants and earth from the wandering octopus and created farms in the terraces. Some blocks were endowed with planks, to make use of the adjacent sea – even though the sharks were cursed with eternal hunger. The “terrace-dwellers” would make use of crude boats to reach other platforms and there make use of the space.

Their daily life almost resembled a stasis, a niche of stillness that contrasted with the perpetual motion of the octopus, until the day of the vulcanic spill. It was dawn and the mollusc was in motion – which, proportionally to the size of the island, was fairly slow, about 40 kilometers per hour – and its visibility was negligent because of a high atmospheric humidity, yet the conditions seemed fit to keep on walking through the blue infinity. A great green shadow popped in the horizon, and what was seemingly a little hill soon grew into a gargantuan mass of land. The octopus little time had to evade it, and in a self-defense maneuver jerked the tentacle upwards to avoid an imminent collision. Sadly, the cephaloid’s logic was abstruse and the smoking red ink spilled over the iddylic landscape and charred most of it. The lava soon drained to the ocean, making its bearer heavier and less dexterous. In a matter of hours it sank, and the lava expanded as soon as it contacted the water – a new continent was born. An orange amorphous mass invaded the surface, settled itself in the middle of the ocean and everything was calm and immaculate. Everything, until the arrival of the terrace-dwellers.

Unrequited

Well before my fate, I’m lost in ancient sorrows that only suck the silence. Before my face, I’m lost in drunken colors, wandering through your hollow maze. Soon I’ll have to say what I always wondered about our meeting, thoughts and feelings I have caught with a golden net. Without ever noticing, I’ve got locks in my hand, with me, yet the thoughts keep running like a stream – nothing but a living memory lost in the decades of my once golden youth. Just to be clear, I don’t see you, you don’t see me – “I’m just a figment of your imagination”, someone whispers to me and, without even noticing, I’ve got the gods in my head with me. Surrendering to fate, I hear the sound of your song, I reach to the emptiness and – let me be perfectly clear – I don’t need you.

We’re sinking in the sand

How could that happen – how could that happen again? Were the fuck was I looking, when all this fodder came in, they built an army – to come and find me, beyond of reason, beyond of logic, making it my moment. It’s come to find me, with ten thousand women, pilots flying, kamikaze, half-brained monkeys…

Bombardiers above napalm the bloody soil – space here we come. They pulverize, and we stand alone, irked with the uncomplexity of life, even though we feel love, love for the ones who fell, who were thrown to the sinking sands and pitfalls, to the caves and gapes in the earth. The axis is turning, on suffering, while my headache burns like the sun.

The winter in the settlement fails to provide food for the thousands who got here, who stand still patiently waiting for their deaths. But it’s all about to change. The horses in my dreams are all heading northeast, to the place where peace lies. I have to warn them, warn us, the people and their armed counterparts. It begins – the exodus, the massive migration towards the promised land, where our faces will no longer resemble dying roses, where we shall be nothing but everything… Our sentience lingers in the weary whispers we adress to each other, careless breaths hampering our verbal delivery. The time has come, the shift is here – saturns heeds the warning, getting close to the egoic aspirations of the sun, the caduceus in the king’s frail hand burns with expectancy, a gargantuan fissure opens some scanty miles away from where we’re standing.

It begins.

Depressionella

Aimee Mann – It’s Not

I keep going round and round on the same old circuit, a wire travels underground to a vacant lot, where something I can’t see interrupts the current and shrinks the picture down to a tiny dot.
And from behind the screen it can look so perfect, but it’s not.

So here I’m sitting in my car at the same old stoplight, I keep waiting for a change but I don’t know what – red turns into green turning into yellow, but I’m just frozen here on the same old spot… All I have to do is to press the pedal, but I’m not – no, I’m not…

People are tricky, you can’t afford to show anything risky anything they don’t know, the moment you try, kiss it goodbye…
So baby kiss me like a drug like a respirator and let me fall into the dream of the astronaut. Where I get lost in space that goes on forever and you make all the rest just an afterthought (and I believe it’s you who could make it better) – but you’re not.
No, you’re not.
It’s Not.

Strange loops: the paradox of self-referentiality