i don't have an image of happiness.
moving from the popular front to the united front. solution.
I miss you, B.
The Arabic language
loves long sentences,
and long wars.
It loves never-ending songs
and late nights
and weeping over ruins.
It loves working
for a long life
and a long death.
دسترسی محدود است
هر جا پا می گذاری دسترسی محدود است
پا می گذاری بر زمین
پا بر زمین
این سرزمین هم مال ما نیست
I feel disconnected,
I thought about death, I thought about you, and my mom.
Today for the first time I biked without my hands holding the handles, I opened my hands, fearfully, till I lost my balance. But the point was not finding the balance, it was being comfortable when unbalance. I was thinking about you. Your short red hair, and big teeth.
I really liked your big teeth. I loved kissing them with my teeth.
I am still disconnected, from my words, from the language.
I am loosing language.
I want to write about a hill, a big red hill over a city but I only have an image. No words, no lines. It is not only a hill. It is an afternoon, with music, two people sitting on a bench down the hill. It is not only a hill, people have been murdered here, early mornings, when we were sleeping. Right here, where I imagine I am standing, lies a body. Lies your body. I am holding your body and running down the hill, I lost you one early morning. I woke up and I knew you were gone. I feel rusty. My teeth are rusty. I got a big scar on my right leg, you have not seen it. It looks like Chile. It is long and brown, it has a tiny little island as well.
You said, I lie. I think you are wrong.
I think, sometimes you can not tell the difference between a truth and a lie.
I can never find the truth. The truth about wars, about stars, moon and why we were born.
The truth is I have never seen a dinosaur.
If I brush my teeth, you will not go away. You are between my teeth, right here. Like a cavity. I should break my teeth to get rid of you. Bad teeth.
The truth is I wont break my teeth.
I feel disconnected from you.
Friday August 1, 2014 at ACRE. (Click on the image above to see the other images)
Like the lines of a hand, banisters of the steps, corners of the street, poles of the flag, all the segments.. I do not know what I did exactly, It was an obsession, maybe? An excuse, Maybe? I think about silent gestures, their repetition and their context, or maybe them being out of context. I imagine a territory, a fabricated territory where the body inhabits movements.