Αλλά το τηλέφωνο μας εννά σταματήσει να χτυπά; Εγώ νομίζω οτι κάποιος εννά μας ψάχνει τζι’εμάς. Για να μοιραστεί τζιαι τζείνος την απελπισία τζιαι την απόλυτη πλήξη του να ζεις ακόμα,
πολλά μετά την τελευταία μέρα της ζωής σου.
As the world closed in, the sunflowers bloomed.
“The most tragic form of loss isn’t the loss of security; it’s the loss of the capacity to imagine that things could be different.”
― Ernst Bloch
The thing about the body is that it is an archive
and the thing about trauma is that it drills
an active volcano into the chest.
‘to exit the factory and save our thoughts, the only gear we control.’
Now guess I’m a country hating man, for hate is the last Christian supper I’ll ever understand, and how my people can spell kindness with their red right gun arm, oh there’s a bullet coming for the sun, watching my man bleed unarmed, watch my gay siblings sing ‘till dawn
“Put down the map, white man;
let me show you what you’ve done.
Take out your camera,
but first let me ask,
what have you enjoyed the most? The defensive walls? They look harmonic on the map. Ignore the middle, that’s a scar, the last divided capital, just look at the Venetian shards.
This place of pure pain. This place of pure contradiction. This place of pure fiction. This place where nothing is pure.
‘Poetry can be a wholly creative process. It has the potential of creating worlds that can be nothing other than the product of the poet’s imagination. Photography, instead, is a transformative process. It can only deal with real things. As such it is often confused with reality itself. But, then, it has an enormous transformative potential. Both, though, are fascinating forms of story-telling which is, after all, the cornerstone of human civilisation.’