having to deal with the business of making buildings, I try to picture my projects at their most extreme possiblities. mostly, the most ridiculous... perhaps covering an entire project in a net --- (making an aviary for birds. with the house inside it.) the hot chocolate exploded in the microwave oven. fascinating to see it blow up and freeze frame in the process. virutally, throwing the limits of the liquid to it's extreme capacity. if and only if it could be built! all that is left are the markings, which looks a bit like some barnett neuman drawing... if I squinted..now, that is much easier to translate...

It takes me everywhere. Through cities, neighborhoods and alleys. It takes me to the future yet it suddently brings back the past. Words, sentences and meanings. The end of the sentence, a new beginning. New words, sentences and meanings. It underlines. It erases. It forms shapes and thoughts. Reality and imagination. Everyday real~fictional~stories. I keep going. But now I realize that I can only go on for few miles. Where is the next Ink~Station?

keep moving even if it's only in your head. move around. explore old concepts. read old books. open those old doors. not into the past. but into the present. driving the present into other presents that weren't evident before.

She strolls through the urban aisle with her swollen, sweat-stained back against the sun shopping for nothing in particular. She stopped before a picture window in awe wondering how incredibly beautiful and cold people are, motionless before a million eyes, displaying themselves for purchase.
She pushed onwards, always against the flow, making a right on Third Avenue. "This is pretty." she said to her Other, pulling the bright yellow garment from the trash bin, holding it against the ruins of her breasts with a smile full of despair. "Yes, it's very pretty." said her Other. "You will have to try it on." "I will... One day...." She slung it over the side of her shopping cart, now serving a more basic function of vehicular consumerism, smiling anxiously at the blur of pedestrians who refuse to see her; a rare time that she felt happiness and no one noticed.

Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac Tic Tac

Can you hear it? It is the sound of time passing by. Where? In front of me. Behind me. Cogito ergo sum was once said. I am. I do not only think. I also write my thoughts down. Anywhere and everywhere. On a sheet, on a notebook, on toilet paper. I write my thoughts therefore I am. Time is passing by. It just said hallo to me with a deep intense smile. I love time. My friend and my enemy. I spend half of my time thinking. I spend the other half writing my thoughts, while time passes again by me. A goodbye. Til the next half!

deadlines deadlines deadlines. only I see it finished. no one else seems to know what is going on! makes me laugh! keeps the mystery alive! and some excitement!

Am I the right or the left? Or am I an equation of the two? The document states: "The other side of the Right is Logic. The other side of the Left is Imagination. The interaction of these opposing forces creates the signature we call Humanity."

On a planet where the 'surface' defines the movement of Human Reality, It is the Other Half, the primordial beauty and wisdom rarely seen and experienced in our global culture (not necessarily the institutions that commercialize the lack of our halves---you already know what they are). When the time comes, our halves will meet. That will be an interesting day indeed.

I am a vessel

Born from intimate strangers and cast aside to the Urban abandon.

Blue is the perennial color of absence, a twilight where emptiness roams the hearts of men.

The sun shines everyday and night falls soon after.

No one sees me mourning.

No one hear the brittle howl from this lonely soul.

All they see is a vessel shattered by the infantile hands of Life

useless

old

and Empty.

I am full. It is empty. It can be filled up again. I can be hungry again. A dish. A person. A plate. A brain. Food. Ideas. Creativity. What was on it before I started making it disappear? I swallowed it. A very artistic culinary creation. Now it is gone. Now it is my turn to put ideas "on a plate". Now that I am full. I cre-{ate}

too many hours in the day. my mind kicks in after the sun sets. not good when one never sleeps... the days are way too long

Humanity is the grand audience of its own performance. Each of us has a strategic place in "The Play Of Life" acting our role particular to ourselves. At once, the dawn of the first opening and the close of another act. Sometimes there's no applause, sometimes we laugh, most times we cry, sometimes one sits too far in the back row to see or hear clearly, but there will always be critics and directors and dressmakers and line specialists to help one enunciate and perform. Yet it's when the stages are empty; when the architects and politicians, sociologists and economists, scientists and engineers are busying themselves setting up the stage for the next act, this is when we see it: the eerie beauty and the poetic terror of the Stage-- an ominous shadow of the human soul, never completely dark, never completely light, always in a state of becoming.

We all live in this Global Theater. If Artaud is right in saying that the human body is immortal and that the theater offers the body transformation and memory (in which this process re-acquaints us to the drama of Life, letting us know that Life will always be the embodiment of its actors), then it's the theater, its fictions, myths, realities spanning the stages of Human existence reaffirming that ancient story, a story we have seen again and again: The Story Of You And Me.

A story is being told. A stage. Actors and spectator ready. Who are they? Who wrote the story? I realize it is not a theater. I am sitting in a Bistro at the corner between Reality Road and Imagination Avenue. The city a stage. The story the everyday. Who is the actor? The city or the people? Who wrote the story? The architect? A man sits next to me, his name is Guy. We are unconsciously watching time passing by right in front of our eyes. People, stores, billboards, messages and images. Suddently, after sipping a hot Espresso he softly says: "The spectacle is not a collection of images, but a social relation among people, mediated by images".

what's really behind our images? no one knows but us.
all our realities might seem like an act sometimes. it seems that we are lying, simply because to others, it's a reality that is unreal. everything around us is flattened out by rules and 'truths'. the great divide.

...and things ahve to be repeated. Is it a fundamental flaw in the fabric of the World or an error within the System of All Things?

What happens when biology repeats itself? Is it telling us that billions of life-forms (including humans) possess a definite limit to the combinations of varieties possible in Life? Everyone heard the : "Oh, you look just like a friend of mine, could be his brother..." It's creepy yet oddly disturbing.

People repeat themselves to be understood (which one can formulate the theory that all understanding is based on repitition) or seek approval on a point or other they're making, otherwise they're just rambling in circles which gets very annoying (those people exist by the way).

The Industry Of Labor requires one to adopt the virtue of Repeat: one is born, raised then spends the rest of their adult life repeating which leads to a behavior of routine which, disturbingly so, defines one's life! We should go to our jobs and our homes and kick over chairs, yell at our managers, throw the objects of consumerism into the streets and march against the System! We are not machines or devices! We do not have reset buttons! Controled deja vu shall make no claims on our lives!

My old {grandpa's} radio isn't playing music anymore. No sounds. No songs. But I love sounds, songs and noises. I don't like repetitions. I don't like radios that play the same songs. Don't tell me the same things over and over. Waste of time. My time. Your time.

You are not a cicada! Cicadas make sounds. Repetitive sounds. But they create music. A symphony for my soul. For your soul. You are not a cicada. You just keep repeating the same things over and over. So please shut up.

It's a valuable lesson, though not often learned. An addiction, an aspiration towards a way of life or the hope for a better one. The lesson begins, in some form, like this: acquire a ladder. Set it up in the middle of your room and climb as high as you are able. You'll notice a hint of two important things.

1. The inevitable limits of one's action in the world.

2. A satisfying lightness of Being.

Things look askew. Objects bear foreign expressions, colors shift scales, the embodiment of space transforms into horizons... But it's only a hint. A hint that compelled us to construct the Tower of Babel (hence the creation of Architecture), a hint that pushed great nations and small to war, a hint that made us betray our loves, friends and neighbors just for a glimpse.

It caused Lucifer his place among the elite of Heaven, for surely Heaven was not the highest form of expression. His Fall caused a rupture in the fabric of Creation. Now we have Gravity, Time and Death!

But we are all children of Icarus. Here, in the belly of the City, I scale stairways and ladders, bridges and tunnels and rooftops. The sensation is invigorating. It's a sad lesson but I will bear it gladly.

to do the same thing over and over. but in different places. it can never be the same. even when I feel I still am. still the same.

what I love most about travelling is the jet lag. it's when I take pictures. they are all the same place really. an inner space. hazy and clear at the same time. all the time

I want to escape from the city. Do I need wings? I am the Urban Icarus. I do not really want to fly. I just need a different point of view. I want to experience the city. From above. No wings, just a stairwell. I see. I perceive. Movements. People are ants from up here. The neighborhood looks like a moving painting. The window its frame. I want to escape from the city. Just for a moment. And see it from above. I am the Urban Icarus. I do not need wings. Just a stairwell. And a window.

I wonder about these skinny delicate branches, these brittle swaying lines.

Something I found while cleaning.

I keep for the things I remember.

I keep fro the things I forget.

I Keep, with a bare heart, the loves I once had and the sorrow that pains me still.

And here is the room of my borne sighing at the gravity of my becoming. Childhood eyes still wonder in marvel and mystery through an aging World gray with knowledge and humanity.

I keep for the things that are lost

In the End our dreams will remember us and carry us away.

An image. A mark. A look. Eternal? Statically moving. Away. Change of direction. With the body. With the eye. A new thought. An old memory. A path and a message. Who wrote it? Who's reading it? A story. Our story. Silence. I am rewriting my story. My foot is my ink. The street a blank page. My day a new chapter. I keep. I lose. I write and {re}-write. Through memories. And through found objects. I kept them. And they keep triggering my imagination.

peep holes were placed in doors for a reason. they are too high for children to reach, that is because children should never open the door in the first place. keep safe. wolves belong in forests not cities, although they can sometimes disguise themselves in plush red cloaks. do not ingest magic mushrooms when peeping,which could alter vision and perception altogether. their appearance may seem enticing, alluring or exotic. when in fact it can be a dangerous thing lurking behind your door.(beneath that cloak is still, not a fox from the little prince, but a big bad wolf, wolves travel in packs to say the least, so keep that door shut and chained, I know I am)

***image reshot from cluadine sia's prints, installed on my front door

He laid his face near the bathroom window, studied it a moment, then proceeded to scrub that filthy smile off it. When he was done he placed it with the rest.
He went to the bedroom closet and pulled out his face of Home: domestic, slightly worn around the eyes and mouth yet it was his most honest, most sincere. He brushed it off carefully and placed it on. He could smell the mildew and the grime emanating from the pores. Age does that to faces. He remembered his heart condition, popped some diovan and lipitor (for his cholesterol), took a deep breath and reached for his gun.

He paused half-way down the stairwell arrested by the eerie semi-darkness of the living room where his wife's silhouette danced in candlelight. Aware of his presence, she turned to him. He could feel her eyes bore into him. In the act of losing interest, she turned from him to the living room windows.
"Supper's ready." she said quietly
"The usual?"
She cast a faint smile and opened the curtains. There, bathed in lunar melancholy, she despaired the loss of her expectations; nothing seemed familiar and there was her husband, a failure and a coward behind a facade of sand. It shamed her most days, enraged her most nights. As she stood watching the Moon slowly make its procession through the evening sky, she thought about the many faces she had to wear to keep him under control. It was painful but she harbored no regrets.
He stood behind her and kissed her neck.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
She shivered as tears ran from her eyes. "I am ready."
He held the gun to her head and pulled the trigger.