My third life, looking for john.
questioning the capacity of myself.
In the summer of 2016 I met john during a conference on weight. The event took place in a bubble filled bathtub, so dense it layered me like a second skin. Yes it was an uncommon encounter, almost paradoxical I agree. Our meeting was special, despite the absence of john’s physical presence, I felt deeply touched . The essence of john was the essence of our rendezvous. he discussed a lot, theories that fascinated me so much so that i got entangled in the wave of his storytelling. I was in sight. After our bath, a mirror was presented to me, in it sharpest corners I could see glimpse of john. We went for coffee.
True story I got kidnapped by aliens when I was 16
[In the early 2000’s a television channel aired a documentary on alternative lives. Their deep isolation and sappiness struck me. Seeking for validation they were, with fractured hearts and skins carved, drought that left their veins hollowed and emptied like a dry riverbed. Cracks and nostalgia at play. I began pondering wether the self, as abstract as it may be, actually had a valid existence in its tangible sense. Wether it has lost the game and exited the site, crippled and defeated. Truth be told it was 2000.]
I’m facing castles made out of sand. The question no longer seems to be how they got here, so neat and with such fine grain, but rather what matter or character endeavours the depiction of matter and characterisation as such, against my px tiles and my canvas. Yes, i’m reminding myself that i agreed to the terms that come with comfort and tranquility. if anything my skin will ravel out against the metal, if anything it will make its last round and shred. If anything i will feel how it overdrives and burns to a cloudy black damp, reeking of myself.
I’m bridging - extraordinary distances and find the extraordinary on bridges dangling between a click or two. The air around me compresses itself like a rattling refrigerator would. Disintegrating noise from noise to a minimum. A fine and pure concentration. Upon arrival, i knock on the front door, nervously and still somewhat unstable.
With a big sigh I look back at my live, questioning my choices, reviewing the current state of being. A typical run through when facing the greatness of the sun crowning the sea. it puts things into perspective. The tequila sunrise almost looks identical to the picture on the counter of the ‘Best bar on Patong beach’, where I ordered it. Just as the travel book suggested. The sand is fine as dust and the heath has finally settled. Later tonight there’s a screening of ‘La grande Bellezza’ just next to the bar where they will be selling Italian Aperol spritz. As we all face forward looking at the last bit of the golden ball hopelessly drowning, a dull sound of sirens decorate the boulevard. History is added to timelines; and there between silence and dust the face of god is about to appear.
Hypotyposis and specularity
RELOAD! RELOAD! RELOAD!
A warning of reality about to be aborted. The loudest scream ever, on the best party we’ve ever been, where the DJ is playing the best music I’ve ever heard, all in the midst of summery Rome, in Summery Phuket. All in the midst of the highest highlight of highlights so far. So, so far. Pause. Our poor mental preservation capacities have the ruins of Rome vaporise in the blink of an eye. We step out of the bucket of sand and onto the sound absorbent concrete. Frustration rakes up now that we’re reduced to the recharging of the battery, a re-injection of reality on stand-by. I sit back, looking at the blank wall in front of me. Nothing shimmers, nothing screams in this sanitised environment. It’s a dull duality of time. I sit waiting for time to un-pause, waiting to regress into reality. From layer to layer from limbo to limbo, not sure to what state I’m acclimatising. The humidifier hanging from the ceiling creates a soothing sound as it is puffing away, in reminisce of the Thai breeze. The last remainings of it seep out as my attention turns to the black blinders that veil the window. Its fringes percolate the diffused outer layer. Feigned augmentations saturated by their own presence, deluded by their own pretence. Their malleable appearance on the edges present themselves with faded red’s, blue’s and green’s. It sees us, marginalised as we see them.
Let’s add some rain to this scene, for a dramatic effect.
Blobs of rain attach themselves to the double sided glass, as if someone smudged it with a chain of christmas lights. They appear like tiny pearls, transparent ones and coloured by the lights outside. Evidently fresh as seen from their watery tracks that run down, as if they’d just got cracked open from their shell and pasted onto the window. The crisp and sharp white Autumn light is unlike any other season, having left the summery yellow haze behind things have a sense of palpability again. The night has just set and soon after the rain has done its job as an extra, the smell of petrichor will rise from the earth hybridised with hints of burnt rubber. Mystifying the scene as it emerges from the warm asphalt. Looking down from this height the streets look like veins, pulsating and manoeuvring cars around prophecies of future purchases. It makes me think of how I can almost not recall the sound of an old fashioned howling engine. They’ve become ancient, so to speak. Leaving the city in a subdued and comatose state. There’s a building in the far back with an electronic billboard screen attached to one of its sides. defining the architecture and the space around it with its bright light. The video on the screen ABRUPTLY changes. Seconds of black make it seem as if we’re stranded. no play, no time. Void. There I am waving at the screen, waving to myself as cheers from streets sharpen themselves. So sharp, it wraps itself around me like a thick layer of mist. Noise.
> hi i’m looking for john
> yes, he knows who i am, hmm we’ve met some time ago during a conference on weight. Tell him I’m here to return the weight he gave to me.
It smells strange, i think to myself. i can’t figure out what it is exactly but it smells strange. I keep on reminding myself that i am here for a reasonand try not to think about Kathy in west Virginia or frank that lives in Amsterdam. their meeting in the documentary was so off.
I’m here to return weight, I'm here to return weight.
I’m here to return weight.