Monday 3 October 2011


You look around and this sea of negativity buries you in its maelstrom. We survive everyday, thinking: I need to change my bed or get some food or some whatever. You are hooked up to the hill and with your lover roam the street, finally you rest on the railways and while you live your lover dies and that is it. Your story appears in the news. One day an artist finds the newspaper, and writes about you while listening to gypsy music lent by a French girl. The world has become confused and tortuous, (yeah you may like it but is not enough). You want to do work but what is the point of a poetic object? You think about home, and what do you do read: an article about Russia and the demise of the intelligentsia in one away or another, and their trend to take things to the limit of the impossible. What is that: the limit of the impossible? The monkey of the dissenting books must be laughing its guts out under the stairs on hearing you. In the shantytown they are showing ‘The werewolf of Pago Largo’, a theatrical version of a radio program you listen to in the afternoon. Your kind aunt has taken you to see them. The very poor company sweats the lines out in a makeshift theatre under the tropics. She also has taken you to see the Great Leader (at a distance). Forty years later you are reading about a painting called I also saw Stalin. The artists now live in New York. That is home, the werewolf, the glimpse of the Great Leader and the thought of artists living in New York.

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