new text on old ideas (september 2009)
It was in the greenhouse house all forgotten things were there, everything that ever got lost, the souvenirs of memories lost, the traces of all unimportant lives, the glass house, later on I was cleaning the snow that blocked the road.

remix (september 2009)
in the middle of a big rich city, beautiful french architecture, impressive. The grass is really green. The city is big, and unknown. Or not, it is actually a city I know, but it is just completely different. I walk and walk and cycle, the really poor areas where the streets aren ’t paved and the sugar cane grows everywhere, walking and walking and taking a jeep, moving out of the city more and more and wondering if I will know how to find my way back.

Another dream: I am somewhere, getting bored of myself.

Another dream: I am typing fast. “In the dream”, I write, “the children were eating strawberries. In the dream, daddy walks towards them and the children start throwing strawberries at him, hitting him in the face, everywhere. Pli looks at daddy, without understanding, but still throwing strawberries at him. His face is covered in red.” I write again, I am typing fast: “In the dream, I write, the children were eating strawberries in the dream. In the dream, daddy walks towards the children eating strawberries in the dream. The children start throwing strawberries at daddy, while daddy walks towards the children in the dream, eating strawberries, throwing strawberries at him, in the dream. I type fast, I write, in the dream. In the dream, the children are eating strawberries.”

 

excerpt from another text (june 2008)
This is nothing, but I like the sound of it.
This is nothing, but I like the sound of it.

 

excerpt from a text (date unknown)
thank you for everything.

 

poetic writing (june 2008)
Long black plats dream about basket in bike by the river bank. Curls and clear eyes, reddish hair, wig and red lips, very red, very red. Italian ice cream. Italian films. Italian - italian - fantastique.

Walks down the street, walk down the street, river bank, different area of this city. Climbing up the stairs black skin, pearl white skin, swapping colours, black, white and red. Blonde wig, red lips, black clothes, black lips, red skin, open scalp, collecting scalps, red river bank, bycicle lying on the grass. Comes closer, comes closer, comes closer, comes closer, comes closer, comes closer, comes closer, closer, closer, comes closer. Come closer. Come closer. Come red lips black clothes, close, swap colours blonde wig by the river bank dances like – blonde blonde writing thinking introspection dialogue introspection – dances like distance in skin and eyes.

Long distance.

Dream about bycicle by river bank, about river by red skin by the grass. Dream again. Come closer. Dream again. Come. Closer.

Time passes by. It passes by the river, cycling, like a dream, like time passes by in a dream.

I like dreaming. I like waking up.

Wake up by the river bank, lying on the grass, basket and bycicle close by. Red fruit and pearls, seeds, meat and cheese, honey, milk, water and wine. Berries, grapes. Grapefruit. Scented piece of wood. I like dreaming. I like waking up.

Wake up on the street. Long black blonde red stockings passing by, cycling by. Water runs softly. And smells. I like dreaming. I like honey and milk, and wine. I like stockings. I like skirts and wigs, I like water, fruits and grass. I like black and plats and red and plats and closer and come. I like dreaming and I like waking up.

 

notes from the rehearsal process of 'Hamster wheel' (march 2008)
What can be defined by having a body? Does it define what is real? Where we live? Can you have the right body but be the wrong person? Who are you if you can have doubts about your body? Is it easier to feel detached from your body than to feel detached from your mind? What am I then? this thing about body and technology is getting more and more existential…

 

technological poem #1 (may 2007)
Triadic DNAs okay you either at
This is what I try to saw my arm in pain:
Fatal back in the Hill is Occidental.
so, I think I would like to start writing something
for humans
less bad enough it makes so much sense to just write the Yankees speaking on the microphone.
“Fatal back in the Hill is Occidental enter mandrake”
and I'm very enter in a hotline
to go down to the next nine.

Anyways

bean money on this thing, money on this thing, money on this thing.
anyways, tomorrow
I have to work.
but the fact that you're writing it is a fun fun fun fun…

I will go discuss how the unwelcome there, unwelcome there moaning. if you are in a clutch gauche vocal old goal at state save.
Yay!

 

notes from the rehearsal process of 'Fieldings' (november 2007)
during a 'round' of Shavasana, in a rehearsal: for the first time I connected for real with the idea of Pose of the Dead. I felt the weight of my body change, becoming really heavy and static, and cold. And for a moment I felt like observing / sensing a dead body. I wondered if that is how a conciousness after death could be.

and then: if whenever you observe an experiment you affect the outcome, what happens if you are not only observing it but you are the experiment, and you are the container in which the experiment is taking place?
I imagined we are at the same time Schrödinger and Schrödinger’s cats, and we have a 50% chance of killing ourselves by opening the box and determining the experiment.

 

notes from the essay 'Fire and brimstone' (january 2008)
why is a discussion about Moral important to me? Because I do not think it is important to understand the world/people, but I do think it is unavoidable (and essential) to relate to people/the world.

I don’t believe in amorality. I am a ‘full on’ subjectivist. This means that I believe that we Do and Choose, and that things happen because of us and are loaded with subjectivity. I try to tell myself: it’s okay to be wrong, it’s okay to be incoherent. I will build up my ethics throughout my life, it will change day after day, year after year. I will react differently in different situations.

I like thinking about morals because it implies thinking of collectives and of agreements. I feel these can be thought of as undeniable characteristics of the theater performance, a collective event based on agreements. On some level, the commonly accepted idea that all theater (all art) is political, can be reduced to the fact that art is a collective event: it requires at least producers and observers, no matter by whom or by how many people are those roles performed in reality. And this sharing of a space, physical and intellectual, makes it political. It implies communication and negotiation, and that is why I think it implies also morals.

 

Ask a question that you would really want to know the answer, and it cannot be a yes/no answer (june 2008)
: What is my responsibility?
: What is responsibility?
: Why would I be so concerned with what is ethical and what is moral?
: What is love?
: What is creativity?
: What is intelligence?
: What is important?
: Where do I want to live?
: Why do people keep touching the screen of my computer?
: Why I cannot find this question?

: Why is this question not a burning question?
(I go in dialogue with an animal that is half unicorn-half boar-half plain white horse, and that is surrounded by a soft fog, and that constantly transforms, shifting from one form to the next one by just breaking through it’s own skin, tearing it apart, appearing from inside of itself, and constantly running throuhg nothing, on top of nothing, going nowhere).
After a while I get tired of the repetitive movement in my hand, and it starts spreading throughout my body, so I move more and differently. When I ask a question, the animal kind of slows down a bit… it needs a different quality when it becomes reflective… it starts looking up more, trying to move less in a line, still travelling rapidly but not facing outwards so much anymore.)

Why do you ask this question? Why ask a question that is not a burning question? This is not a burning question because this question isn’t, because you think the question needs to be burning, or because you think there is a way of being a burning question, or because you are not setting the question on fire, or because you are putting it off or not allowing it to be on fire, because you are too cold, because you are not choosing to make the question a burning question

But then if the question has to be set on fire by me, then it isn’t burning in itself, and then I don’t believe it is a burning question enough to set it on fire, to think of it as a burning question. / Then if the question has to be set on fire by you, then it isn’t burning in itself, and then you don’t believe it is a burning question enough to set it on fire, to think of it as a burning question.

But you can decide to make it a burning question by thinking of it as a burning question, to set it on fire by looking at it as if it was. Why do you need more than that? It isn’t a burning question, then, because you need more than yourself for that… you need a question outside of yourself… you need a question about something outside of yourself.
It is not a burning question because what you are trying to put together, what you are trying to write down is not a question but an answer.

That’s funny and embarrasing. And at the same time, it ends up being an answer.

 

epic narrative burlesque (june 2008)
He was so intuitive, he couldn’t promise he wouldn’t kill someone.
He could bring the darkness with him.

He liked picking up stones, he liked throwing them.

He could move for more than 10’, and the only thing for him would be movement. Nothing else.

His hair was so strong, his arms were so long, his skin was so thick…
If he set his mind to it, he could chase the darkness away.
He had a strong body, so every body loved him, and he loved everybody.

 

full pieces of writing (downloads)
• essay 'Fire and brimstone'
• map 01
• map 02
• map of thoughts and reflections on 'White is the colour of death'