No Camera

Comprehending cycles

Posted in Dreamland by ION on 13/11/2008

We are following the fair, to its minimized traveling version, my dark companion and I, younger, stronger, maybe funnier than the rest of the group, both hidden in the last wagon, highly successful at crossing the last boundaries of a depressed European playground, reaching strange geophysical landscapes, wondering around the Baltic shoreline, like humans in a 19th Century shallow dream, loosing ourselves happy in the forests of Finland, a potential new world with every step in the snow, tourists without ancestral history, conceptual extremists destroying the realities of the moment, me and she, composing and orchestrating the design of a new dream, for we are singing a lullaby to the future while we’re escaping the present, beautiful drifters, conscious losers_

In the cold Finnish winter, we set the tigers free_

We are working in a connected cycle, the concept of the training cycle is basic to our thermodynamics, and we’re setting the fair ready to work in a snow covered village, a small village that its structure may be visible to map positions, I know, we have argued about this concept so many times, for we may not necessarily know where we’re really from, but we sure know how to travel; two hours later we’re on the dance floor, head full of vodka outliving destructive guidelines, desires, loves, excuses, in Czechoslovakia someone hands me another written argument that this form of living is three-dimensional, but I should forbid confessions to strangers, I should feel close only to those joined to the circle, performers of the extravagant, unmetrical poets of the extreme_

“Now go! Vanish! Run free! I will refuse to be sad” you cried_

As we refused to exorcise the memories from our collective identity, we finally understood the meaning of the bridge-pattern, joining Prague and Berlin, and all these wasted I love you’s that once set us on fire under a gray sky in Tallinn, fundamental, non inventing, sub assistants that stayed part of the circle, a living modular acrobat system, silent nomads, obedient masters of old techniques; if they don’t move they die, in a grotesque office or performing their last acts on a hospital bed, in a foyer maybe, in the piles of excess scaffolding against your wall of memories, alone, or not alone, with you, or not with you, but in Europe, after the snow_

“Europe will be your playground!” you once told them in Rome_


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