An Ode to Contradiction

What's the difference between width and depth in a two-dimensional world?

Why does an hour feel shorter when you divide it into moments?

Can we really go backwards when time by nature progresses forwardly?

Why doesn't a river smell like the ocean although all streams flow into the sea?

How come nevers and evers scare me to death although a human being is deprived of their experience anyhow?

Will story endings at some point loose their sweet appeal to me?

Why don't I mind whatever happens?

What would my ratio be worth without my emotional reasoning?

Who will ever understand that nearness can be just as close to disrespect as disdain?

How can I be so calm when a storm is raging outside?

Can I really call myself strong when I have never been weak?

Why does it make such a huge difference by whom I am understood?

How is it that my inability to plan makes you so nervous?

Who says ambition leads to achievement when laziness has written so many stories of success?

Why do I like listening to Bach's fugues but loath playing them?

How can the world be such a grand place and still be too small at times?

If you happen to find the answers in your pocket, will you do me the favour of keeping them there and ask me out to dance instead?

"Don't walk in front of me; I may not follow. Don't walk behind me; I may not lead. Just walk beside me and be my friend." ~ Albert Camus

Because

Marrakech has swiftly disappeared around a corner.

Its buzz gradually decays.

Its colours pale shade by shade.

Its scents gently dissolve.

Its flavours melt away spice after spice.

I walk backwards, half blind, and step by step fall back into London's whimsical arms.

But what I see with my eyesight regained, is not what I left behind.

London has changed.

Its buzz.

Its colours.

Its scents.

Its flavours.

London has changed.

'Why?', they ask.

Well, simply because, you know.

I hear it with new ears.

I see it with new eyes.

I scent it with a new sense of smell.

I taste it with a new tongue.

I have changed.

'Why?', they ask.

Well, simply because, you know.

The world has changed.

'Why?' they ask.

Well, simply because, you know.

Simply because.

My world has changed.

Because.

Terra Incognita

I am traveling. With one suitcase. One mind. One heart. And each of the latter is likewise overflowing with all sorts of goods, thoughts and sentiments.

The most astonishing phenomenon, however, is that none of them seems to lose capacity. Quite the contrary. With each new acquisition, they seem to grow in volume and extend their dilative limits a little further.

I am fairly lucky these days, I must say, although you might counter, that I am easy to please. You name it. I don't really care since ultimately it all comes down to me being pleased. Stories is what I live for, stories is what I live on, and fortunately I am blessed with a distinct and constant lucky streak when it comes to tapping into the most diverse and precious tales.

At the place where I am right now, the preciousness originates from the fact that I am allowed to peek into pages of books that so far hadn't opened themselves to me - in most various respects. Yesterday morning for instance, I stepped across the threshold of social equity and disadvantage to find myself in a cramped room that was bulging with an almost dedicated and yet gentle resignation to fate.

In the evening I tied up the day's formidable impressions into a bundle of shareable memories to ship them to an unknown territory, both literally and figuratively, and I was rewarded with a most perfect reply several hours of moony sleep later - which has left me in a somewhat alert condition since.

Another eventful day has passed, and while I am trying hard to convince the Moroccan full moon to go to sleep behind the Atlas Mountains and grant me undisturbed togetherness with my friend darkness, questions rise above the brightly lit horizon and picturesquely lean against the palm trees that resemble pitch black paper cuttings against the backdrop of the mountainscape.

A lot of "what-ifs" circle overhead, hanging like shadows for my dreams. But my dreams are not ready yet to sacrifice themselves to the "what" and the "ifs". So, I will stay awake and wait for a cloud to thwart the lunar spectacle and listen for the sounds of the night, just in case it has a story to tell. Just in case I can hear the nightingale.

"It was the nightingale, and not the lark, that pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear; Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree. Believe me love, it was the nightingale." ~ Juliet

A Spade is a Spade

Dear Apollo,

It is the end of the day. And twenty-four times sixty thoughts are now allowed to ponderously trickle from my consciousness into the easing groundwater of the past. On the top of my mind one thing remains present, however, and not even fatigue and will are able to wash it away.

And so I lay back in my chair to listen to the day dripping away and the murmuring of the one thing that remains up in the air.

The air that I have to breath in for better or for worse.

The one thing that resembles a person that is the spitting image of you. You.

And believe me, please, the only counterweight I can provide to this image is capitulation. But what is the difference, really, between being conquered and capitulation?

While I am drawing up this letter with a surrendering hand, I am not paying any attention to the legibility of my handwriting, for this letter won't ever be sent. This letter won't ever be read. Unjustified it will smoulder in a mirrored box. There are a million song lines that I could quote in this regard and even more legendary theatre monologues that I could recite but I won't. This isn't about pathos and drama, and even less it is about heroics. I never asked to be a protagonist in this episode of circumstance. I stumbled into it by chance.

I wish I could simply make use of our dear fellow oblivion, I wish I could simply ignore whatever it is. And you might realise, that I am deliberately reluctant here to call it by its name. Even to my own ears, every volunteering noun sounds downright foolish.

But, why do I care anyway? Namelessness doesn't turn it into something less eminent, a name, however, could turn it into something real. And this would be the point, where the rope I am dancing on would start to quiver.

I have been trying hard, for months on end, to keep the balance. And I used every tool I could find in my cabinet of defiance and my drawers of fear to not lose my footing. I tried one month of ratio. One month of ignorance. One month of distraction. And one of contempt.

In the end, you raise your finger, and ratio, ignorance, distraction and contempt bow at your feet and roll out the red carpet for something that in the end might not need a name. It wouldn't change a thing.

Nothing would change.

It is what it is. A spade is a spade.

I resign.

I won't ever find out what gets caught in the sieve of your mind in the end of your day. Do I want to find out? I guess it is for you to tell me.

But as it won't be sent, this letter is nothing more than an unheard soliloquy. Let me raise the flag, however, before I lay my head to rest, for every capitulation comes along with relinquishment. Let's call it by it's real name:

This letter is nothing more than an unheard profession of love.

Yours faithfully,

Kalliope

"The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo." ~ William Shakespeare

“Im·pres·sion - Portraits of People"

“Im·pres·sion - portraits of people” is the title of a series of photographs staged and shot by Sashko Manev.

Sashko was born in Skopje, Macedonia, in May 1982 and set his artistic foot on the British soil in the autumn of 2009. A logical venture for someone who is unconventional and yet accessible. Tangible, however, he is not. His mind is always one step ahead, his eyes are everywhere – in an almost aggressive and radioscopic manner. In his project “Im·pres·sion”, Sashko harnesses this exact trait. He takes the obvious by the hand and abducts it into the two-dimensional and timely-limited context of a still picture.

In his Portraits of People Sashko aggregates hard facts as well as the conclusions of his personal perception. He portrays friends, people he knows. He allows us to sneak a peek into his relationships by accentuating one attribute of the portrayed person, as well as the person itself. And he is doing so without getting carried away by artsy ambitions or emotions. His photographs are unpretentious and based on facts. And still, they are personal and suggestive. They are the visual interpretation of respect. Respect derives from the Latin word “respicere”, which means “looking back” and as such clearly indicates distance and consideration. Sashko Manev looks back at the past he shares with his friends, adds a factual hint for alien eyes and freezes them in black and white. The outcome: a potpourri of people. An exhibition of relations.

An Artist's Portrait by Nadja Golbov