For immediate attention

My dear Athena,

I address you today as I hope to fall on sympathetic ears with a fairly dubious matter.

As the guardian of wisdom, I am sure you agree that some things make more sense than others and that some don’t make sense at all. Still being the compulsive rationalist that you left behind last time we met, I tend to prefer the simple cases that can be justified and explained without cognitive compromises and pretexts.

Deductive reasoning has always been my walking stick, and paradoxically as well as logically it also is the spanner in my works.

“There are phenomena that can’t be explained” to me is no valid argument. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. The only phenomenon that leaves things unexplained is insufficient brain capacity. And I am sure you won’t argue with me about that. But if you do, please don’t expect me to be convinced. My opinion is firmly nailed to the grounds of my conception in this instance, and the only person that could make me change my mind is myself.

I must confess, however, that lately I have been under some self-induced pressure for failing to offer an explanation for a certain occurrence. Absurdly enough, I am not lacking an explanation for something nonsensical but for something that is extremely sensible. At least, or rather exclusively in an emotional respect (which might be the cause of the problem). This something simply feels right, it instinctively and intuitively makes sense – very clearly, although my reason holds at least ten counterarguments in each hand. But for some reason or another, my emotions prove to be more stubborn than usual. Or maybe they merely turned deaf in a state of shock as they won’t listen.

So I decided to resign for now and place my bet on you and your marvels.

Hoping that I won’t fall victim to the same fate as the little liked Cassandra and believing in your skills, let me do a desperate prediction. My emotions will soon come to senses, I prophesy. My emotions will soon fold and quit, I predict. My emotions will soon admit that they were mistaken. For it just doesn’t make sense. It can’t make sense. It mustn't.

Since, really, how much sense does it make that a solar eclipse taints my sanity more than the innumerable days of sun? How much sense does it make that something became present inside myself so unnoticeably that it was able to hook itself deeply into the walls of my consciousness with barbs as strong as titanium? How much sense does it make that a lightweight dayfly leaves a deeper footprint on my affective membrane than a heavyweight ox? How much sense does it make that something makes so much sense without having any sense? How much sense does it make?

I shall await the favour of your reply and remain

Sincerely yours,

Kalliope

"Yet, mad with zeal, and blinded with our fate,

We haul along the horse in solemn state;

Then place the dire portent within the tow'r.

Cassandar cried, and curs'd th'd unhappy hour;

Foretold our fate; but, by the god's decree,

All heard, and none believ'd the prophecy."

~ Aeneid 2.323, Virgil

Timeless for a Minute

When the car stops to let her cross the road, her face turns into one of wonder.

How come they see me? How come I am visible to the world outside when I am clearly and utterly so deep inside myself that even to me each movement of my body feels outright ridiculous? How come they see me when I don’t see me? My body carries myself deep within itself, I am the epitome of a human matryoshka, so why the fuck do you stop your car? The outer puppet has a see-through skin, has it not? The outer puppet has no shadow since the shadow has sought shelter inside itself. The puppet has no wings but a windup wheel on it’s transparent back. And when she moves her legs to cross the street, she can hear cogs clutter as they interlink and force the puppet to lift its feet off the pavement. Step by step. Tic. Toc. Tic. Toc. Is it time’s callous hand

that operates the windup wheel? It shows no mercy, this nasty invention of time. Give me a rest, will you? Or treat yourself to one, just lay down for little while, put your feet up and relax. Give me some peace and leave me be, let me be timeless for a minute. Let me be invisible and stroll through the still of a frozen world.

As she turns around the corner and passes a café, the smell of frying fat crawls up her nose and triggers disgust and appetite at the same time.

How come I perceive smells? How come the scents and smells of the outside world reach my brain when my brain is buried under a heavy blanket of scruples?

How come I am hungry when I am fed up with myself, when my stomach is filled to the brim with my own shadow?

While her feet keep on carrying her through the evening that is far too bright for her taste, her overcast eyes catch an incurious glimpse of the grassy leafs of a plant that twitch and flinch hysterically in the exhaust air of a kitchen fan.

Poor thing. It has no chance but to flounce all day and pretend to be alive while clearly being condemned to extinction.

You see, dear Master of Hours and Moments, it’s not only me who is in need of a break. This inferior creature wouldn’t mind for sure to interrupt its morbid dance for a moment or two. Come on, make an effort and pause.

Behind yet another corner of the winding streets of a city that doesn’t need a name, she bumps into a man who is wearing a suit and a tie and feels compelled to curl his lips into a smile before he steps aside to let her escape from his murmured apology.

For goodness’ sake, I am not here, can’t you see it? I am not here! Temporarily unavailable. Invisible. Ignore me. See through me. Just for a day. One day. Invisible. Timeless. Mindless. Heartless. Bodiless. One day out of time’s reach. One day beyond the sphere of logic. One day in a world where one plus one equals zero. One day in a world where nobody blinks and breathes but me. One day. Just one day.

"For the myth is the foundation of life; it is the timeless schema, the pious formula into which life flows when it reproduces its traits out of the unconscious." ~ Thomas Mann

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