~viciouscircle0

..

so familiar and overwhelmingly warm..
this one, this form I hold now...
embracing you, this reality here,
this one, this form I hold now, so
wide eyed and hopeful.
wide eyed and hopefully wild.
..
we barely remember what came before this precious moment,
choosing to be here right now. hold on, stay inside...
this body holding me, reminding me that I am not alone in
this body makes me feel eternal. all this pain is an illusion......
..
ALIVE
..
twirling round with this familiar parabol..
spinning, weaving round each new experience..
recognize this as a holy gift and celebrate this chance to be alive and breathing..
this body holding me reminds me of my own mortality..
embrace this moment. Remember. we are eternal..
all this pain is an illusion..

..tool..


cherishing the illusional good old memories..

yol cagiriyor..
..

"I want the before hand of a book." I just wrote this sentence, but before this sentence, I wrote a hundred others, which I've suppressed, because the moment of cutting short had arrived. It's not me, it's necessity which has cut the text we were on the way to writing. because the text and I, we would continue our way.

"I've learned to tear up nothing of what I write," Clarice Lispector tells me. But then come the time of separation. The time for publication.

I would like so much this unknown untorn page. Everything we read: remains.

I want the forest before the book, the abundance of leaves before the pages, I love the creation as much as the created, no, more. I love the Kafka of the journals, the executioner-victim. I love the process a thousand times more than the Trial process, (no, a hundred times more). I want the tornados in the atelier.

..

.. I want (the arrival) to see arriving.

Acts of birth, potency, and impotency mingled are what I'm passionate about. the to-be-in-the-process of writing or drawing.


..
-When do we draw?
- When we were little. Before the violent divorce between Good and Evil. All was mingled then, and no mistakes. Only desire, trial, and error. Trial, that is to say, error. Error: progression.
As soon as we draw (as soon as, following the pen, we advance in to the unknown, hearts beating, mad with desire) we are little, we do not know, we start out avidly, we are going to lose ourselves.


(from "Without End no State of Drawingness no, rather: The Executioner's Taking off" by
Hélène Cixous)

19 Eylül'de İstanbul Modern Sanatlar Galerisindeyiz.. Herkesi bekliyoruzzz= )




ARtık HAcettePe'deyim..
fülülülülülü lüüüülülüüüüü
cinnamon..