Yesterday’s newspaper; the press that had turned yellow in a day; yesterday’s, by today trivial news – a beautiful faceless background for my chance passersby. Like powerful pen and ink drawings on pages of vintage books by Louis Jover. No one is held by the familiar past, only by the symbiotic future or assured providence. Do you see to believe or believe to see? People and sceneries pass – in fact, we do not own anything but ourselves. All have a levy – the quantum of your life you pouring into for reciprocity.
There are meetings, but there is alchemy. Well, when deeper, more, more. When you do not just register a context on the other side, through your recollection lens, but create a beguiling story by combining and fingering with a myriad of elements… You create a germane image for the person and then place it in the atmosphere. In this fictional place and time – as if living somewhere inside your consciousness. Space, which is a part of you, bore your feelings, saturated with your values – microscopic though telling details. Numb and comfortably lost in the diaphanous dream – balancing between blurred semi-shadows and crystalline serenity. In this Kafkaesque voyage into saluting absurdity, objects in mirror are closer than they appear. And as a result, your vision of the person is erected. The way he seems to you. If you are expressing it, then alchemy turns into ascendancy. It is Goya – “as though” or “as if”. In Urdu poetry and story-writing, “goya” conveys a suspension of shifting into a dream-like feeling of disbelieve; a story that feels like reality.
You meet from the place of your heart – aware that God kissed you, gave you passion for art, psychology, nature, life and people. Every new betoken meeting is a miracle. Behind is worth of a million of decomposed atoms, multitudinous of hours lost in self-absorption, traverses around the globe, space and written; experience, experience and experience…
You come, sit in front of me on a chair, and I turn on all the tumblers of my ingenuity, all the milieux of the game are silhouetted in my puzzling mind, mighty observant, intuitive, insightful, deeply tuned in: the atmosphere, form, composition; undercurrents, overtones, cues, flavors emanate into our collective aura; I study every your movement like a predator. Every facet momented. Your unvoiced words. I turn into the ideal lover, a mother, a daughter, a clinician; I absorb you as if I had lived with you for years. Ineluctably untying all of your knots… Found something to fall besotted with, for you to pass it on. “How bold one gets when one is sure of being loved” – derided but re-evaluated Freud surfaces.
No-thingness – all you can do now is surrender sinking in this non-existence… Every ounce of breath was taken from my lungs floating into the air like midnight smoke. Fall into this silence between our words. Watch this gap between incoming and outgoing breath. Graced by every empty moment of our interim occurrence.
© Elin Vidoff