Learning From Nicosia

La tienne, m(-)hm!

"Δεν ξέρω αν πρέπει ν' αρχίσω με τα κορίτσια ή τα σπίτια."
Ν. Γ. Πεντζίκης

Amidst an Estate, a house and a domicile, not far from here, even though one lives in writting the echo of a hauntography, chalked to erase the trace by appropriations of maternal soundtracks devoid of Freudian melancholia transmits the gendering of such an encounter. The promise is being given, he says. And with it a risque riskology of truth-telling. Or parrhesia. Insofar as it, as a practice, employs modes of critical , often provocative, juxtapositions within broader dialogic structures. Encounters that is with the Other. Building he says, yes, Dwelling, yes I said yes, Thinking, I will Yes.

Immediately we were found within an aurality. Finding a room even became not a projection but an echo, a subterranean broadcasting of spatialised desire. It took sometime, mind you. Hetero-, the constituent characteristic, is by no means hers. No. But the geographical, social and politcal - especially the politcal, Yes Mana Mou! - presence of possibilities, and their residue, foretell a futurology away from the flatness of facades. Murmurs, sips, dry coughs, sharp spitting noises, monosyllabic vocalisations of desire and polyglot meetings in virtual uteri in vivo, trespassing gases and simulations of stellar bodies, decipher the dislocation of grime, a step away from the new internationalist masquerade of belonging. It's instead a becoming, a becoming-city, flesh of my fluctuating and de-constructed flesh (Genesis 2.23). 250 snails have also been know to have passed through at some point or other.

In greenery then she was to be presented to present to me that zone, that belt, smelling of fig-trees. Listening to the serpent, listening - not sucking, embracing or taking it up the ass - she rearranged my resonances. Not a rock-steady but a rave. Not two nightingales, stuck-up in telling their Philomelic story - invasion, violence, rape - still fighting off each other from bell towers and minarets but the Seferian Platres as a Kilaidonis' song. Lend an ear: away from the isomorphism of the politics of re-solution and the preservation of its visual evidence, to listen, "to be listening is always to be on the edge of meaning, or in an edgy meaning of extremity, and as if the sound were precisely nothing else than this edge, this fringe, this margin - ". This fringe, this margin: not a seam then, no, but an edgy, that is displaced, interiority. Ακούεις;. Its other meets its other - the one and the other by whom the promise is given of a promised event- giving it meaning and resistance to meaning across this displacement. It is thus no longer a question of spaces, of doors, doorknobs and balconies but of what escapes, what has escaped the schemata of the urban, its facades. An engagement is to be struck not on paper but through the promise. The iasis of the logos. Do not expect a cheek, then, you. But do feast on mutton brains, employ a corkscrew, whisper, give a speech, dig ... dig. It is not Labyrithian. It is Babelic (afer all). Hetero? Bi-, by all means, but "We 've talked about it all night long / We defined our marrow ground / When I crawl into your arms / Everything comes tumbling down."

Let's take a stroll, it's hot in here ('baby!'). Or lie down.

The tumbler full, Black Bush and water, the appropriate return to nature, or the Deleuzian grass presented as becoming-present, we return to a Foucault. Does it matter which one? "Then you will understand why it has been not only and obvious the main means of economic growth (...) but at the same time the greatest reserve of imagination for our civilization from the sixteenth century down to the present day." Hetero-dox, then and at a rift with the evolution of geography, with planing at its limits, gone mad, the landlord chasing us up, she scared the angel, that is αντζελοσσιασετον (Γ.Κ.). An adventure, and an attempt to remove the polis from the police, the police from the polis, the polis from the polis even if you want. The siren went off. Emergency! The hospital cunningly removed by the demands of a voiding relationship, the void only is on-call. At this moment of danger then, with the colonization by that fiction of developers and the silence of its silence for the sake of an aura memo ante portas, I return to another practice - politics. That is community.

Which is your body then? Where art thou?

This is not a question of aesthetics. Of supported canvases and protrusive structural manifestations. It is not plans or designs we have been after. The juxtapositions, to think about it were there, as desire was too. The dead zone, a void, gaping with agape has become the exemplary mode of being for this post-village city, its relationships, its consumption. There are of course the day-light monofunctionalities of land plots, tending to ignore the potentials of asphalt, of pebbles, of stones, the empty gestures of simulated financial exchange resulting in equally empty bank accounts, the heighten silences of its layers -the same ones that institutionally, Christ!, they are trying to institutionalise, one way or another; I mean how blonde can you be!- its Berlin claims and its post-colonial Middle East colonialism of exemplary colonial pencils. All these prologic negations of a truth that simply goes to and fro "like a spirit", let's say a sherry then mon cherie, and not the truth of unquestionable is are of course there. Not least as parrhesia, as juxtaposition. They are around the corner, but in this corner why should they? And now, when she is loosing it- at least- its Old European mode of belonging, when the second coming is coming, and I wet my books, when architectonic ethics, if they ever existed, perforate only to replace, and porosity is but a materialist conception -not a questioning- what is to be done? Listen: "perhaps it is necessary that sense not be content to make sense ... but that it want also to resound." This resounding, a sonorous present, as it was presented spreads through her. "Or rather opens a space." Another one? Well not one, not quite. The sonority of sound as the resounding of space is omnidimensional. Yes, "it has always been noted". The same with the silence, in a sense. A collection of silences: that's what it is, what makes her, why I am not talking about the houses. What is listening anymore, anymore to her, listening to her, listening to anymore her, but listening to the silence as it defies fixity, as it defies functionality even, as it defies structures, Eco or otherwise? It is these silences, listen, that have acted as a catalyst for both this exemplary transgression and this transgression exemplaris. The silence that shaped the heterogeneous bi- the by, in an attempt to screen off the verbal abuse of the militaristic and authoritarian appropriations of her voice, its voice, the promise. Vague, dubious, unmanageable; not established; deconstructed, a ruin, weak, yes weak, post-nostalgic, carnivalesque not just once a year but round the clock. All these years time and time again this is who we have been falling in love. Drum it in. That is echo her, resonate, listen. Leave her that is. Don't project her. Love her. How else to learn instead through amorous affiliation, to say the least? How else to engage with her, to be engaged, "to pass from metaphor to analysis", if not by an act of desertion, by desolation, time and time again? "Therefore a man shall leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife: and they shall be one flesh." (Genesis 2.24)

I trace your hair across my conditioner bottle and I untangle not least an erotic dimension. "Better pass boldly into that other world, in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age." the artist as a young man will have it. "Always the same reversal: what the world takes for 'objective', I regard as factitious; and what the world regards as madness, illusion, error, I take for truth. It is in this deepest part of the lure that the sensation of truth comes to rest". Roland Barthes, A Lover's Discourse, pp. 229-230. "Take your time and make me love you good", then, I'll sing, may I?

"Hush! Caution! Echoland!"

"It suffices, in sum, barely, to wait." For her.