A kind of a "dangerous supplement", marked, scarred on a body, post-orgasmically, always, already in anticipation of (a) crisis OR for a desert avec 'agape'. Mindb(l)ogg(l)ing Noise. "Avalanche, would you share my last pursuit?" (Baudelaire)

Monday, March 31, 2008

To: Batchphiles

Here I want you (Dame se thelw)

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Thelw na ginw kathisterimenos. Ti prepei na kamw?

The Artist As Curator As Marketeer

Indeed, what does happen when there is publicness without a public sphere?

[A text on immaterial labour, individuality (as) creativity and the language of the fiction of development. A sort of "Dear Architects" for the 'creative industries'. Read you aspiring artist, you freelance curator, read. And let the account managers read it too.]

Out of orbit

Arthur Charles Clarke, 16 December 1917 - 19 March 2008
"We are not archeologists. We are astronauts" (The Star)

Tuesday, March 18, 2008


Further attempts at reinserting the I[Eye]ndividual into society.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Untitled ( Lend Photograph, Coin-Operated Boy)

Tree has roots in true, etymologically [a kind of response]

I was never a big fan of trees. And yet growing up in a city without many of those, one was bound and still is, to get caught looking for one. Especially when in those irreversible states of needing to take a pee, it is true, trees indeed provide the best shade and semi-shelter for those occasions. Yet, what I always found problematic and preposterous - in need for more clarity [by means of what, one might inquire] which by lacking it left me with reservations - is the frantic fetishization of nature; the arbitrary and sporadically ecstatic supra-naturalization of nature. [that is, very much the case with history and archaeological discoveries as well - and Cyprus is susceptible to a plethora of those - where often the fetishization of history, of the past, overestimates the value of the old. Still, we (as humanity) have found no way of either un-covering, re-covering, dis-covering, unbound from this regressive yearning. How do we confront the melancholy of realizing that history is contingent?]. Justice and injustice are not determined by laws. It's the laws that stabilize what is just and what is unjust (anthropocentrically). Like any legal system, nature has its (own? - is there such thing as immanence after all?) laws as well. And they are not called "Laws of nature" (that supposedly castigate us when transgressing them; do they apply to penguins as well? can they be held guilty?). It is us that call them "Laws of nature" and by establishing such laws we predetermine an infliction on trespassers (humanity?) when they (humanity?) do not fulfill those laws constituted in the place (one might even say, in the absence) of nature. Global warming, as the ultimate crime, is punished by the death sentence. And everyone (who?) is held guilty. And such a crime has undoubtly been hovering over the sky as the electric chair and castor oil in a pack and parcel, as the present threat, promising the worst unless repentance and law-abiding are soon to be embraced by the infidels. The end of the world is coming! Or the world is coming to an end.
But, take a pause here.
Where would you have gone anyway? Where are you planning to go, and the end of the world will prevent you from doing so? You have a dentist appointment on Monday, right? Surely you can cancel it. The world is ending after all, you don't want to miss out the end. And where was the world heading to anyway? We all know we need trees. Don't we? Do we, actually? And how do we know that? It is scientifically proven. Oh, right, so we don't need trees for nature's sake, but for science's. Is that what you are telling me? And how did we come to legitimize science? Is it by nature, by the (scientific) laws of nature, that we approve science of making valid statements about nature according to its (science's) laws? Is science naturalized? By the means of what? Yes, but can't you see, summers are turning to winters and winters are turning to springs! And what does that have to do with anything? Teachers will still work eight months a year and get four months holidays. Australians never complained about welcoming Santa Clause in swimming suits year in and year out, why should you? And what about the ice melting? Was it not you that signed a petition a couple of months ago for new measurements in order to provide Africa with clean water? There you have it! And what about the extinction of animals? Natural History Museums have to survive somehow, don't you think? We once had dinosaurs, I thought you were glad we got them out of our way. Oh come on, we are going in circles now. So if we still are (going in circles), why are you worried?
The obscure rationale about the significance of nature, reminds me of that paradoxical story about democracy: How did we come to perceive democracy as the most credible, the one of highest value political system? You know, it is because the majority of people want it. But that is already a democratic precedent and having taken that into account neither negating nor affirming democracy is, to say the least, accessible. OK, listen what we'll do: we vote, whoever is for democracy and who is against it. You don't get it do you?
So, still, even if nature is not important by / to / according to the laws of man and/or science of nature, but is, by / to / according to the laws of nature of nature, that is nature is by nature alone (immanently) significant, what does that tell us anyway? How can you evaluate nature's value by nature's values? What on oblique (an oh, yes, we can get vicious here, circullary vicious and ask "Oblique? By the means of what? Is there a norm?"), what an oblique remark to make: "Nature is important; naturally"
Where does, then, the essence of nature abide, and by the means of what is it essential? In other words, what's the big fuzz?


The initial impulse to get people together—even just to eat—and valuing social interaction as a form of cultural production proved a very powerful point of departure.

Mess Hall
6932 North Glenwood Avenue
Chicago, IL 60626
'Morse' stop on the Redline
Email: messhall8(at)yahoo.com
Tel: 773-465-4033

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Creating Deconstruction

"Neither architecture nor anarchitecture: transarchitecture. It has it out with the event; it no longer offers its work to users, believers or dwellers, to contemplators, aesthetes or consumers. Instead, it appeals to the other to invent, in turn, the event, sign, consign or countersign: advanced by an advance made at the other - and maintenant architecture (...) no longer to organise space as a function or in view of economic, aesthetic, epiphanic or techno-utilitarian norms. (...) By pushing 'architecture towards its limits', a place will be made for 'pleasure' (...)."
Jacques Derrida, Point de folie - Maintenant l' architecture

And again, while Nicosia sheds its trees in favor of another lover, not me, but the car, first along Diagorou, soon along Themistokli Dervi, in favor of the car, who doesn't love her, not as much as I do, but no, she will shed her trees, she, on her own, namely Eleni Mavrou, will glare her, in a simulation of transparency, assuming what exactly, I question, porosity, no, mere functionality, making it available, not to me, her, but to her lover, not me, the car, the car, she thinks, loves her, loves her more than me, to go running to her lover, to give her lover, not me, the car, a clean run. And no more will we have somewhere to hide, as every lover does, hides, at some point or another, with his lover and with her lover, not the car, "secluded from the world (...) secluded together away from the world", not least behind bushes, or in small parks, at night, under trees, in shaded, dark corners, in cool breezes, amidst the midnight birdsong. No - the car's lights, the headlights, will glare, glare at me, who is not for she her lover, no more pleasure, my love, my lover, no more hiding, I alone, glared at , alone, a long shadow, a lonely shadow, shadowing your love-affair, and not loving you in the shadows, with your trees, first along Diagorou, soon along Themistokli Dervi, the trees, that is the shadows, shed, glared at, burning, feverish, while you run to your lover, not me, your lover, not me, the car, runs to you, burning, dying, not by undying love, but glared at, scowled, blazed, burning, blown away, again, not by your brilliance but by your lover, not me, the other, the car. Mad, commanding the final instance, alone, she, no longer, my love, my lover at the limits, no longer enveloped, folded, by you, with you, on you, over you. The car, your lover, is given a clear run, and I no, no longer at the limits of pleasure, pushing the limits of pleasure, in seclusion, as lovers do, together with you, no, she sheds your trees, she glares at you, glaring, glaring at me, scowling me, bedazzled me, burned. Out.

Photos of Sayama Flat by Schemata Architecture Office

Martin Pawley 1938 -2008

"If resistance to tall buildings continues, all our cities will become more and more diluted by peripheral and satellite development. Over time the advantages of distant locations will seem more attractive to developers. Over time the boundaries that separate cities from rural areas will dissolve away. Over time what was once contained within the ancient walls of a city will leak away to the provinces and beyond. Anaesthetised by the challenge of the present, our city planners are clinging to the past. As a result the future, the dilution and decentralisation they dread, advances upon them unopposed."

Tuesday, March 11, 2008


Ruth: Have a sip. Go on. Have a sip from my glass. Sit on my lap. Take a long cool sip. Put your head back and open your mouth.
Lenny: What are you doing, making me some kind of proposal?

Harold Pinter, "The Homecoming", 1965

On the same note, let us note, in an unknowing, unbeknownst not knowing dissonance - how could love be in tune, how could love be pious, to be philanthropic, love - as it should have been, in the echo of an audition, of an auditing of educational structures, of learning from, of structures of learning, and of structures of letters. Of transcripts of other islands, while one falls in love, not least through letters, awaiting the post-card, the bibliographical reference to-be. The hedonism of the unknown, unbeknownst, as an ethics as first philosophy? Or better, in this noting, to a 'T' or there about: of the ethics of hedonism. Does hedonism have ethics? Dear Architect (...). What am I omitting? What is it presented, to a 'T' or there about, evidently, as a promise? The testimony of the promise can not be but be re-called as an ommitance. Never evident, testifying, even in letters, the promise of a knowing, unbeknownst to this or that structure, a hedonistic devouring. An ethics of constant welcoming, of constant homecoming, an ethics of the Third, to a 'T', base. Not yet a coming, but a coming and a going "paralyzing possession", displacing comings and goings and allowing the displacement not only of the death that will do us apart, apart from all the make-up and the embalming, parting the hair, frankly, but also that resounding of the host in the promise, the flattery that is, the whole set, such a nice rack. Count 'er. Listen (again): to (+) to. 2+ 2? No, to, to a 'T'. Vacancies. Reception. Sign-posting of another kind, kindly allowed as learning, yearning. A loss. Of what? A Loos. Ah! Wait; stand at the bar. Of these, how many frames has your mother collected? Of bars, of counters. What face was she after, after all, in what phase do we face her? Opposite of the root, the root-vegetable. A faithful enunciation of the hedonistic ethics, of the ethics of hedonism, counter. Unconditional hedonism, hote, excuse my French, in ruins, in tatters, to a 'T', of a faith to what lies, lies there, open. As counter to the domestic, on the counter of the local. Stand up and be counted. On days like these, when belonging demands allegiance, note, an oath, to queen, and not least, to country. Or even if it's a token - not far from a hoop - wreath.


Can the blind - as if - jump? The unforeseen ethics of the counter put into question the vision of division. Unconditionality shuts her eyes. How else to devour, being not Pound, writing after Touffic, yet writing "where one is", "wherever we are"? These fragments I have shored against my ruins. The Pleasure of the Ruins, a text nonetheless, encountered, with a displaced responsibility. Not it, but against all odds, to the document. Over the counter, the engagement counters the proposed encounter. In opposition to this or that then, face to face that is, what exchange takes place? What do you (not) see, to a 'T' or there about? The division of course remains, defining our encounter with the jump, counting the jump, not so much of a context t, but unforeseen, to what are you to jump (into)? Can't you see? A void, again, one avoids, lies there, open, chancing it. Counter to the heroic landscapes, the bar counter recounts the letters, their structures. Dear Architect (...) The sticky echo of the other, another one, suggest what another one can not attain. Namely, a home-coming. "Mind you, she's a lovely girl. A beautiful woman."

The ethics of hedonism then are essentially - as ethics are - urban. To engage counter to ethics as morality is to engage with the city, to hedonistically devour her not as imagery but in bits. Or to write otherwise: to responsibly engage with a city is to do it the ethics of hedonism; counter that is to the philanthropic and its face to face morality. Not to go or to come but to host. And not in the promise but as a promise. And from wherever, that is already from the arche, from where it stores itself as city, in its ruins, an not, counter to the city, over the counter, through a window encounter, in its depictions. Let's be clear about it. To a 'T'. "My dear X (...) Don't expect to be thanked by the way", the letters would have it. The promise of what is omitted once again. Or what is laid bare. Not least on the bar counter.

Monday, March 10, 2008

After Lebbeus Woods And After

"Whenever you see the word 'Client' in something to do
with building, you know there just has to be an architect
involved because no one else in the building game ever
refers to anyone as 'clients'. It is such a strange word, isn’t it?
In a shop you are a customer, on a train you are a passenger,
in a hospital you are a patient, in a class you are a student,
in the economy at large you’d be a consumer. But client?
The only people who have clients are lawyers, architects and prostitutes,
all of whom have to live with the reputation
that they are simply out to screw you.
Only the prostitute is honest about it.”

Via http://blog.miragestudio7.com

Sunday, March 09, 2008

A(nother) Nicosia Nightcap

1 Measure of Armagnac
2 Measures of Dry Vermouth (i.e. Noilly Prat)
1/2 Measure of East India Sherry*
A dash of Ouzo

Shake well and serve in a -preferably chilled- sherry glass which has been already rinsed with angostura bitters.

Drink to the sound of this.

*You can use Commandaria if you want instead of the East India Sherry; it will however make the whole concoction err to the sweet / caramel side and consequently nullify the spiciness of the bitters and the ouzo a bit. Up to you.

Saturday, March 08, 2008

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.

Because, when I try to kiss you, you always turn your other cheek

I spend Sunday afternoons, when the rain is pattering against a surface I can’t see, listening to Jack Vettriano’s The singing butler. She says nothing. He says “louder”. Then, when the voice-over is over, I put the water running, tapping down the sink. I try to see their faces. And then, I try again. Then, as the phone rings I stretch to pick it up: “Hello?”, “Hello, it’s Nicosia here”. I’m unsure if that is you. After all you don’t have a voice, right? Didn’t I fill endless pages in my notebooks recording your muteness, or did I actually waste them? There is a moment in Wim Wender’s Lisbon Story at 0:39:46 when Phillip Winter plugs the boom mic. into the DAT recorder, and the levels of sound rise noticeably. One is no longer in Lisbon, we are in Winter’s ears. And Winter no longer sees the broad light of Lisbon, but as Fernando Pessoa writes and Phillip Winter reads “In broad daylight even sound shines”. I watch the film frame-by-frame and I am assured that Winter can’t see. No, he is not blind; this is not a film about the sense of sight being malfunctional. It is about sight, both as an object and as a sense, never having existed. (This is a director [Wenders, not Friedrich Monroe, the director in the film], who gave us the best images in cinema). Is it because you don’t show me your face, you don’t show me your façade or is it perhaps because when I say “I see” I cannot apprehend what sight is or can’t see the apprehension. “Is your name really Winter?” (I am the one who makes the rain pattering sound – behind the door – every Sunday; I am the butler with the umbrella. Perhaps it is no coincidence that the object with the most appearances in silent films is the umbrella [not only as a dash prove instrument of preclusion but even as one of aggression like in George Melies’ A trip to the moon where the umbrella is used by the astronomers as a device to reduce the fragile beings – Selenites – to dust]– and then the camera). Is it so that I can only hear you through cables? You scare me when you say “It’s Nicosia here”. “It’s Nicosia here”?. What do you mean here anyway? Where are you calling from? Certainly not from a landline, right?

“What do you see when you hear my voice…There is no longer anything but your eyes”

Jalal Toufic writes in Undying Love, or Love dies: “The architect of Woody Allen’s Hannah and Her Sisters drives his two attractive women companions around Manhattan, showing them his favourite buildings in that city…When single, one explores a city, its museums, cafes, and bookstores, with a future lover in mind as a companion. Having found her, for a while one takes her to some of these places”. (pp. 2-3) What happens to him that falls in love with cities, then? To him, that when strolling around London with a Moleskine®, noting the monuments to feature in future affairs, will fall in fact in love with Nicosia. Who buys postcards of her for her. To him that falls not only in love with Lisbon, Athens, New York or Paris, but with Wenders’ Lisbon, Giannaris’ Athens, Allen’s New York or Godard’s Paris? Perhaps I could take you to the movies sometime? He wanted to take her for a drive, her, Nicosia. Hold hand in hand with her and breathlessly race through the Louvre in exactly 09 min and 43 sec., like Franz, Odile and Arthur; in exactly 09 min and 28 sec., like Matthew. Isabelle and Theo; exactly for ever like Jacques-Louis David, Godard and Bertolucci, taking an oath as though the three Horatii (The Oath of the Horatii, Jacques-Louis David, 1784) while the camera pauses momentarily during the race, to die for. They are all the triptychs in the world in two parts, for ever exactly in orbit they never meet. How can he take her by the East River of New York and show her the Manhattan Bridge, how does Nicosia sit on a street bench? He will never show his lover, Nicosia, his favorite bookshops in London, his beloved arcades of Paris. They, him and Nicosia, sleep in a bed of such strong gravitational pull where they fall deeply (to the core of the bed, where one having fallen, gravity won’t let him get out anymore) in love. She is looking at the sky and he the pillow, unable to even turn to each other (nor turn their backs either). There, at that deep state of paralysis, he is disabled from seeing her face, her facades. But he whispers like Bob to Charlotte in Lost in translation. She hears nothing (seemingly she says “ok”). In fact she is saying “louder”. They spent light-years in this Black Hole going through endless minutes of silence, unlike the one cut short by Franz in 36 sec where he escapes the orbit. Nicosia, I am pregnant with Moleskines® and you a prude virgin. You never show me your whole face.

The Cypriot painter Phota Photiadou, undertook a mission that would have taken a whole lifetime; to collect every single film frame ever shot in any capital of the world placing them as though in a bar chart race where the longest wins. She was convinced that in such a race between capitals’ images, Nicosia would have the shortest trace, would be the one scoring the minimum duration of engagement with celluloid. By the end of the time of her life, the mission was left uncompleted, proving that a whole lifetime was not long enough for such a task (or perhaps putting under question the wholeness of whole). Two days before her death, sensing that death has reached her, she wrote: “Nicosia, you never showed me your whole face”. By the end of her life – which marked the end of the project – Nicosia was first in a race awaiting for the other competitors to arrive at the starting point, an unrealized anticipation due to the shortage of time or its end. Nicosia scored 16 Super 35mm silent film (24.89mm x 18.66mm) frames, which amounts to a total of 29.86 cm; a whole lifetime for less than a whole second; less than a whole foot of mute footage.
She [Nicosia or her photo] is ill-represented and under-represented, absent from the sequences of unknown but becoming familiar family posing portraits above the threatened by extinction non-flat screen televisions that provide their shoulders as shelves for handmade Lefkaritika and elaborate kitsch picture frames. Her face is missing – unlike those missing in person but unavoidable to be missed in imagery, or in numeric representation (1619). When trying to find one of your postcards to send it to a brother or friend, subtitling it Voila my likeness my brother! (18/11/2001), I end up posting white or stained cardboards. Trying to say “louder” to the blank surface, anticipating a revelation or a hollow response, it ends up taking too long and I realize I have to wash the dishes. The brilliant white eyes of your postcard implied an unhealthy “ok”. Once, while performing the activity of writing a postcard from abroad, portraying the image of an iconic landmark of the picturesque face of another city, addressing you, Nicosia, I had neither your eyes not your voice in my ears. Perhaps another time. Nor can I carry your picture in my wallet or show it around seeking for information in an attempt to uncover the veil disabling the accessibility to your face. By the way, can I have your address?
I have been in search of your mini jack port for a while now, foreseeing some kind of amplification, but in any corner I search I find myself painted into it. Didn’t I say I want to take you for a drive? [“Interrupt her, tell her to speak slower. Tell her that the tone of her voice should be one bar above whispering”]. Nevertheless, you make one feel out of house, out of home when he is in no position to face you; face you face to face to face. You are a film noir face with freckle under your eyes. Every name in the history [of images], is she.


And now, on his bicycle, night after night, he licks every edge of your surface – even your disproportional and unexpectedly jumpy ditches – like a wall surrendering to the fantasies of its windows that is seduced by the brightness of sun who penetrates it and strokes it bit by bit moving west. Unlike the ditches of your body, my walls have no paintings.


Thursday, March 06, 2008

I wanna fuck you

suppose we could not love,dear;imagine
e.e. cummings

sexy, originally uploaded by loxias.

"What is the outlook of public space in a city that does not seem to match the traditional idea of a city?"
Kenny Cupers & Markus Miessen, Spaces of Uncertainty

"Αυτή η πόλη δεν χρειάζεται Δήμαρχο, γκόμενο χρειάζεται. Ένα γκόμενο που να τη γουστάρει τρελά, να σκύβει να τις γλύφει τα τακούνια και το χώμα που πατάει. Ένα γκόμενο large, που δεν θα τον αγχώνουν οι γυναίκες με παρελθόν. Κάποιος από 'κείνους που τη βρίσκουν να περνούν τα δάχτυλά τους απαλά, πάνω από σημάδια και ρυτίδες χωρίς να ρωτούν πολλά-πολλά. Ένα γκόμενο που θα ξέρει τα χούγια της, τα στέκια της, θα την περπατάει και κυρίως δεν θα τη φοβάται και δεν θα την ανταγωνίζεται."

"When you share a meal across the table, pick a fight, embrace or engage in sex, you architecturalize your body in relation to others."
Nigel Coates, Guide To Ecstacity

Prince - Erotic City

Wednesday, March 05, 2008

Dwste tous to* jai kanei!

*To Cannes Lions, to Clio, to Mobius - oti theloun dwste tous to!

Two Deaths

Porn Will Never, Ever, Be The Same Again.

Paul Raymond (+2 March 2008)

Elena Nathanael (+4 March 2008)

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

Monday, March 03, 2008

yr ever-loving man

... cause people often talk about being scared of change
but for me I'm more afraid of things staying the same
cause the game is never won
by standing in any one place for too long ...

Hold On To Yourself

Lie Down Here (& Be My Girl)

'Ωσπου γερνά πελλανίσκει!

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