daybreak

Solitary wings - winging through space. The cry in your eyes scattered; you buried it in the marble of frozen imagery, and barefoot, fleeing themselves, run the birds of your imagination. Are you praying?! Every posture is forbidden. You teach your senses solitude. You plunge into the ocean, make for the bottom, forgetting the noise of the shallows. Solitary gills - gilling through space. The strokes of your arms are fluid; in your thoughts you hear your heartbeat, and in your deafness catch whispers. You pray.

As a child I clenched it in my hands - the tempting shard of glass. As a woman I felt it cut me. Grown, I bandaged myself well. As an old woman I carried the scar - and felt its warmth. Why did I now remember the gleam of what I had once desired? And without a single tear of repentance, like a child I wept for my little shard. What awakened in my soul? One sigh. Perhaps two.

My knees touch my face, and my arms encircle them. and I believe in... and I believe for... and I believe to... When this is over, another oval cube will emerge from me and believe without...

Help! The trains are sinking because the screams spill into one another, the stain smears, magic leaps from behind memory, and the train whistle sobs. The drowning man's bubbles cannot be heard. The trains sink and await winter. A storm petrel flies across the lake; behind the rock it blurs into a sinking train, and red overtook sorrow so that nostalgia for the sunken train could rise to the surface.

A kiln of red-hot vessels. I wander through a consciousness full of longing to be brought to white heat. Metamorphosis or illness is my journey, a hope for warmth, yet in truth - a heating, an unnatural reddening before I burn. In the end, only a tempering into strength. And how unnatural this coldness is. Metamorphosis or illness, a soul deceived.

The man boarded the trolleybus, sat down a moment before he lost his balance. Slowly he inclined his head towards the woman beside him. He came back to himself; his eyes trembled. He looked ahead; no one even suspected. Before his eyes stood nothingness. The emptiness of memory smiled with crushing force. His reflection in the window was so ghostly and alluring. His eyes ran after the vanishing street. And his tears burst out, heedless of propriety. The woman on his left closed her eyes, disturbed by this sudden nakedness. I do not know why he was crying, but I wish that I could too.

The bird stands on the branch. The bird does not even stir. Through your gaze it peers into itself. The bird lifts one foot. The bird unfolds a wing. You hear the beating of its heart. You cannot find its thought. The bird shudders, caught in the predator's talons. Robbed. The bird turns its gaze away. You peer into yourself. You need... The gaze of the predator. You are needed.

The soul drizzles. In its glass vessel - a body - drops resound, racing down the gutters of the day. From outside She peers in. It drizzles. Drops trace the panes, washing a face out of the night. Within the glass flask, in silence, She absorbs the breath of damp. The glass vessel remains with emptiness, beside memories born of rain.

Clods of the soul - essences drawn from silence. Rough, dug from the earth, white at the core. Heavy wells, pure - clods of the soul. Hidden in dark depths, a breath of coolness in the heat.

Her paper soul sighed and stirred the many leaves gathered to tremble upon the cold earth. It sighed for the damp that had soaked into it. It sighed for the peace that had descended. The love she had breathed out, white, breathed its last across the autumn vastness.

Today the sun caresses you with warm caresses, and tomorrow the winds carry you away. A dreaming toy in the hands of a nursemaid who raises it to die. Sleep, sleep, little child, sleep gently, so you may grow. So you may grow and die. In my living cradle dream the most beautiful dreams, child! And when you cease to dream, Mama will take you home. Sleep, little child, SLEEP...

The butterfly quivered, flickered. It turned into a sparrow, the sparrow into an eagle, the eagle into sky. The child began to run, its eyes pierced the bluest sky. In its pupils a butterfly quivered.

The sky breathes. Adrift, it peers through fingers, writing down: threshold, earth, globe... A single feather - alone, without memory, without an idea... Fate rocks it in the wing of a bird, in a fan, on a hunter's hat and beside the ink. The sky is in a feather... I fall asleep.

The soul was born in the dark... Its cry summoned the image; then It appeared - my face. Depicting Myself became the goal. I set about depicting my face: the radiant pupils of the “little child,” the little outstretched hands, the rosy little lips. I did not alter the canvas; I painted over my own image, to keep My image true. I caught the slight lift of the brows, the gleams of meetings and partings. The bright tones faded. The palette grew more complex. The features furrowed my face more and more... After the long rendering of the canvas, a “White Spot” appeared - an additive effect of mixing the colours. To summon my face, I resorted to X-ray imaging, to recover the stages of my face-building. I found the contours of my face; alas, the colours were vanishing. Every tremulous feeling had darkened in the colour of time. Reckoning: In the end, in conclusion, before me I found one white square (an additive contour) and one black square (subtractive feelings). My squared facehood took on a Neo-Plastic, art-historical character.