L’appel de l’obscurité

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In rural Bengal, if you hear your name at midnight, you must pretend that you did not hear it. For it is nothing but black magic. It is called The Call of Darkness, it invites you to your ruin.

Similarly, it seems, there is on the path to your self, a strong call inviting you to become everything you are not. It is hard to ignore this beautiful, seductive voice that offers the world. I call it The Call of the Persona.

Conversation with an astrologer / 2014

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Near the building that calculates time and space, there is another girl sitting inside a room with an astrologer. Time of birth, without which nothing can be known, must be accurate. What does the future hold?

“Einstein’s theory of special relativity created a fundamental link between space and time. The universe can be viewed as having three space dimensions — up/down, left/right, forward/backward — and one time dimension. This 4-dimensional space is referred to as the space-time continuum.”

“I can’t quite understand why you will do such a thing?”

“Do what?”

 “Just try to stay away from foreigners.”

“If it is destiny, could I really stay away?”

“Wear a yellow sapphire, minimum 6 carats, on your index finger.”

“And that will change everything?”

“It will change nothing.”

“Then why wear it?”

“Why take an umbrella in the rain?”

“What is it?”

“You will not have a wedding in this life. Something akin to marriage, an unusual structure that lasts a lifetime. But there are children, grandchildren even.”

“An unusual structure? What does that mean?”

“It’s not possible for me to tell you any more than I know.”

“Why is it?”

“Rahu. The presence of a shadow planet in your 7th house. Something karmic from your last life. There is nothing you can do. “

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Words on love that don’t make any sense / Part one

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In a village of northern Thailand, uncooked blood is mixed with chillies, salt, and lemongrass to remove the gamey flavour and served uncoagulated in a bowl. The doctor prescribes it as a cure of every undiagnosed illness. “Two times a day, until you’re addicted.” Rx.

By mistake an ancient dictionary in an ancient library is discovered. Night after night after night is spent reading it until the forbidden word is finally reached.
See also, nox.

“Dear students,” the doctor is heard addressing a classroom, “just because there is no visible injury on the body doesn’t mean the patient is fine. Sometimes the wound is inside.”
Sir what if it just cannot be found, the cause of illness, what if it doesn’t even show up on scans?
“Then I suggest you ask the patient to fall in love. It’s state of the art. A little invasive, but reveals everything.”

In an undiscovered village, cans of coca-cola are used to declare love. Addictive, fizzy, somewhat sweet, a little poisonous. Originally intended as patent medicine.

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Describe it in three words:
Eternal, like Vermeer.

Someone has placed quartz crystals on a Gaelic shore at midnight to catch me like salmon.

Henri Matisse, in his lost interview from 1941, “A man who pretends to have typhoid isn’t dangerous; it’s the one who does they’re afraid of.” It’s not love unless the world is afraid.

Hello, my name is Pasolini. You must be Pino the Frog. There are no witnesses. Let’s begin.

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D.K. Bose, D.K. Bose, D.K. Bose

It’s one of my favourite Hindi songs with strange lyrics and almost surrealist imagery. The additional fun comes from the name used in the song, D. K. Bose. By repeating it constantly, as they do, it starts to sound like a Hindi expletive somewhat comparable to the English ‘motherfucker’. Certainly, it was done to avoid any kind of censoring that the government loves to do. Maybe someday I will do a better translation, but here it is at the moment:

Daddy barked at me, you are my fault
I’m guilty for giving you life
In the shape of a soap, son, you turned out to be just foam …

Run … run …

Oh by god, I am fucked, what the hell
A bowl : a well when I peered into it
A tiny mouse : a black snake when I caught its tail

Run, Run, D.K. Bose, D.K. Bose, D.K. Bose
Run, Run, D.K. Bose, D.K. Run
The storm is almost here
Run, Run, D.K. Bose, D.K. Bose …

Who robbed whom, how did someone’s head break, who knows
Brother, we don’t have a clue
We just know that running onwards is good
Behind us is a beast with its mouth open
A storm has brought a message:

Run, Run, D.K. Bose, D.K. Bose, D.K. Bose
Run, Run, D.K. Bose, D.K. Run
The storm is almost here …

We are pigeons, a two-wheeled scooter
Life only moves if we push it
Low on luck
We have to do a lot of effort for
Bread, clothes, and girls

This mind is a garden
And tension is the gardener
The instrument of my heart
Out of frustration, only plays one melody:

Run, Run, D.K. Bose, D.K. Bose, D.K. Bose
Run, Run, D.K. Bose, D.K. Run

I am always late / Muneer Niazi

I am always late with everything
In saying something important,
In keeping a promise

In calling her,
In asking her to return
I am always late

In helping or
in consoling a friend
In meeting someone on old, ancient roads
I am always late

In being in love during changing seasons
In remembering
Or in forgetting someone
I am always late

In saving someone before death
In letting someone know
That reality
was something quite different
I am always late

Muneer Niazi was an Urdu/Punjabi poet from Pakistan. In the video, it’s incredible to see most people in tears while listening to these simple lines, the simple devastating feeling of being too late. “Too late,” Diego Rivera was quoted in Marnham’s book, “I realized the most wonderful part of my life had been my love for Frida.”

This almost hasty translation from original Urdu is mine.

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Yes, we can! 

Last night, conversation with my 7 year old nephew went something like this: 

“But I can’t do whatever I want”

“We can try”

Yes … but I’d be dead.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do it. It just means you’d be dead.”

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The Mirror / insomnia 


​I just had a dream that I am on my bicycle returning home late and my mother and grandmother are worried. I have an overwhelming sense of relief that someone is waiting for me. 
I am almost certain where this dream came from. Right before sleeping, I was reading about Vivian Maier’s life: the brilliant photographer, discovered posthumously, who spent most of her life in relative poverty as a  nanny. At the end of her life, she was often seen sitting on a bench eating something out of a can, mostly angry. No family, no marriage, no children, no friends.

Marilyn Monroe writes: “Alone!!! I am alone. I am always alone.”