On slippery stories. A series of abandoned words from unrelated moments. 

Dear Rina (if that is your name),

I would like to tell you a story, but you see, I have never learnt how to write them. They usually start with a main character, don’t they? Then, other less important ones around it, doing things, starting things, punching things in the gut. After that, I am not so sure. Maybe something happens; the character realises something. There is a car crash, a wedding, or a long trip to an exotic destination. I forgot how it goes. I know there is supposed to be an ending at some point, maybe then that something takes place, and the main character is changed by it. I heard that sometimes the ending is the start. Sometimes the start is in the middle of things. Others, the start is both the middle and the ending, and the character is nowhere to be found. 

Maybe, this is the kind of story I will write you. A bit like the ones your uncle used to tell us, singing for hours in the car to pass time as the traffic went by. There was usually a nun or a monk involved, lost in the meaning of life near a river, or a witch brewing potions in a massive pot in a chamber. No, I don’t remember any of them. The car always stopped before he got to the good bits, and the gas always ended after they did. The witch stuck boiling the frogs with her spit, the monk meditating on the leaves falling near him. Do you remember how those stories end? Alice? Josephine? Luke? I am sorry, I seem to have forgotten your name as well.

So, let me tell you a story. I am not sure there is a character lying around, or an event taking place, or an ending at any point soon. It all starts with a mumbling sound, a whispering voice repeating what they read in a book. There is dust near it, or maybe fog. So much dust-fog. Do you remember when you used to light the fire in the winter and the whole house turned into a chimney? That kind of dust. For a moment it seems like its particles are born out of the pages, or that the voice is ripping them into it. So, yes, I found a character. It is not quite real yet. Please forgive me if it will never be. I guess I should give them a name at this point, something like Anne, or Marie? Well, it is not that she matters anyways. I mean, I don’t even remember yours right.

So, let’s keep going, alright. We have Anne-Marie making dust out of a book. Wait a second, that’s not it. I think she is in the book. Yeah, right. So, yes, yes! We have a main character, Anne-Marie, she is the subject of a book; she is a book. Wait. Thinking about it, she is not blowing dust at all; I think she is supposed to be the dust. Do you remember that photograph of the floor covered in dust, it was quite old, black and white or something. We looked at it together once. It was taken by one of those Man-Artists we read about in school. Yes, I know, you were always speaking, and I never listened, but you looked at me that day. You stared at the image projected on the white wall and then said something. I am not quite sure what. Something about dust, wasn’t it? About your bedroom carpets, or a broken hoover. 

We used to get so distracted those days, didn’t we Gertrude? I am afraid things haven’t changed much since then; look at me now leaving Anne-Marie trapped in her book. Oh, yeah. There is a man too, Fred. He is old, white spiky hair he plays with day and night. His coat is always covered in them, like falling snow, or dandruff. He is related to Anne-Marie somehow. She doesn’t know it yet though, but that makes sense since she is always stuck in her lines on the page. Oh. And there is another man too, a younger one. He just turned thirty and for his birthday he blew out cigarette smoke instead of candles and made a promise to himself to never do it again. His life has been stuck in the middle of a chapter for some time now. He grew up with this rock pressing on his chest, an urge to do something. When he turned twenty-five, he realised he was the same age as Alexander the Great when ruling over an empire. He has been feeling old since then. He is unhappy most days. Once, he jumped from a brick stone wall and ended up in the middle of a field of nettles. He is unlucky, and clever, and loved; but sometimes his eyes sink down within them, and for a moment he is not a man anymore. You know that feeling don’t you Flo? Marylin? Bernard?

His name is Luke. Yes, Luke; easy enough to remember. He bickers for hours with Fred at the dinner table. They fight with rivers of words in endless battles of facts. One day, Luke breaks a glass just to scare Fred. The day after the glass is still on the floor because they both never learnt how to clean. This is because she is always there holding a broom for them. Oh yes, I forgot about her, Jennifer, Rina, Marline. She was Fred’s groom. She usually forgets about herself too. She is shy, and angry, and uncomfortably emotional. She slips and falls in the boundaries she forgets to set; one of those mother figures who’s always around, and yet seems to vanish when alone. A bit like yours. A bit like mine too. Oh. How I wish I could tell you her story dear Rina. 

I am afraid she lost herself in a book. 

Two moons*

There were two moons one day up in the sky. It was the same sky, same flickering stars, same birds - duck looking. And yet, two moons. Two ripening spheres of rock, lit by each other, floating heavy in a sea of black.

Nobody was awake when they appeared. Nobody was too sure when it had happened. Some called it a scam; an advertisement strategy from some indie SF movie not making enough of a bang. But, after all, who cared.

The moons were here now, almost translucent.

Once, while waiting at the bus stop, I over-heard a kid speak of the new moon. He spoke quietly of planet procreation. He was tugging his father’s hand while speaking of the birth of stars. I could see a shade of discomfort in his dad’s eyes, straight up to the sky.The child said he had heard a bang the night it happened. He said there was a flash and then a thunder, and then the left moon had appeared. He said that after the flash, the right one had let droplets of itself fall on the grass. Then, he told his dad how beautiful it was seeing a moon being born. A streak of droplets of light. 

* inspired by the word-based art of the amazing paper artist Chloé Malloggi

Our home. 

There’s always been this thing about our house. It was never just a home. It grew larger with age. Louder than quieter. There were many times the smoke would fill the left side until you could barely see the right. Others when you would start walking and find little capsule of sugar filled with syrup in every bowl.

It was never a normal house. Yet, we never believed in ghosts. Not even when the shadows would get closer to offer us candies mid-way through the corridor, or the smoke would turn on the typing of typewriters. Without any ink, the house would struggle to turn into a home. With it, it would turn into a library, then a museum, then a candy shop.

It would contract and expand. The walls of books would squeeze to let you pass, and the piles of sugar would be spilled on the floor if you took too many. Now, when we go back, the shadows are done making noise at night. There is no clicking, no smoke, no candies. Yet, still, at night, if you are quiet enough, you might hear a lady singing songs for wooden birds.

Tivoli.

The first time we went to the Tivoli we got the timings wrong. We jumped past the broken fence and unlocked doors with our Mastercard. And there it was. A ghost town.As we walked past the empty kiosks salivating at images of candy apples and popcorns, you looked at me only once. We were so quiet, afraid of getting caught. Almost in a respectful meditation in awe to the closed games, when you broke the silence.

“Do you remember Athens” You asked, still looking at the dinosaur house. 

“… that house near the water, the muddy lake on top.” I remembered. “Do you remember the hut near the trees?” I looked at you. Unsure what to reply. Then looked at the castle in front of us. Looked at the Greek windows closed shut.

“No, I don’t.” I said, thinking back to our house made of papers and straws. “I was never in Athens with you, darling.”

 “Should I cut my hair?”

A series of hair cutting scenes in Kalamazoo

Chapter I

Asked Lily to the man with the bold scalp sat the edge of the pool. A moment of silence.The man had forgotten for a while he was not alone in Kalamazoo.

“Yes sweetheart. You should.” He voiced enthusiastically while stroking his bold scalp dripping sweat in the blue mosquito-less water.Lily took a second reply. She wasn’t fully sure why or how she had gotten to that point; her hair so long, all wrapped around the edge of the pool. So heavy, so reflective, so greasy. Since the start of the trip, she had been wondering why. Why she had bought that one-way ticket to this land of hairless others. Why Kalamazoo? She had just pointed at a bold spot on a map. She stroked her hair. Yes. She could have stayed home, and nothing would have changed. She could have let her luscious head be the blanket for her days. She thought, as she dripped salt water in the pool.

Chapter II
“What’s that dog doing over there?” Exclaimed the slim figure at the entrance of the closet.“No, dude. Look!” Jim had started laughing inside himself as they stood still in front of that huge lion with long braids down to the grass.

I mean, Jim understood. It was an odd dog after all. But they had just crossed something. A portal made of dirty socks. So, all confusion seemed reasonable. Yet. That dog. That thing. It was doing something.“Who  cares what it is.” Said the slim figure. It was in fact swimming in black water. And yes, it was true, it was certainly not a dog. But then, its paws were rummaging the water emitting this noise. It was so low, high pitched. The sound of a motorcar stuck underground in the belly of a fly. The wetness of the lion was now ringing in Jim’s ears.

Chapter III

Lily looked at Jim from the other side of the closet. A faint grim behind her blanket of hair. Then, she looked down again. There was a rock down at her feet. Crab-looking. It was all wrapped inside her hair. A hermit who’d made a home out of her. It was breathing. Oscillating as the wind moved her hair. Lily took a break from observing it. She looked up at Jim.

“Do you think I should cut my hair?”

Jim stood still. The crab at the bottom of her feet hairless. No. He thought to himself. She should not. He had always liked his women hairy, with ponytails that could wrap around him. He liked Lily that way. She was a blanket for him to vanish inside of.And so, Jim looked at her. Then looked at the crab. Impulsively, he lifted the breathing bold thing from the ground, Lily’s hair still wrapped in it. He didn’t want to hurt it, nor her. But the crab was fluorescent blue, pulsating in his hands. So, he walked straight past her. Her lamenting mumbles unnoticed. Then, he took a step towards the black lagoon, and threw the creature to the lion. Lily tied her hair into a ponytail.

Chapter IV

In Kalamazoo a slim figure was falling asleep. His dick flaccid in the urinal. A bold man next to him. They were both average sized humans, with average sized dicks. One with light fur up to his ankles. The other fully shaved. And they just stood there. Unable to do. To think. To pee. Just wobbly skin inside a cubicle stained with fluid.They were waiting inside the sound of wheels chugging on tracks, and the faint chattering behind the closed doors. Still in their shoes sticking to the cubicle’s slimy floors. Unbothered. Just two figures multiplied by two others wet reflections staring at them. Unable to speak, they just stood there, looking inside themselves, needing to pee.

Chapter V

The pool had gotten louder now. Many more bold heads and slimy arms dipped into blue water. Dripping yellow sweat joining chlorine. Lily was back. Still, waiting for answers. Should she cut her hair?

She spiralled into herself while looking at the bold man now chattering happily with a very slim figure covered in what seemed like black ink. Jim looked at her, then run his thin finger through the hair still trapped inside his closed palm. Then, from where he stood, the slim figure turned his back and stumbled into Lily’s blanket of hair. Almost tripping inside the pool.

“Hey sweetheart. Would you mind tying your hair up?” Lily looked at him red in her cheeks. Her kept going.“I get you’re not from here, but I have been stuck inside my hotel room and I just needed to take some fresh air without dying because of someone’s furriness. And your hair, touching my shoe, is driving me mad. Please, for fuck’s sake. Cut it.” All in one breath.The chattering continued. The pool people ignored him, all so comfortably cushioned by Lily’s hair. Inky man turned back to his previous conversation. But she had heard him.

So, Lily did. Stuck her hand in one of the pockets of her jumpsuit Picked up a pair of gardens shears and chopped it all off. She was finally at home in Kalamazoo.

Fiammetta had always been the most beautiful fish. They all knew it. Since the first moment her swift soft scales had touched the clear water, there was something special about her. She was no ordinary goldfish. Even before the operation took place, we could tell. It had to do with the redness of her long fins, I think. Or maybe it was the way she moved her gills, pacing her time for us while we ate breakfast. She used to stay near the amphora on the sandy bits, gazing at us while we looked at her. Even before the hat, and the driving, and the chips implanted near her vents, she never gave us fisheyes.

It was a small tank, too small as we discovered. It was eleven of them. It all started with Jim, a five-centimetre-long parody of her, then Luisa, Bluetto, Fiume, Giallino…and the others. No, I cannot remember the names of eleven goldfish, might be even concerning if I did, don’t you think. Still, they were many, too many, a shoal of nameless flowing things. Jim had been an impulsive purchase, Mom said. She woke up one morning and noticed a hole in the kitchen counter, a square-sized aperture the size of a fish tank. It was not there the day before, she admitted. She blamed the electricians. They had been there the day before trying to fix the stove. As soon as she saw the gap in between the counter and the stove, she knew. Left the house, turned on the car, and bought the tank. She was not surprised to notice it was exactly the correct diameter.

The vat had been there since. Its inhabitants multiplied over the years. Sometimes, one would vanish and another re-appear instead. Others, identical fishy copies of the same would flicker for a few days and then dissolve. We all had a hunch it had to do with Dad and his black- market operations in the cupboards. It had been a hard time for him, after his leave of absence, and the eye operation, and the readjusting to his upgraded vision. There had been something off about him for a while, so we all pretended not to notice his secreted experiments in the house walls. After she arrived, he spent hours looking at the fish, scribbling numbers on yellow paper, and re-adjusting the water filter.

https://www.nytimes.com/2023/04/25/science/goldfish-brain-computer-navigation.html Scientists performed brain surgery on goldfish to place electrodes threaded through tiny holes in the fish’s skull, to a recording device attached to its head that could monitor neuronal activity.Credit…Credits: Lear Cohen

It was a foggy morning made of toasts when he first mentioned driving. He said that since they replaced the crystals in his left eye, he had developed a weird theory around the city lamps. He said there was something in the electric pulses, something he could now feel. Something messing with his perception of space. Something related to movement, or navigation, or mechanical patters fired by the brain. He had a way of talking about things. He had been a car enthusiast since childhood, and what started as collecting old miniature models had turned into a full-fledged career. I will never forget the way he gasped at the first Tesla. I will never forget because he mentioned Fiammetta when the self-driving function turned on.

It all happened that night. There was a hissing sound coming from the walls. I could hear his footsteps in and out of the kitchen, water splashing and metal clanking. When I woke up, she was there on the sandy floor with her brand-new cyber-hat. The tank was not on the counter, and the void had been sealed up. It was a wheeled vat now, steered back and forth on the marbled floor. It all lasted a few days. We kept on crunching on toast around the tank, while Dad stared at his stain fish-driven shoal. It was a too small-sized tank. They were too many in it. The funeral took place in the toilet. I cried flickering tears as he flushed Fiammetta’s cyber-hat down the drain with her. He went back to work after that.

There are moments when I wish I was a seashell, so that you could press your ear against my chest, and listen to my story. I guess, this time I will have to write it down.

I am seven. The grass is wet against my bare feet and it feels like walking on a moist carpet. My mother is behind me, clinching to a blue backpack filled with mushrooms and dirt. She holds my hand and we share bright green moss while trying not to slip. I change paths. The ants are building a bigger house this year and I know now not to bother them during construction. The others are far ahead, legs moving like spiders, frantically searching for the best one, the biggest one. Tonight, we will have mushroom risotto for dinner. I see a red organic stain amid an ocean of grass. I found one. I did it. I won. I put my little hands around it. It’s poisonous. I hear a click. The picture hangs in the corridor next to the toilet.

I am ten. We are standing in front of the TV. Captain Kirk is walking alone in a dark cave. The music is pounding in my ears and something tells me I should really look away right now. I shake in the leather armchair and I stare at the corner of the screen. But then, nothing happens, he keeps walking. Square metal boxes keep floating through space, Borgs inside of them, waiting for the perfect moment to turn the Enterprise into steel, to hide shards of aluminium into the crew’s fleshy skulls. I look at my legs, blonde thin hair standing like morning chickens, and for a split second I forget I am not a duck. I shiver, and I think of the moment when my skin will stop being skin, and my eyes will turn into lenses. I breathe in. The scene passes.

I am fifteen. I can see trees from my kitchen window, they seem to be dancing to the rhythm of a song. All uniquely cropped by the roofs of grey houses. The tablecloth has tiny red trees on it and too many stains of wine. Someone is talking about moths, or spiders, or beetles. They say the snow is not the same this year. The tracks have opened up but you can see the stones beneath them. Nothing is the same anymore. The tourists are crowding the village and they keep leaving tissues in the woods. Maybe next year will be better. Maybe there will be more snow. It is just like ten years ago, they say. Why linger over the sun’s warmth, when you can just sit outside and tan?

I am eighteen. I open the door to my parent’s bedroom, breathless. The corridor is long and I did it all galloping like an over-excited pony. I tell them I am going to become a photographer. My mother disapproves. Why waste such a good brain on something so pointless like pulling triggers? My father, sweetened by a life of collecting old cameras, agrees. After all, my bedroom used to be his darkroom, and so if I got such silly ideas in my head, it has to be his fault. Maybe, the chemicals have penetrated into the thin walls, and got into my lungs. Maybe, I am part developer, part fixer. I am afraid I will never learn how to stop.

I am twenty-one. I am sitting on a living room floor in an apartment on the highest floor, overlooking Vancouver. You are tuning a guitar with an app on your phone. You look at me and then you say that art is everything, so I close my eyes and listen. Then, you say that code is art, and I look at you and wonder. There is an ocean between us. I feel it every time you sit and disappear into your keyboard tapping language into numbers, and I am not sure I understand. You say that when you moved into this skyscraper of a house the walls were all white and empty, so you went on and decided it was better to cover them up. Now, five crooked posters are hanging, plastic images of virtual universes you call art. I linger on creating another reason to differ. You say there was one picture in the flat before, and it was truly horrid, while you point at a Mondrian leaning against the corner of the couch. You say that is not art.

Cogne, Italy, 2023

When they ask me why I am here now, making cubes out of paper and hoping to turn code into plants, the fragments of you merge with dirty mushrooms and wet grass. This year the snow did not fall, but the ski tracks opened up anyway. They say the ants have moved away, and that the moss is suffocating under layers of cement. I am sure you are still typing away, and that your skyscraper is now filled with more images of universes where the weather never changes. In this one though, the stains of red wine are starting to cover the whole house and the real Borgs have begun putting chips into monkeys, forgetting they are chimps themselves.

Sometimes, I still wonder whether Captain Kirk was ever really alone in that cave, whether the scare chord was his alarm call and he was just trying to warn us that something in that den was crawling inside us too. Maybe those metal boxes were hovering over us, and the Enterprise was safe all along. Maybe we weren’t. They say there is a difference between stories and reality. I disagree. There is nothing more real than a story we have repeated too many times.

Most of the time, I sit and think of the words that I could have said back then, to convince you that art was not just lines traced onto paper or the clicking of a shutter. And yet, there are stories you spend your whole life writing, and poems you never stop reciting. I think mine got mixed up with yours, and with the feeling of the wind blowing angrily on snow. Now, I try to make art that stops it. I hold my hands above my head and whisper to the starships. I walk barefoot on grass and use my phone to film it. I spread paint all over paper and wait for it to fill me.

When you met me, I thought art and science were enemies that I had to keep apart. I chose to write with images and picked a fresh new start. There were writers in my family and books already piling up, so I thought there was no space for me to add. I used to walk around the streets spying on strangers through a hole, then I used to steal their faces hoping it would fill my soul. Now, I look down at the pavement and hope to see a crack, then I make myself an ant and enter the blue backpack. I often thought of bright moss and hoped to see through stone, then lost myself in TV screens and thought I was alone. I hope I can convince you now that I was not me yet, that the camera I was holding was just a box and not an eye yet; that the lines I traced on paper were not the start of sentences, and that when I closed my eyes back then, I did not get trapped in places.

Now, I stopped to fear the big black square and the metal shards of progress, I just sit down and look at chairs and call this one my process. I try to write new stories and dilute your code with water. I mix chemicals with hair dye and steal algorithms from others. I started shooting pictures and printing them on paper, but then I lost reality and exchanged them all for fakers. I am tired of restrictions and rules should be updated. I use this space to question if the time has come to change them. I don’t believe in mediums, or boundaries or boxes. There is no time to stick to plans and if there were we’d waste it.

If you were here right now, you would see how much I upgraded, but my skin is not a metal cage and I am not sure who made it. I want to chase the wind again and jump into cold rivers, and yet I hope to see you there and trust this skin that shivers. I am glad you folks out there are in a world of code, but I hope there will be space again to improve this one we hold.