A few pictures of OTHER PLACES IN DREAMS in situ:
By Lena Bohman:
My good friend Mr. Porss, of andreasporss.wordpress.com, gave me a painting and in return I have written him a poem. Decades from now, art historians and literary historians will uncover this post, printed out and tattered, and they will wonder about the past. Did we really wrestle octopodes together in Cyprus, in an underground and very sexy establishment? Is it true that we invented the pizza salad? What is it with swordfish? None of these questions are answered, or even brought up, in the following poem.
To a Pervert
I know your heart is not some cunt heart
To sheathe a sword in; your young blunt heart
Still sizzling the teflon wok pan:
I cannot eat out your undone heart.
So eat! Eat your own damn heart out, man,
At least feast your eyes. My unwrung heart
Plays Prisoner’s Dilemma, cut-throat,
No Nash equilibrium, some heart.
So shove a microphone down your throat
And learn to speak from your unstrung heart,
But hearts make poor cufflinks, rough red sand
On those you greet, mess, with but one heart
You’d say, today I wanked with this hand.
Today I’m ribs and spine, lung, lung, heart.
Be softer yet, wrap silk round your unspun heart;
And give away your well-hung punk heart.
The wall was installed by the city commissioner shock-full of colourful defiance from the start. It has a sign that says, “Graffiti Area,” and another one that said something about the Queen. It’s grey now. Youth have taken to shoplifting cartloads of spraypaint from local stores, and spending hours each night just painting this massive wall grey. They use old white t-shirts as makeshift balaclava gas-masks. After a night of going at it, they throw away their last spraycans and discard their shirts to discover they have ventilated grey kisses into them, by breathing so heavily so near that wall.
You run into your doppelgänger at a café in Austin, Texas. She tells you she has just come back from Rome. You have been in this town all your life, if we exclude the 3-month excursion your pregnant mother took to New York while she still could.
But you want to impress this person, whose hair has highlights of blonde and whose crooked teeth were not corrected in youth, so you tell her you work as a professional art forger, specializing in Vincent van Gogh.
It leads to nothing. You never see her again; you never lie like that again.
I am the world’s tallest man and I want to paint paintings. They will always carry the epithet ‘by the world’s tallest man’ but I want to try. Maybe it will be easier for me to get acknowledged for this, like other celebrities and their goofy hobbies. However, I’m going to be dead serious about my art. My paintings will come from within my soul. I will try to capture the spirit of the human conditions and its consequences in simple images and I hope you will like them, and that maybe one day you will forget who made them.
He stared at his cupcake, its soft artificial pink was much softer than the artificial pink of her skin, which he had once loved.
Sometimes he looked at art. Cubism. Braque, not because it didn’t remind him of her – it didn’t – but because it was good. Braque knew his cubes.
Like, should he stalk her to find out what café she dines at just to avoid it himself? That seemed counter-intuitive.
He had even discarded all the tapes, not because he had memorized them all, but because he needed space for his new record collection.
He was just that cured.
There is a new installation in the tallest building in the city. It releases gas that kills artists.
There is an interactive piece of fiction encircling us – they cannot escape.
Not much has changed, except Lilah coughs now, and the graffiti does not catch my eyes anymore.
Any act of rebellion is either formulaic and easily thwarted, or creative, which kills the rebels.
I saw a black mask with huge eyes and a trunk like an elephant’s. I didn’t know what it was for. It looked like art. It was in a locked room in the Building where I work.