woensdag 3 september 2014

CIRCLE TALK 90 tididran


Yonder beyond where was true, that the edges crumbled
frisked and frolicked the children of the giants
This was before the star collapsed
the heart solidified
When drown red fitted the distress
drown black fitted the sorrow
This was before the mascot became a matter of the phenomenon admiration
the measures were rewritten in vibrating language
the spotted tiaras lay stacked in a corner of the warehouse
the gold proved to be copper
it rained through the mail
When was true that balls flew
the heavy goat waddlingly ran
filled with faith in stupefying fairness
This was on the plains in the east
yonder beyond
where the wind plays an open game
on the street to the west
under the low cloud in the north
where what was obtained through the blood was lavishly shed
It was here that we stood
On the border
Our senses deluded
our veins swollen
But what vein would not swell
at the sight of the morning earth


                              Akasif Tididran
                                         I am Akasif Tididran. What is true for me is true for you. 

                                         Each phenomenon investigates itself. I believe that.

                                         I am Akasif Tididran. I am one of the interactive-people. My choice is film.

                                         The angles at which I position the cameras I vary according to a measure I calculate before I start capturing on 
                                         celluloid. I never deviate from this. Just as every morning before breakfast during a short stroll I greet the copper 
                                         goat in the market place.

                                         Neither the western light nor the light from any other direction has my preference.

                                         I leave what is recorded to solidify, before I start cutting and gluing. A first look is deluding.

                                         To me system thinking is tickling. Boundaries enable me to drown. Without limits freedom is a fiction. Like a 
                                         warehouse that does not end.

                                         Grab. Devour.

                                         Also whether or not there are clouds is no hindrance for me. The circumstance during practice I see as the 
                                         challenge I relate to. I do not allow a circumstance to break me. If one of the interactive-people has only taken 
                                         red filters I will use red filters. This then produces the surprise. Yes I do love to drown inside boundaries. 
                                         Leaving the seeds to swell quietly. Allowing the practice the possibility to rewrite the course of the growth 
                                         process. For since the beacons have been set each inspiration can sink in. Formless. To later being dug up like 
                                         a fossil. Surprising. Because no two gold nuggets are equally formed, ever. I believe that.

                                         No, neither the north light nor the light from any other direction has my preference.

                                         An overflowing vein is hit upon unexpectedly. This is appropriate  for overflowing veins. Frisk gropingly. Grope 
                                         friskily. Letting the distress come to a boiling point. Scrubbing the copper till it melts. Trusting in fairness. 
                                         Relish. Observe. Embracing any circumstance as it comes. Taking the frolicking seriously. No form is a priori 
                                         fitting. Each inspiration requires a language that will make itself visible while manifesting. Crossing a plain 
                                         requires a different manner of moving than a dune climb. Without exception the practice relates to the model of 
                                         thought. To make the blood flow optimally under any circumstance. Each piece of earth requires an appropriate 
                                         climate. Each child requires an appropriate protection. It could be either appropriate to paint the walls around 
                                         the sleeping corner black or it could evoke horror.

                                         Pounce. Claw.

                                         Rain also fits without exception. A morning shower renders it impossible to record a scene that is scheduled for 
                                         eastern light. I go over the script once more. And the rewrite proves an enrichment. The wine almost was shed 
                                         before it had mellowed.

                                         A star shines for the shining. This is appropriate for stars. Just as sorrow leaves behind a scar. Like a sparkling 
                                         tiara on a forgotten piece of celluloid. Like a piece of unread mail in a moonlit pond.

                                         Yonder beyond where on a Monday by an unexpected wind the smells mingle, I am standing at the agreed 
                                         location and every notion of either front-perspective or back-perspective eludes me. Drill. Whiz. Just as a 
                                         mascot loses its vibrating qualities as soon as it turns into an inner image.

                                         Yes I like to optimize problems on the outer planet. To catch balls and to not feel the need to trace who is 
                                         throwing them. Considering it a game. A game where the merit is to acquire skill. A game at the edge of the 
                                         name frame. A game that brings me close to the heart of the processes. Where the affairs of the inner planet are 
                                         ordered. Where insights lay stacked beside visions. Where flying requires the manner of moving circling  
                                         requires. And streets are crossing streets. Because the sense of order never exceeds the data.

                              Pliddasch Tididran
                                         I am Pliddasch Tididran. Pliddasch the caring-one-taking-care-of-the-food.

                                         I scour the upper part of the grill with salt and soft sand. Then I grease it with sunflower oil. I use the grill for 
                                         now and then a corn on the cob. First I steam the cob till almost done. Then I drown it in oil. Corn germ oil. After 
                                         that I roast it.

                                         To me it has been lawfully proved that a flawless cooking method cannot be attained. One person chooses a 
                                         method that can never be usefully applied by another. Each caring-one-taking-care-of-the-food has an appropriate 
                                         approach and once you have found your own little corner you are ready for the tasty part.

                                         The market square is my warehouse. I walk my way quietly, never running. The western border from north to 
                                         south, followed by the southern border followed by the eastern border. Then the northern border. Except during 
                                         the spring in case clouds show. Then I go the opposite route. So that my last stretch is the covered south wing. 
                                         In fact, here the rain is capable of such a racket that one can see the vegetables swell on the stalls. This is true
                                         for this location but only during the spring. Surrender. Fill. The water pours down rapturously. The earth turns
                                         red. Time seems to solidify. But it is appropriate. A moment is being rewritten in a language that is only tangible
                                         for those who shared it.

                                         The onions I keep in my copper jug. This is one of those conventions that is appropriate for me, but is not to 
                                         be applied by another.

                                         Yes to me it has been lawfully proved that no method is infallible. I have the housegoats and the housebuck 
                                         grazing with each other. The flat is large enough and as long as I come to visit them every day all goes well. It 
                                         started when I conceived milking as a game. A game in which I addressed them a lot and with full words. Until 
                                         the period arrived that they do not expect otherwise.

                                         Not that I have the certainty that these creatures among them use my language, but whatever made them make 
                                         the agreement they have with each other, I never see the buck in the south corner and no goat I ever see in the 
                                         north corner. Yes, it is indisputable that a consensus is current. A consensus by which an appropriate method 
                                         is applied. Useful for this particular piece of earth in combination with those who settled onto it. I see this 
                                         confirmed in the directed manner in which their blood runs through veins.

                                         The corresponding method breaks with communal conventions. As a child I had other examples. Never have 
                                         I as a child ever seen a black headed buck. Now he is pretty much my mascot. A phenomenon that relates to 
                                         the inner planet. Warm. Arrive. Charged by the same antiquity that charged gold. A ball-like faith. Heat. Pour. 
                                         Yes this black headed buck is a creature equipped to delude me with his enigmatic friskiness. I catch them in 
                                         the corner of my eye, never frontally. And in case I turn my face to him, without exception he stands looking at 
                                         me winkingly. With those eyes of him that during the winter light up their stable like two polar stars. He is the 
                                         heart of the stable. And I have a suspicion that the goats will agree with me on this.

                                         It is the same as with the cooking. Cooking does not only have to do with the business of nourishing my body. 
                                         Cooking also has to do with the inner planet. To encounter in a joyful manner the sorrows that settled here. 
                                         Adorn them with a tiara and dance together. Flow. Calm.

                                         I lay stocks of dried goods. Beans, nuts, grains, fruits, herbs. I have glass jars for my provisions. Black glass. 
                                         In one size. My closet is cool and has two doors. Regardless of the content I stack on one side and on the other 
                                         side I pick up. By this convention it is a surprise what will be the content of the jar whose turn it is to be used. 
                                         And this content then is the starting ingredient for the recipe of the day.

                                         I note down my recipes as if they are letters to my reading-ones. And as soon as I publish my books they fly 
                                         along with every wind. Like intoxicated geese. Just to find their destination yonder beyond they track down 
                                         streets where there are none. Like diligent ants. In my estimation this is fitting fairness.

                                         It is not as if my books are available to all the reading-ones. Only to a negligible part. But a sensible part to me. 
                                         For it is a truthful accentuation of my connection with the outer planet.

                              Lui Tididran
                                         I am Lui Tididran. I am one of the interactive-people. My choice is film.

                                         'I am a child.' I am equipped to pronounce those four words in many different ways. With different intentions. 
                                         Expressions. Emphases. So that either my inner head becomes black. Or that a laugh emerges around my nose. 
                                         Or with the look of a discarded mascot. It is the coherence that directs me.

                                         For a playing-one-playing-a-game the word match has a different meaning than for a casting-one-casting-a-
                                         candle. The phenomenon of interactivity within a system produces capricious patterns whose measures have not 
                                         yet been categorized. By either inserting or not inserting a pause the rhythm of a sentence changes. And different 
                                         meaning is generated. With another charge.

                                         By how I look and by how I bend my voice I am able to evoke with the word tiara either dedication or 
                                         extravagance. Depending on the method that has been applied to stack the words, I am able to bring about with 
                                         the word gold either fear or joy.

                                         Now and then I am not equipped to keep up with the possible interpretations. If the coherence is blurry. Running 
                                         from one corner to the other. Those are the moments that my notion of fairness evaporates. For all I care the east 
                                         can be the west. I walk past my homestreet. I get numb. I turn into a cloud.

                                         I am equipped to present things in many different ways. I can handle a piece of mail lightly. I can clench it tightly 
                                         so that my fingers seem to break. Thus either this thing is capable of evoking that I throw myself in an event. 
                                         Fade. Tickle. Or I am able to with this thing bring about that you will get a red inner head.

                                         I make use of different language conventions.

                                         I browse a script as if I walk through a warehouse where a recently arrived stock has been displayed especially 
                                         for me. I force myself in and by storing each sensation within bounds I transform those moments that please me, 
                                         through a process of fermentation, into expressions that might be appropriate. While manifesting it becomes clear 
                                         how the practice relates to the preparation. If the connection is stiff I take my leave from the under layers. I play 
                                         the game without inner contact. I lose it. Solidify. Freeze. For all I care the west can be the north. My blood forgets to swirl. The housedog begins to shiver as soon as he sees me. What was true is true no longer. I only frolick 
                                         a bit.

                                         Until the star falls again. The heart listens again. Because the cry of distress sounded. Because the color of my 
                                         figure was not inspired by the script but by bar sorrow. By admiring inappropriate limits I tumble outside of the 
                                         frame of what communicates. And then the case cracks. Dazzle. Confuse. Spotted substitutes supplant vibrating 
                                         expressions. Dated conventions lying sloppily buried on the inner planet become actual and manifest a faith that 
                                         makes me blush.

                                         It may be the case that I am being asked to manifest either wind or rain. To relate to such a meaning I collect 
                                         data with my senses. It may also be the case that I am expected to deliver accents that exceed my  capacity of 
                                         imagination. Frolic. Drown. If this is the case I do a rewrite of the course of the script in my silent language.

                                         Depending on the method applied to stack the scenes the same tears are capable of bringing about either fear or 
                                         joy. It is the coherence that directs this. Am I either shedding tears due to a loss or are my eyes moist because 
                                         I expose myself to a biting wind? If I am expected to deliver tears I only play the wind variation.

                                         I favor my complexion to be as copper as possible. This has proven to be the best manner of masking the vein 
                                         on my right temple. I have no control over the lights. Although the lights make my face either swell or shrink.

                                         A wooden ball taking the color of the season while flying above the earth. This is what the figure of my latest 
                                         film boils down to.

                              Wuwlaz Tididran
                                         I am Wuwlaz Tididran.  I am one of the interactive-people. My choice is music.

                                         For the composition I rely on my black guitar. In the relationship I have with this guitar I never doubt. If my 
                                         activity is false it sounds false. A digested sound. So to speak.

                                         This guitar is standing on a three-legged stool. Visible from every corner in the living area. Now and then it 
                                         makes sense to me to do a bit of improvising outside of my usual hours. To let myself be called by unexpected 
                                         sounds and to let these swell. An inner echo. Beyond the measure of any music. I have to run to note down the 

                                         I note down with pencil. A first version dictated by the sounds. Whereafter I will not touch the guitar. I do the 
                                         rewrites from paper. It has something childlike how I drown the margins of the page in adornments. A collection 
                                         of the most bizarre tiaras. Yes I crown my notes lavishly. And even the notes themselves I distort. So that they 
                                         start to look like blooming azaleas. I frame them. So to speak. This is fair.

                                         When the guitar is standing on the three-legged stool the snares face the east. When I pick it up I go sit on the 
                                         stool. The heart in my body exchanges space with the opening in the resonance box. My eyes find a focus on 
                                         the muddy street that I see through the opposite window. The street leads from my homehouse straight to the 
                                         east and ends at the forest where to the left a paved road leads to the north and to the right to the south. Because 
                                         I am not equipped to see every isolated crown of each isolated spruce from this distance, it is being emphasized 
                                         that the game between the clouds and the forest is a game between equals.

                                         My talent to produce lyrics is more erratic. The itching in my veins is the signal that the ball is about to burst. 
                                         Then is when I dive deep beneath my top layer. Flay. Perforate. Every word that I dig up I warm as if it were 
                                         a mascot. Whether it is a piece of silica or a piece of copper. I do not have a preference, neither for the one nor 
                                         for the other. During a subsequent stage it becomes apparent that what is beyond the knowledge of a desire has 
                                         been met.

                                         A desire makes unripe juices flow. So that not only are these juices shed but they also induce wild growth. 
                                         Squander. Pollute. I have countless stacks of first versions awaiting revision. The sight of them is occasionally 
                                         as heavy as gold. Now and then as light as pollen. This is true for me. Mail from a previous me-version to a later 
                                         me-version. A game in which time is the stake.

                                         It is my starting point that every distress springs from an agreement. Just as every sorrow springs from an 
                                         agreement. That distress and sorrow are phenomena that are connected with faith and with language. Phenomena 
                                         that more often than not prove to be adhering delusions.
                                         Hit. Promise.

                                         When I concentrate on the melody I imagine a vibrating hall. A hall with animals and people and plants. Either a 
                                         circlehouse or a warehouse. For the lyrics I imagine a plain. A limitless plain with a single willow that is formed 
                                         by the wind. A relentless west wind. Through this method I obtain continuity. A method that now and then is as 
                                         fostering as rain. Now and then as obstinate as a buck. This is true for me. Frisk. Fit. It is a concern of mine to 
                                         distinct which star shines now and which star will shine tomorrow.

                                         For presentations I rely on my red guitar. In the relationship I have with this guitar I stay alert. If I am not 
                                         communicating with the listening-ones it sounds dull. A bloodless sound. Just as gliding without thermals.

                              Ekezoe Tididran
                                         I am Ekezoe Tididran. Mascots interest me. Mascots are solidified things freed from each vibrating quality.

                                         I am Ekezoe Tididran. I am one of the interactive-people. My choice is music.

                                         My method proves to evoke responses. I receive mail in many different languages. Requests to bundle forces.

                                         My productions are heard in warehouses and in marketplaces. They relate both to air currents generated by 
                                         climate machinery and to air currents induced by north winds.

                                         My method is to sit myself down. As a child with the children. As a collecting-one-collecting-data with the 
                                         collecting-ones-collecting-data. I admire them, how they like young goats frolic through the meadow of sorrows. 
                                         With their red-rimmed eyes. Bewildered by one of those temptations. Either generation-sorrow or veins-sorrow 
                                         or archives-sorrow. I admire them, the ones who make it their concern to rewrite their self portraits. In the light 
                                         of the blackest storm. The scraps of rain wetted paper that are being collected. That translated in the language 
                                         of sound waves they wish to see strewn all over the outer planet.

                                         I make myself available per hour. By suggesting I have a part in time I create the appearance of being magical. 
                                         And thus I avoid that the rash spots above my eyes attract too much attention. Realize. Experiment.

                                         Abstractions interest me. Abstractions are solidified models freed of each vibrating quality. Abstractions rob things 
                                         of their beauty. The abstraction gold robs the thing gold of its beauty. The abstraction east robs the thing east of 
                                         its beauty.

                                         Games interest me. Games are masses that only appear to be named. Game components are sham entities that 
                                         move within fabricated limits. The bars are alloyed with excess copper and at the slightest pressure they break. 

                                         I favor a day with clouds in the sky. Such a day radiates splendor. Provokes an urge to fly. To leave the earth. 
                                         To rapturously defy the forces. Such a day provokes an urge to frolic. Go for the water. Without any fear of 

                                         Splash. Sprawl. Swell. Without any fear of bursting. Yes a cloud is capable of hitting me. The sight of it. How it 
                                         lies in the airspace. In exuberance this is a sensation that is similar to the sensation I have when I run after a ball.
                                         In my studio many different tears have been shed. Either tears of rage or tears of disappointment or tears of joy. 
                                         Occasionally someone puts a tiara on my head. To celebrate my talent. Now and then I am invited for a retreat in 
                                         a corner. To exchange a small muscle-push. Not every circumstance requires the same measure of fairness.

                                         I favor street with a rough top layer. Because walking is my method to obtain silence on the inner planet. I have 
                                         chosen shoes with thin soles. Through walking let two zero points catch each other. By touching the rough top, 
                                         the sole of one foot and the sole of the other foot taking turns.

                                         Yes veins-sorrow fits foals of whom is requested to flourish in a meadow that is too small. Just as believing is 
                                         a phenomenon that becomes sensible in case barriers obstruct the view on the stars. The view on the weststar. 
                                         The weststar which is considered the bleeding heart of every modern corral for circlechickens. The view on the 
                                         northstar. The northstar which ranks as the magnetic axis of any modern goats jump.

                              Rokala Tididran
                                         I am Rokala Tididran. My muscles swell fast. Cycling against a strong wind. Climbing a steep stairs. This is a 
                                         particular measure of law that has importance for me. And although the sight of those cables is offending to me 
                                         – these calves like balls – it is a measure of law that makes me glad. For this measure of law turns my particular 
                                         boundaries into something I am able to experience.

                                         I am Rokala Tididran. I am one of the interactive-people. My choice is television. The extent to which I am 
                                         articulate in my language relates to the condition of my muscles.

                                         My veins seldom swell. However, I can have the sensation that my fat is solidified and clings to my hips. Napping 
                                         away in the sauna, seems to me to be sensible if this is the case. To transfer a concern of mine to time. Although 
                                         time is a game with which I seldom connect.

                                         Fall. Lose.

                                         Because the angle of the eye with the screen distorts the accents how manifested by me, my favorite screen is 
                                         as big as the face of the watching-one. The face and the screen as two housegoats standing opposite each other. 
                                         And both come into their own. Yes my manifestations result in meanings that are partly rewritten by phenomena 
                                         I am not equipped to control. The light waves generated by electronics are scattered over the outer planet. 
                                         Sparkle. The stars in the night sky cannot be stronger. Also the methods that are applied to stack the different 
                                         stages direct the meaning. What is true for the sentences of a text is true for the movements of a figure.

                                         I am equipped to love fabricated forms. A cardboard cloud. Photographed blood.

                                         Seize. Transport.

                                         Every stack has a heart. A pumping entity. Either a weak or a strong pumping entity. It may be actual, that I am 
                                         this entity.

                                         I am equipped to love either a spotted or a crushed thing. A piece of mail found in a muddy street becomes a 
                                         protective mascot.

                                         Beneficial for my calves is a run up and down the quay every day. Although I am shedding sweat. My scalp 
                                         seems to leak gallons. My crest is standing stiff. A tiara of hair. Yes I secrete a lot of salt. Just as copper turns 
                                         green in case it enters a duet with oxygen. Just as silver turns black in case it enters a duet with sweat. I turn 
                                         At the end of the quay is a warehouse. Forged grapevines bar the windows in the northern facade. Coarse. The 
                                         huge mature fruits have been lacquered ruby red. The leaves golden yellow. It is slightly sorrowful. How these 
                                         grapes without ever a ray of sunshine are forever showing their flourishing side.

                                         Break. Betray.

                                         I do love apparitions in the frame. This may be either a supplement or a contrast. I do not have a preference, 
                                         neither for the one nor for the other.

                                         But I do favor apparitions formed by lines, which transform with a deluding slowness. This is the electronic 
                                         translation of an earthly phenomenon that I have started to revere by getting acquainted with a convention of 
                                         my eastern neighbors. After awakening they greet a thing, that one of the circlepeople installs on a pedestal  
                                         at sunrise. The pedestal is in the middle of the patio in a ring of raked silvery sand and those who install it 
                                         – who for this day go by the name the Vulcano – choose a thing that relates to a distress on their inner planet. 
                                         It comes to two other circlepeople to during the day capture the contour of one of the shadow-transformations 
                                         of the thing. If rain renders this impossible it is believed that the respective distress is in an infant stage and in 
                                         such a case the Vulcano dumps the respective thing in the shaft below the pedestal at sunset.

                                         Wither. Vanish.

                                         Because my studio has light from the west I am a sleeping-one-sleeping-early. My method is to never let my 
                                         figures grow in direct sunlight. So that my figures obtain the quality of standing on the earth. In my language to 
                                         frolic happens to be an equivalent of to fly. Just as to drown is an equivalent of to fly. And so being earthed 
                                         is a first prerequisite.

                              Terpan Tididran
                                         I am Terpan Tididran. I trust that my affairs are in order. And to not distinct myself, I insert an appropriate  
                                         amount of sorrow. If the circumstance requires it. Yes my language may seem overconfident. But only by this 
                                         method I am equipped to be communal.

                                         Satellites frame every body. Masses with swell-quotients that are related to the sleep vibrations of that body.

                                         Every street has sidetracks. Black strips. Where the apparitions of millions of fossiles tumble over each other. 
                                         Where the occurrences-gone-by of my back-relatives lie buried, who believed that machinery brought about 
                                         movement. No corner has been able to make itself unreachable.

                                         Harvest. Clear.

                                         I am Terpan. I am one of the interactive-people. My choice is construction. Across plains my design pencil 
                                         draws my crookedest inspirations. From north to south.

                                         Blood sticks to this plan. It breaks the earth. It frolics with forces of which it wishes to have no knowledge. 
                                         Forces that make the night wind solidify. Erupting fires color the horizon. A red glow lingers. Red like molten 
                                         copper. The sight of it makes me shiver. Sense and nonsense come together.

                                         Trample. Sweep.

                                         I believe that with the ball in the lobby I have a perpetuum mobile in my proximity. Yes it is desirable to 
                                         rewrite the catalogs of the archives of knowledge. The star I see now shines now. The circlebuck in his stable 
                                         communicates cluck cluck with the circlechicken on her roost.

                                         Fairness for one breathing creature is fairness for every breathing creature. May the clouds stand by me. No 
                                         circlecow has to die in order that my blood flows in my veins. May my heart shrivel before it is capable of 
                                         perceiving such a regression.

                                         Would a cow choose me for a mascot? It is a serious matter to correctly assess the intelligence of the cows. 
                                         So that the memory of the cow is correctly estimated. From the blackened ovens in which billions of gnawed 
                                         cadavers are dumped, for a century to come the whispers will be heard of those who died during the fight with 
                                         my back-relatives who believed that the flesh of corpses was food. Only laws of which I wish to have no 
                                         knowledge are capable to mitigate this distress.

                                         Stiffen. Gasp.
                                         Yes deluding models of thought bloom close. Play a game with me. Manifest phenomena of which I wish to have 
                                         no knowledge. Either run seven measures of walking puts my gut at ease. Shed a gallon of sweat. Or lose myself 
                                         in the buzz of the warehouse. Or leave the earth and go for the water. Within the confines of a cabin surrender 
                                         to floating around. My gaze directed to over beyond where I suspect the west to be.

                                         Rest. Dive.

                                         Why is it not for me to frisk joyfully with the lamb in the meadow? Why do I prefer to drown. To forget that it 
                                         is the sun each morning who colors the horizon. A golden greeting from the east. It is raining lightly. Every thing 
                                         again becomes an adornment. The morning sky is like a tiara with which the earth crowns itself.

                                         Was the mail, with in it the knowledge I do not wish to have, not laying at my door? Did I not have the sensation  
                                         that I was a child again?

                                         I spread my wings and I fly.

                              Hidesga Tididran
                                         I am Hidesga Tididran. I am one of the interactive-people. My choice is television.

                                         During the show I have a preference for the use of copper. I believe this has to do with the circumstances of my 
                                         birth. As I also have a connection with some clouds, that I am not equipped to explain. There are clouds which 
                                         fire me up and there are clouds which dull me.

                                         I once made it a concern of mine to exactly position the different categories. But it seems as if my language is
                                         not sufficient. When I produce a note, a chosen stack of words seems to relate sensibly to the problem. Later the 
                                         note proves to be a stack without a center and the sight of it is not appropriate to me. I admire the handwriting. 
                                         But every meaning has slipped out of it. And so I see a black hole.

                                         I keep my cool and keep looking. Bow. Adorn. The left side of my brain and the right side of my brain meet. 
                                         A transfer is actual. In the black hole a point of light emerges. No star in the night sky can be more minimal. 
                                         The point grows to become a spot. Takes the form of the head of a buck. The tips of the horns mounted in a 
                                         violet shaft.

                                         Also with this apparition I have a connection I am not equipped to explain. It seems to contain the map of the 
                                         phenomenon of fairness. The head shatters. A glow in a vibrant color emerges around each part. Frolicking 
                                         together. Lumps of solidified light. I am not standing now. I lie. Pressure on my hairline as if a tiara has been put 
                                         on my head. I connect with one of the lumps. And then with another one. I let myself be transported.

                                         Then the lumps melt together into a red hole. The game almost reaches its finale. A convulsion turns my body 
                                         into a ball. My veins constrict. As if  the warehouse collapses around me during a storm. I press against a small 
                                         glassless window until the print of the frame shows in my skin. My muscles pinched. Sixty nine heartbeats per 
                                         minute. As if I come close to an unexamined law. Try. Blush. From the east a low tone swells. From the east, 
                                         yes. But no! The tone does not originate on the outer planet. It is the tone of this latter stage. No technique is 
                                         developed enough to capture it. It is my tone. The distress has dried out. The fight is over.

                                         Categorizing is not a concern of mine. Yes, rather a few clouds from the north fire me up. For this I reserve an 
                                         appropriate interest. Laugh. Be lazy.

                                         Few children favor my shows. This is true both for girls and for boys.

                                         When the watching-ones have not yet arrived the studio floor seems a plain that is impossible to fill. In this 
                                         unnamed inner sea every breathing-one could drown. Leaving the front-relatives filled with sorrow. A deluding 
                                         mirror. Waiting may seem running. A plain where mascots languish. Especially when the climate machine 
                                         generates a wind like a storm. Lick. Shrink.

                                         Before the show starts I walk up and down the street behind the studio-house. Under whatever variety of 
                                         weather. I need these short strolls to meditate all the mail addressed to me. By this method I distance myself. 
                                         So that I am equipped to prevent that I start to float. That I start to fly. It is not a concern of mine to shed the 
                                         tears of another. To squat down in a corner for another.

                                         Due to the western location the earth behind the studiohouse has a soggy quality. During the autumn the leaves 
                                         in the ponds are tiny slow moving golden carps. I do not look up now. Rather a few clouds from the west dull 

                              Belelli Tididran
                                         I am Belelli Tididran. Running is not appropriate for me.

                                         I am Belelli. I am one of the interactive-people. My choice is the stage. I am equipped to express with my face 
                                         every category sorrow. My eyes are capable of bringing about every category delusion.

                                         My mascots cheer me up. I have many different mascots. A dragonfly. A blade of grass. In the game I represent 
                                         small entities take up a huge part. This is appropriate for me. For example I have knowledge at my disposal as 
                                         soon as I smell grass.

                                         Each admiring-one who corresponds with me receives a printed note in which I say that I leave mail send to me 

                                         My sound quickly acquires a distorted timbre, if it does not connect with the microphone being used. My 
                                         vocal cords set boundaries within which one of my homes is tangible. Another home of mine is the west. The 
                                         direction. I have faith in the west. A spontaneous faith, that comes from sensory perceptions that resonate in 
                                         my veins. Grope. Grasp.

                                         For the watching-ones I rewrite the sights of their fantasies. I make what swells shrink. My language is 
                                         suggestive. The communication relates both to the formless and to the formed moments.

                                         I am equipped to express with my shoulders each category distress.

                                         A spark is the coming together of a formed and a formless moment. The measure with which the connection 
                                         between the two ingredients is weighed cannot be calibrated. It is not sensible to isolate entities and through 
                                         contracts forge them together. With different bits of black new colors red are constantly being mixed. It is a 
                                         concern of mine to do the same with sparks. To ever let new sparks glitter. To break with every measure of 
                                         system. And to try to come close to a measure of law. To in the same moment be in contact with the neutrality 
                                         of the child and with the femininity of the female and with the masculinity of the male. In the buck see the goat. 
                                         That is seeing the order in the multiplicity. Through the plain perceive the mountain. Feel. Hear. In the copper 
                                         smell the earth. That is giving credence to what is sensorial. To be transported by looking how the cloud moves 
                                         east. Thus coherence proves to be a tangible phenomenon. Thus directions prove to be entities one is able to 
                                         experience. I have experienced the north. A sensation that I stored in my blood-memory. Hide.

                                         Foster. Yes stars are entities one is able to experience. Entities, subject to the same laws that are true for me. 
                                         Laws that set the beacons for the field of knowledge that relates to the game that I represent. Wherein dimensions 
                                         intersect. Wherein formless moments also take up a huge part. And wherein rash spots take up a trivial part.

                                         I spent many hours caring for my rash. Frolicking around a bit while manufacturing ointments and lotions.  
                                         Braiding a tiara of herbal residue. Drown cotton flakes in scented waters and lay them to dry in a windy corner. 
                                         For this I constructed a special frame. Mix. Plaster. Yes, inserting an extra expedition to the warehouse for an 
                                         indispensable ingredient. Only to realize that the course of the stalls has been changed. Then on the street back 
                                         being caught by a gush of heavy rain. The water supply for the whole season is being shed in one splash. A small 
                                         muddy ball of sparrow shakes her feathers free from earth before she flies up and flutters off. The respective 
                                         ingredient is lying in my hand like gold dust and my heart is pumping joy through my body.


© mc 1993-2014

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