I feel tired and slightly worried. May be more worried that I may like to admit to myself. Everytime I feel I have captured something I would like to use in my project it runs away and the meaning disappears. I am left with an empty blanket that blows in the wind. There are no colours on it, no text, no message. I want to show others that we are nothing more than a shadows and reflections, but I do not feel that way. What are the traces hat I see around. I want my project to be completely self made. The photographs taken by myself, my own traces, my own thoughts and doubts crystallized into images and text. Like fossils founds in the sea, like insects in the amber. They are there for centuries to looked at and reread. Reinterpreted and re-imagined. Imagined image – I like this context. I imagine my image, but then I am brought to reality. Time and space, I would like to describe time in my work. At some point I want to it to take longer to pass – I need more time for the project, for thoughts, for experiences. I need time to be young, I want to stay this way. At the same time I am waiting for my salary to be paid into my bank account – normally in the first few days of a new month, I am waiting to see mon cheri, I cannot wait till the Monday to be myself and not to feel guilty for being myself. How can another person reflect these emotions and feeling onto me. Am I not myself everywhere and anywhere? I am scared to be hurt, to be misinterpreted, like a text, image – misinterpreted and understood the way I do not like myself to be understood. The body landscapes – changing and getting illuminated. Like a SCottish mountains, or is this supposed to be banal? I saw those pine forests where each minute the colour of the trees changes and the mountains appeared and disappeared in front my eyes, as if they were characters in the play. They were illuminated when they had something to say and then somebody else takes over. Are bodies these landscapes as well, and are we ruled by emotions like meteorological changes? I liked these Scottish landscapes. I trying to say in my project that bodies and minds are like mazes or labyrinth. Our images and reflections are like labyrinth. We could question which one is the real one as if the fake could live a life on its own, like my own personal avatar. Or perhaps it does, in other people’s talks and opinions. No matter what we do or how hard we try to change them, the person we are not keeps living next to us, behind us, in front of us and above us. If dies its own death. There is a resemblance between us but only vague, it is the image, both visual and textual. And still with some people we feel we are the most at ease, we are ourselves. But what does it mean to be ourselves? Like observing clothes hanging – so unrelated, yet belonging to us. The image that could bring closeness and acceptance and the notorious sense of belonging. Belonging to the space, environment, to ourselves – may this s the only opportnity to have this longed for dialogue to take place. The dialogue between all the avators and imagined images, texts and pictures to come together and have a conversation in order to adapt to each other. Adapt to who we think we are, to what others sees in us and what we thing we see in each other. Perhaps it is no more the mirror stage as Lacan says at the early developmental stage when we first see ourselves in the mirror and do not recognise. May be that is the pre-reflective reflective stage that philosophers liek to talk so much about. There is nothing to recognise as even the image moves along us and looks at us, it is not really us, it is just a reflection, the same way the reflection is looking at the distorted mirrors. For some reason we do find them funny. I wonder what the fascination is. Locked in this shape of body constraint. However we do think with the body, my fingers are the ones that type, I can hear the keyboard ticking, I can see the text appearing in front of me with lots of spelling mistakes that make me angry as it means going through the text and amending everything. Or as a matter of fact it is not even that I am just irritated that I cannot spell and it looks bad and stupid. We are situated in front of thousands of mirrors even before the mirrors were first used. We had Narcissus and reflection in the water, the first time falling in love with the reflection as if it had life on its own. When am I going to die? On the day I stop breathing and my heart beating or it the day when the last person who knows my name stops breathing and their heart beating?
Free-writing Wednesday, 25 July