March 10, 2020
Complex signals trouble my consciousness.
I wish they were not such a streaming mess.
Some messages feel important to get right
Though they demand more than my might.
Some ring so beautifully that they sound true
But most I cannot decipher and I have no clue.
My attention scans signals in an erratic way
And this attention itself has so much to say.
All input that I gather seem relayed from inside
Although stemming from the other being guide.
More or less loosely gathered entities like me
Are placed in as various perspectives as can be.
A message formerly received loud and clear
Can then turn out wrong and nowhere near.
Abundant signals are pressing to take charge
In infinite layers, miniscule and large.
Inputs and outputs cross without interludes
A transformer of different magnitudes.
I wish they were not such a streaming mess.
Some messages feel important to get right
Though they demand more than my might.
Some ring so beautifully that they sound true
But most I cannot decipher and I have no clue.
My attention scans signals in an erratic way
And this attention itself has so much to say.
All input that I gather seem relayed from inside
Although stemming from the other being guide.
More or less loosely gathered entities like me
Are placed in as various perspectives as can be.
A message formerly received loud and clear
Can then turn out wrong and nowhere near.
Abundant signals are pressing to take charge
In infinite layers, miniscule and large.
Inputs and outputs cross without interludes
A transformer of different magnitudes.
September 30, 2019
December 10, 2018
December 11, 2016
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Synagogue_(Canterbury)
I love this garden where we could have planted a tree as we did elsewhere.
I could stay in a corner here forever. The insomnia will be tactile as ever. Light and darkness too.
And I will feel the kiss of the abyss, the breeze from the abyss over the flower beds, full of hyacinths and dahlias, begonias, red and yellow roses, peonies, orchids,
all kinds of campions and lilies and lots of scattered myrtles and various heathers.
Vasilis Papageorgiou
December 12, 2014
August 23, 2014
This moment
Voices and whispers in different places in different cities and landscapes at different times by different trees and people and whatever leaves a trace in the thin air. You seem to turn to them more often than you turn to yourself.
What role does the unknown play there for you apart from affirming its openness? What is beyond or free from the calculated or its results, from the constructions and structures of any kind?
For this moment, nothing outside all, except the outside. This moment, here.
Vasilis Papageorgiou
http://chromatachromata.com/2014/08/23/this-moment/
May 2, 2014
Om kattnamn
Att ge namn åt en katt, det är knepigt som katten. Det finns inte många som duger till de´!
Man grubblar sig tokig av grubbel om natten. ETT namn är för lite. En katt vill ha TRE!
Först har vi det namnet som används därhemma, det enkla, rejäla som Peter och Tom och Viktor och Jonatan, Hugo och Emma - förnuftiga namn, som envar tycker om.
Och om man vill undvika banaliteter, så kan man väl flottare namn hitta på som Plato, Admetus, Elektra, Demeter - förnämliga namn men rejäla ändå.
Och sen ska man hitta nåt säreget åt'en, nåt ovanligt kattnamn med resning och glans så katten kan känna sig stolt och belåten och snurra mustaschen och svänga sin svans.
Och sådana namn har jag några på lager som Munkustrap, Quaxo och Korikopatt och Bombalurina och Fille Podager. Det är namn som blott bärs av en endaste katt.
Till sist ska ni veta att misse och missa har något som inte för människor är, det namnet som ingen i världen kan gissa, som katten om natten i hemlighet bär. Och ser ni en kisse som tyst mediterar och grubblar, försjunken i länstolens famn då vet vi mesamma på vad han funderar. Han grundar och blundar - begrundar sitt namn, sitt nattliga, kattliga, evigt ofattliga, allra förtegnaste, egnaste namn.
TS Elliot i översättning av Britt G Halllqvist
Daniel kunde den här dikten och deklamerade den ofta som barn
March 10, 2013
scriptum
What we observed described and informed our latest stretch of imagination. It all became
again whatever we were imagining. Which we did not want to be much, not as one would
imagine. There, on the borders of east Lund, it all came down to an easily perfect
backward parking between two cars on the north side of a narrow street.
Vasilis Papageorgiou
February 14, 2012
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