Green shoots on dead branches. 100th anniversary of he who died as quietly and easily as he lived, no Stalin exit for spyche’s Dad and s/he no Svetlana, either.. time for new underwear, magical Lancome – re-generation of embodied history..
Foto and I sniff out truth over a latte … what is it that haunts the memory, lingers like music on the breeze? sweetness of the skin – individual, unrepeatable …did we lose for love?.. the scent of memory had a body.. Foto couldn’t capture it, ‘.. must be Mum’ ( hat’s off andre green) .. we laughed – truth was it was an other, whatever..
If we follow the line, do we actually go round in circles? If right is defined by wrong, up by down, day by night, opposites define our perceptions; therefore in knowing, we know nothing..
The world of psyche is a jumble .. my spyche inhabits the interstices of structure (ty Mary Douglas).. hot, in-between, yours or mine, on time and timeless, with and without, of age -and ageless. This week she’s Dukan dieting – he seems to have disappeared to the Atlas mountains looking for argon oil
Spyche's Blog 