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..