This text is one out of four pieces that were first published in "NEWS", a written exhibition curated by Natalija Paunic and published by Open Space Contemporary, London.
"Zeitgeist Is My Demon..." is a fantasizing and abstract narration taking place in the ever-spinning loop of contemporaneity.
It negotiates the impact of timing and trends, a desire for nowness and the question of what such consists of.
Located on the verge of ups and downs, good and bad, failure and success and with a shocking ending, it glimpses into the realities of X fictional characters, different entities who stand in a constant dialogue with each other and yet never physically materialize.
The scenery of the first chapter is a castle somewhere in the countryside, exact location unknown, pleasant as it could be should be.
A dark cell
Cold and dusty
Shivers and musty breaths
that raise and lower a chest
humming that glides through the night and shines
moonlight is peaking
sneaking in through the only window
more of a loophole
forming a slight cone of light
On the spot, the ghost starts talking:
„What if they just stopped breathing the air I exhale?
I need them to finally gather and start collecting fresh ideas. I‘m sooooooo thirsty you know?“
Balls of saliva drip-drop out of the ghost‘s mouth every time it raises its voice. Gross. But you will get used to it.
The gallerist answers:
„Now is not the right time, ghost.
You know that. Patience is crucial for this process, for each process. It is the only thing ensuring the success of our mission.
If we rush it, I tell you, this will be fatal for the whole project. I‘m not willing to lose. Not again. Not twice. “
The ghost always admired the gallerist's patience and her eloquence, the ability to express herself with such grace. The way her calm voice resonates in the space, echoing towards the cold stone just to slowly suck dry on the moist walls.
Right where its strains of saliva sit, next to the rest of condense water that‘s been collected on its surface over the years.
It stutters back:
"When if not now. We are losing time!
You are losing time..."
And that’s the moment where she would lose her temper and even though this happens rather rarely, if she breaks out, shit is going down.
For a long time, this concept of time trespassing, overcoming, enduring has been all that matters to the gallerist.
It dominated her in a way nothing and no-one else could. Never ever would she even let someone close to owning her whole existence like time did.
She contains herself again:
„But time my dear has never been our friend and it will surely not start to be so now.“ Sighing the gallerist turns her face towards the moon.
„Time, ghost, does nothing but vanish.“
power and control
an easy game
tension and relief
a sweet threshold far
like walking out of a gay bar
A scream echoes through the hallway.
Latest since Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez publicly humiliated Mark Zuckerberg, the business started working again.
Now the Trix welcomes four to five clients on a good day.
She‘s able to pay rent and save money for the next surgery.
The Trix is a very precarious appearance, incredibly androgynous. Dyed and quaffed red hair, mean teachers glasses that she would lurk out of with eyes swelling out of her slightly wrinkly skin. A bit raggedy but incredibly elegant. To call the Trix a chain smoker doesn‘t do it justice. She‘s rarely seen without a cigarette in her mouth.
It suits her. The way the outlines of her purple painted lips move when she inhales –
every muscle tension working on a drag has been perfected over the years.
(the loss of the body)
I am shutting down.
Immensely bright light and an intense warmth from inside make him forget about the storm he finds himself in.
all by myself
I wander through never seen parts
around strangers lingering
in a city I call home
down in the parks
in the parks
I ask myself how much I really know
in the lights of approaching cars
finally a street I recognize
a group of boys
dressed in the same
walking my way
dogs went astray
I met death a couple of times
fucked the shit out of it
back on time
I got wet.
(the fool and the studio)
Waking up every morning, going to sleep every night – the fool realizes nothing.
He isn’t aware. Isolated and sealed off, his ambitions protect
shades of blue
a layer of yellow on top
Is it a sin to produce works whose sole purpose is to be decorative?
catching a plane
The fool realizes nothing.
(the return of the body, space and time)
feeling good is relative when you feel good all the time as so is feeling bad
we spin in a monotone monochrome with no loophole
a black ellipse spitting out red liquid
In the second the handler walked into the room
all the puppies stopped barking
their tales stopped to wave
just their stertorous breath resounding
The gallerist was finally assured that time is dominating us in ways immensely more powerful than she would have thought, than she would have ever dared to imagine.
This knowledge, like a huge sack of potatoes, it weighs on her chest.
A secret that she would have to keep now.
Another package to carry.
She carries a bag. Fendi.
The trix sensed a longing for punishment.
And when she opened that door, she noticed that nothing could have been done differently. It was destiny.
The mint green carpet, the black sofa that was just big enough to fit his whole corpse, all of it was so horribly picturesque.
He didn’t even eat up his food, not even roughly.
The plates almost seemed untouched, just about one bite missing each.
That was the moment when the trix started to feel that something is going on…