Two parts of me want to be heard. The writing restores the past painful experiences, recollections of violent times. Immediacy is urging the writing. Reality rubs out a moment. It is from my shell that I speak. As for the poetry, preconsciousness can explain itself if we let go and abandon ourselves to rationality and logical sense. Squeaking tones, sometimes dislocated. I speak about all deaths.
Pictures touches on the tenderness emotions found somewhere in childhood. Plain boredom. What ensued after. But also what didn’t happen. What I never got to have, I want to speak of the joy in moving, in playing. The joyful lightness of meeting others. The lens is my companion. With a camera I feel myself becoming whole.