Aerites- Patricia Apergi

Posted on July 5, 2011


Bullets from the subconscious barrel

Which kind of magic could uncover the future for me? Which power could show me the unknown? How many tomorrows can fit within my today? Why is it that in this country our thirst is quenched only by yesterdays or tomorrows? How many todays can fit my lifetime? How many active minutes can a society (or a place) offer me, for me to dance or speak to it?

How contradictory is a tomorrow without direction? How insidious is a place full of promises for a tomorrow that never comes? In this city I learned how to grow up, live and move. Within this city’s motion I found my direction and within this city’s immobility I discover my movement.

And I cannot predict, nor complain. Through the dark skin of Greek nature I shall wait – until the needs of my expression are mirrored. And the street sign (of a future avenue) hopefully reads: ATTENTION DIALOGUE!!!!!!


Finally, a number of people will rise – for which yesterday meets with today -and the days will be steadier than the needs of the days before.

I can never conclude: in how many pieces could one divide a need, or in how many values added could a body be completed. Tomorrow, loneliness will become a part of the study of endlessness and everyday life a part of the misery of the day. Tomorrow there will be a parade of bodies and today the senses will awaken. Tomorrow coffee will be rough and words intense – for an apotheosis of purging and super-value. Tomorrow, the triggering of senses will be interrupted and totalitarianism will be tamed. Just this once, universes will meet in order to magnify the favour of the day and straighten the crisis.

 One position defines what many people have banished with words. Provided that the smug universe of selfishness defines expression only through words, it is true that in this manner-one could outlaw movement. Tomorrow there will be an operation for the present and the succession of this crisis will be the universal possibility smugness and selfishness. Naturally , this does not complete itself through the complex of the senses , but behaves in totality through shapes, forms and structures. Nothing can be complacent to the turmoil of status, but the incomparable, qualitative incoherence of the universe. Since we are all paying for the completion of existence, then schematically the future can be described transparent through the promises of today. The generation of protest is awakening within coquetry and is running off to tame the selfishness of a totalitarianism of a big and certain idea. Never would tomorrow seem as hysterical as it was yesterday, when it was carrying on its shoulders the existence and structure of our generation. Never would I deprive myself from the turmoil of movement, only when the history of mutations of images would be ringing in my head. A- tomorrow- that- until- present- you- are- not. A tomorrow that can accelerate the revelation of our desires, of riveting relationships and of  immobility, inexistence and infinite desire. How it would make me happy – to agitate the sensitive side of thoughts, to move inside the infinity of desires, to run in the relentlessness of thoughts and abide to the everlasting  prosperity of consciousness. I am sleeping in the face of dawn and I suffer at the super-value of talent.

I am indifferent to the thoughts of minors and I surrender to  dialogue, stand alone though hysterical , creepy structures that nail my being and afflict my skin. I am hypnotized in the vertigo of hysteria of movement and I am indifferent to the judgment of other heretics – without being given the right to sell up the crowd, or imagine the pleasures of a wry construction of thought.

Tomorrow, I shall laugh with the serenity of the crisis and I shall surrender to the nature of movement- through the journey of a relentless coercion of expression. I dare to use form through virtue and I torture myself through the funny dress of others.  I sit arrogant , inside the shell of the title of a performance, ignoring the indifference of ignorance that fastens me to the stand of  virtuous jesters of a mass prostituted civil construction. And I laugh with the conceited lonely and indifferent trips of adult fellow travelers. I finance the stubbornness of a generation that is waiting and that is modernized in an underground alternative mood of values and fulminate unnatural actions. I am afraid of the dream of the person next to me- without meaning to recall a memory of my conscious clarity- and  so I  go back to the excessive capacity of skin to pyrify, subordinate and divide inside an experiment  of natural lust and leveling.


Patricia Apergi

(an attempt at automatic writing,

part of which was published at collectors issue

 Tomorrow, by Velvet magazine)