I recall my effort’s beginning by the back end of Domino, the refinery along the southern tracks where a modest plot of land invited both my monies and time to go ambling –
To go there where I rushed and ran to start the machinic rumble of imaginations of a dream under the skies of the cloud, under the shadows of the moon.
It was there that Dom Syra, you found me; audaciously, you trickled into my ear canals through tales and truths and lies and under the disguise of rumours,
You found your way all the way down into the hungry part of my belly that swelled up and shouted: “build me into being!” so loud the woman stood up and painted the wall blue -whilst her coffee spilt,
And it is true that some cannot stomach you and refuse to indulge for they really know that you appear and disappear at will like the spill before I depart the room
And first erect a parasol for my thoughts to not be hindered by the rain – to blur blue into the solid black of dreams that fade,
And in this alternate light of night but day my obsession carries me through this wasted sky as I sit with my quarter smile and choose to stay up;
Drawing lamps to shimmer on the spots the old moon missed and nospace held hostage in the dust;
Drawing under that itch of an inkling to locate myself in a multiplicity of worlds: to follow my dear time that stretches its legs too long in pursuit of whispers of –
Dom Syra that wanted seven flowers of three petals each forming a garden of twenty-one portions of colour and spice, but no puddle;
Dom Syra that salivated from thirst for milk, but patiently expected it to sour and fed the rest the unecessary rest of wey to the pigs sheltering underbelly;
Dom Syra that needed bowls and moulds and bowels to store and heat and preserve the microclimates of Williamsburg’s maturity from boozing passersby;
Dom Syra for whom the passing trains represent the desire for locomotives churning beton brut into walls in spaces that were not of my liking but apparent necessity…
Endless apparent necessity and unbearable discomfort for my neighbours whose breakfasts of eggs boiled to the true seven minutes were forever more held in a shadow
That I bathed in bouncing up the hundred steps, welcoming the sly, secret delight to shimmer and fade through my forehead for I knew that no one saw –
And nobody would because this was my own large world of contradictions,
Delicate idiosyncrasies brewed by a painter’s hopeless condition of laying endless tracts of colour down turning yellow to green to brown
Under the walnut lamps built to dim and not light and so the story is inherently scared of the sun who pokes her nose round Domino
Each morning she asks me why my lids struggle to open wide and I say “I’m not ready for the big yellow glow to enter and disrupt the edges of my site,”
But as she giggles with pun refreshed and downs the glass of milk, freshly pumped which I replace she turns to those waking as they fly over fire escapes in her pursuit of cat and mouse and luminosity,
And I myself turn and weep
Like Saint-Exupery for the elephants eaten by the masses under their vacuumed impressions of what is banal and lit with clarity
And reservations to accept the importance of the invisible and that which is not yet drawn and doesn’t yet exist –
For they still need to learn to see the clouds and rain coming; to see the city as the new earth as Dom Syra showed me, to exaggerate and understand.
I wait for the clock to beat on and ripen that sour milk of korovas until all of a sudden a crash and the whole entirety of Dom Syra utters a cry for it knows that a wheel of time was lost –
Shattered like the rhythm of lines but the importance is that my condition is evolving – I am hungry and the smell of dinner begins to linger.
The ground tears with the strain of passing trains, the neighbourhood falls silent and tick tocks but I alone slink through the meshes of Domino into a forest of steel
Where I look back towards my cottage and forward to the space of getting lost and smile as Dom Syra sometimes smiled at me,
And with great humility I think of making not buildings or drawings but cheese with all of its imperfect metaphors that litter my work,
That beg to be gobbled for cheese although arduous asks nothing in return for existence – it is simple, it holds no concern over the dabbles in the reality of being.
Dom Syra retires me, I gathered my work,
And I put it away to be no more – a tragic event witnessed by none, forever existing.
A sound was made but not heard.
Project written and drawn by Egmontas Geras.