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December 2, 2012
by Gueorgui Pinkhassov
Raindrops flow down perpendicular to the lines of writing. The text is no more important than the line’s slant. Its hatching pattern conveys more sense than a thought. The slant of the letters is free of gravity, unlike the trajectory of a raindrop, say, or of a wave. A wave is captive to the moon, which it reflects as it makes its appearance. It is the coloured echo of the sky and its partner.

That this country is magical came as a surprise to me, reversing my preconceptions, making my return inevitable. Perhaps this was due too to the fact that my roots lie lost somewhere amid the caravan trails of the East. With the emphasis as much on the caravans as the East. The passion to conquer space is the very essence of travel. The Argonauts came here in their quest for the golden fleece. It was here that Prometheus was chained to the rocks. Gods lived here.

…I was a wanderer there…

The warmth, fecundity and beauty of these lands have the essence of a woman, the passion to possess whom I can understand. To set free the Princess the dragon must be slain (not, crucially, to be confused with conquering the Princess and thereby setting the dragon free). I will forgive her every whim, all the more so since she is so lovely. The task is to find the keys to the riddles so that these feelings are reciprocated. For me these keys are images. I collected them one by one. This was all I could do for her – to present her with her own reflections.

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