What I believe


 

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Peaceful naked moments in Nas Ikaria

Photo by Danai_lama on Instagram by Danai_lama  (‘Danai_lama’)
taken in Ikaria, featuring in her Instagram

Poetry by J.G. Ballard



What I believe

I believe in the power of the imagination to remake the world, to release the truth within us, to hold back the night, to transcend death, to charm motorways, to ingratiate ourselves with birds, to enlist the confidences of madmen.

I believe in my own obsessions, in the beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged forest, in the excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of multi-storey car parks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels.

. . .

I believe in the death of tomorrow, in the exhaustion of time, in our search for a new time within the smiles . . .

. . .

I believe in madness, in the truth of the inexplicable, in the common sense of stones, in the lunacy of flowers, in the disease stored up for the human race by the Apollo astronauts.

I believe in nothing.

I believe in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Duerer, Tanguy, the Facteur Cheval, the Watts Towers, Boecklin, Francis Bacon, and all the invisible artists within the psychiatric institutions of the planet.

I believe in the impossibility of existence, in the humour of mountains, in the absurdity of electromagnetism, in the farce of geometry, in the cruelty of arithmetic, in the murderous intent of logic.

I believe in adolescent women, in their corruption by their own leg stances, in the purity of their dishevelled bodies, in the traces of their pudenda left in the bathrooms of shabby motels.

I believe in flight, in the beauty of the wing, and in the beauty of everything that has ever flown, in the stone thrown by a small child that carries with it the wisdom of statesmen and midwives.

I believe in the gentleness of the surgeon’s knife, in the limitless geometry of the cinema screen, in the hidden universe within supermarkets, in the loneliness of the sun, in the garrulousness of planets, in the repetitiveness or ourselves, in the inexistence of the universe and the boredom of the atom.

. . .

I believe in the non-existence of the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite possibilities of the present.

I believe in the derangement of the senses: in Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet, Celine, Swift, Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka.

. . .

I believe in the next five minutes.

I believe in the history of my feet.

I believe in migraines, the boredom of afternoons, the fear of calendars, the treachery of clocks.

I believe in anxiety, psychosis and despair.

I believe in the perversions, in the infatuations with trees, princesses, prime ministers, derelict filling stations (more beautiful than the Taj Mahal), clouds and birds.

I believe in the death of the emotions and the triumph of the imagination.

. . .

I believe in anxiety, psychosis and despair.

I believe in the perversions, in the infatuations with trees, princesses, prime ministers, derelict filling stations (more beautiful than the Taj Mahal), clouds and birds.

I believe in the death of the emotions and the triumph of the imagination.

I believe all reasons.

I believe all hallucinations.

I believe all anger.

I believe all mythologies, memories, lies, fantasies, evasions.

I believe in the mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the wisdom of light.

J.G. B.

The full poem without my arbitrary omissions can be found at https://i1.wp.com/static.mediapart.fr/sites/all/themes/mediapart/mediapart_v4/images/mediapart.png

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(instead of) Ze Sntory Ov My Live (Episode 2)


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The solar ecliptic Imagemaniacs (who I seem to be growing one of) didn’t leave me in peace so that I do what I have promised and go on with the :Life of my Story: -oops «Story of My Life«.

But the more I am busy, the better I go (this is no Murphy’s, don’t know whose law this is).

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So I was in a cafe this noon and there was a schoolkid who had left his schoolbag on a chair and it fell over and all the books scattered on the floor and I picked them up and I looked through the pages of the Language book of the 4th grade.
In page 115 I ran across ME Image (myself) as a 9 y.o. girl on my first visit in Ikaria !! The coloured drawing + Odysseas Elytis’ poem «Song of a Girl» .

-B-boing- D-doing-

I’m «the fastest gun in the East» so I took out my camera and shot at the page.

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I heard that these old books are going to be out of print, so I wanted to keep this as a souvenir. When they brought me in Ikaria in 1982 I had the same short blue dress and I was after butterflies. It was Easter, a very unsual time for a visit. It was for my grandmother’s sister’s funeral. She had died in Athens and they had brought her to burry her on the island. It was a very complicated business. For reasons that I assume you understand, lots (tons in fact) of flowers were needed with which to cover the coffin and fill the whole church.
I was supposed to be in charge of this ‘flower operation’. I roamed the fields to collect them. I can’t remember if I was «bitten by butterflies» or held in my hand ‘enormous bees’ (that’s what the Elytis’ song says). I clearly remember that there were loads of flowers in the church afterwards during the ceremony and I was very proud Image as if it was me who had collected them.
It wasn’t me of course, but the older women (who I always refer to as ‘the salt of the earth’). I had been given that job so that I didn’t take part in the sad preparations for the undertaking.
I was tooo young.
Then my grandmother told me a wild story, the wildest ever… I remember it because I asked her again and again to repeat it. I was about Death. Then I met the same story in Robert GravesGreek Mythology. The only common thing my granny and R. Graves had, was that they were about the same age; nothing else, I swear.
The Ikarian Easter of 1982 sealed my life. I was aware of this much later.
How do I manage to work for TV now, …oh, forget it.
That’s another story…
Have patience, oh readers.

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