paper shots 2 - 134

At the border of the world. A river; barbed wire; trees and birds that look identical but carry different names. A boy – he would be in elementary school somewhere else – looks out onto the other side. He doesn’t know what he’s left was war, they called it that, they said it was that, and one day he’ll feel he actually felt it. He doesn’t know, either, that the world he’s looking out onto feels at war, too. He doesn’t know about this other invisible war now, but one day he’ll feel that those on the other side didn’t live through a war, or his kind of war – it will feel different, and the names won’t feel appropriate. He’ll develop a magic fascination for the names of things. Now he sees a soldier approaching from afar with a smile and a machine gun, which one shines more is hard to tell, it’s that sunny of a winter day in a month that felt like spring but it’s now back to cold. If they have to wade the river, he’ll get for sure icy water up to his waist.


paper shots 2 - 94

Up high on a semicircular terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, she’s come out for some fresh air, summer night late July, the glazed doors sifting the sound of music and light chatter, glasses clinking compliments after the show, a good show, and now people are dancing. The few outside with her are all lit and then cast back into the moonlit darkness by the lighthouse further up on the coast. Suddenly, the fitful white beam flashes a bundle down below on the shore. “It can’t be!” She lifts her evening dress and runs down the triple winding staircase; she’s on the pier, the sand, and finally her feet in the pitch-dark water. The dress falls and sequin red flaps make bloody waves. The bundle is nothing! Gone playing tricks on someone else… The Mediterranean is a closed sea – blissful swims in the afternoon light, far-away songs of people dying on boats.

People are watching, but on which coast her eyes cannot tell.