Chapter 4 “The bloody roots and all about Elia

Elia is a boy of Bedouin heritage from Yemeni and Levantine roots running through his veins. The poet Imra El Quais is one of his ancestors. Then comes Ahmad the first then Mohamed the first then Ahmed the second then Mohammed the third and now we have my brother as Mohammed the third and his son as Ahmed The third. Father was born in Beirut and mother was raised in Jerusalem during the war. My parents went to an 80’s disco 💃🏻 in Beirut as a young couple and were kidnapped on their way home! … The hotel manager had to usher them through the back door and into the Laundry Truck. The Truck sent them all the way to the airport while the mafia were still searching for them …. To be continued

The shelter was frozen from the blizzard last night. Currents of silver waves swimming in his head. He was tripping on the card-board chess. His name is Eduardo, from The Valley of southern Spain. A humble and decent fellow who swamped in the dark. A man who spent his whole existence fluctuating between questions and answers in the void of time. The voice of Zoltan, answering, Is this how you want to spend the rest of your life. Terry answers, grow up young boy, do t you have any shame? Be a man and stand up for yourself. Otherwise, you’ll have people stepping on you and will spend it in obscure allies of doubt. He started stammering and shivering in the face of the shadows of god. He was lost and delirious in the labyrinthine spiral lazer rolls around his thought. The whirl-pool of his hesitating emotions plunged him into the depth of the earthly sound. Instantly, He remembered his loved ones, especially his mother, his father and his dear brother and sister but not the other one! I cannot stand him and vice versa. The clock on his half painted wall is sending he her message. Belligerent and furious he has become. All his nauseating rage came boosting from the abyss of his smokey lungs.

We stand behind curtains and closed doors with our eyes of perception peeping through peep-holes. While the the King, Shake-Beer, The child and their likes perform their tragic roles on an empty stage. The Queens and duchesses are amusing themselves in their boxes while the audience are shut in silent darkness and the buffoons continue playing their ephemeral game. Is this the beginning of the end or the end of the beginning? What a tragedy!

Aziz Al Sudairi

Aziz Sudairi

A work I’ve just finished . A series of photographs I took (chemical manipulation) of the work of Pipilotti Rist ‘I’m Not The Girl Who Misses Much 1986) 5 minute video. The phrase is an adaptation of the first line of the song by the Beatles ‘Happiness is a Warm Gun’, 1968. The song, written by John Lennon (1940-80) about Yoko.

The daughter of a masochistic Bimbo (not a whore) of a mother and a sadistic old rich thief of a father. Her father stole almost the whole entire inheritance from his little naive brothers and sisters who were given a coin or two just to shut their mouth with his golden bold head …. the four little girls must look after eachother while their half-brothers and sisters are boozing themselves to death in the adjacent house just in order to escape from their luxurious tragic miserable existence. Back to the lost prinzezza Sasa. if my mother is like that and my father is like that what am I going to be ☹️ … I would have said to her ‘you will be a fake whore and a thief and something in between but instead I said ‘People are just jealous of you my darling’… go back to sleep in your little bubble pretty girl! 👧

She decided to shut the door in my face! And said ‘I just want to be alone’

phantasmagoria of contending angels, 1875; of terrible bright colours, 1880; of feathers, spangles, etc., 1822; of figures of ghosts and phantoms; of more prodigal and wild imaginations, 1880; of the sky, 1853. My phantasmagoria is simply a multi-exposed image of a construction site 🏗 (east London) Battling through a tunnel in the raging clouds the day after ☁️

´A journey at the end of the night with my friends ‘ Triptych
I felt like re-reading this book by Louise Ferdinand Céline .. the character’s Aggressive facist voice started booming distinctly in my troubled head. What I perceived was a cryptic reality with the people I love … A journey to the end of the night in Sevilla.:: or to the end of the beginning.

My eyes wide open as if the eyeball itself came out of it’s Black sockets, dripping with tears that somewhat felt like tears of joy and bitter deep-rooted sadness at the field of vision lying before his weeping socketless eyes ‘The disturbed woman maniacally dancing in deep blue noise of waves’. The song by Deerhunter starts playing 🎶

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton