ROOF SLEEPING MAN

If I were a soldier on guard beneath a sky full of stars I'd gather them like buttons and give them to you. If I were a scarecrow in your field I'd be the only one singing the only one singing even though I sing badly.

If I were a postman I’d bring the usual bills and dull ads but tucked between them love letters just for you. I'd be the gardener who lives in your yard. I'd sleep on your roof keeping you safe from the thunder unless I slip.

If I were a lazy stray dog I'd follow you through long streets too long honestly but I’d pretend I wasn’t tired. If I were as tall as a crane I'd lift you above the city and only set you down in beautiful places.

If I were a sleepwalker I'd probably wander straight to you. If I were a hanger I'd hold your coats filled with the scent of plants and your silk dresses with joyful flowers.

If I were a monk I'd still think of you and shield you from the storm.

And if I were far far away from you I’d wither like the leaves in November.

Angoulême 2023

WHO IS THAT GUY?

 

Sometimes I Google myself. I did it again this morning — for some reason. A picture popped up. The first one. I look at it and think: photoshop? I zoom in, lean closer, then think: maybe it’s not. Who is that guy? Who? He’s wearing a cap. I don’t wear that kind of cap. Or…? Ah, I remember I actually do have that cap. That makes me feel better, at least I recognize something. But I still don’t know anything. Why am I behind the curtain? Like in some Lynch movie where everyone talks backward, and the curtains smell like forgetfulness and old coffee with a taste of who knows what. Lynch’s coffee. Well, okay, that’s not a problem. Maybe I was in some cabaret show? Or maybe I just wanted to run away from some crazies. The mafia… insane dentists… people dressed in strange costumes… fans… there are only a few, but they exist. I look at the face up close. The eyes — strange, wet, like they belonged to someone else. The nose — like it’s not mine, maybe borrowed from some puppeteer at a fair. The mouth — tight, very serious, as if I’m really preparing for some important speech. But what kind? Oh no, those aren’t my cheeks, that’s definitely an Instagram filter. No, that’s not me. Impossible. But that guy, for some reason, reminds me of me. I ask my partner Ana. She says: — You silly… That was at the festival in Binic, 2023. You weren’t feeling well, so you went to lie down behind the curtain.

LIMINAL?

June 12, 2025

Spaces in between. Hallways without destinations, staircases without steps, shopping malls at three in the morning. Lobbies with curtains too long and a TV in the wrong place. Lawns inside rooms. Empty waiting rooms without a clock. Or small rooms with an oversized clock. Children’s rooms without children. Closets with shirts no one wears anymore. Familiar, yet strange. Like you’ve been here before, but not you — someone else, in a stranger’s memory.

Stairs that lead to a closed ceiling. Slides… toys… balls… frozen in time. Transitions from one world to another. From night to day. Gentle nightmares. Nostalgia for something that maybe happened, or maybe didn’t.

Liminal spaces don’t know time. They are always now and never. Like a frame that never ends. Like a sentence without a period. The creak of a door that won’t open. Tightly squeezed chairs waiting for a conversation that won’t happen. The whispery moment when you wake up but don’t yet know who you are. When you are you, but you’re not.

What else is liminal? Dreams are liminal. We all dream liminally. Liminal is within us. We are liminal.

So much for liminal.