Cannon Rocket Launcher

I filmed in a trash room. I filmed in a messy house. I took a walk to a giant stair case and I climbed all the way up, counting steps and heart rhythms. Music -♮A - Nisennenmondai ♮

«TVs and rockets»

They launch these rockets almost daily, you know. Big machines and space missions. Videos from space, data visualizations, illustrated calculations, star constellations and galaxies; white dwarfs and black holes - they calm my brain. I filmed in my future. I filmed in my past.

A L L Y O U N E E D I S S P A C E

Marasmós - μᾰρασμό

From Proto-Indo-European *mer- (to die, disappear) and Ancient Greek -μός (-mós, action noun suffix) // Related to μᾰραίνω (maraínō, “to quench; to waste, wither”

Sweet Deal! 2.50 for a Black Hole experience.

Last week I went to a park with a Soviet Cheburashka toy in my “New York Keith Haring” canvas bag. This stuffed animal “unknown to science” became a visual symbol of my past. I put all my rebel-child upsetting experiences into that stupid looking male doll. Too long to explain, but I had to destroy Cheburashka by orders of my Gestalt therapist.

I wanted to burn him first, but that would be hard to carry out in the NYC Parks space. Burning ritual of that woolen creature made out of highly-flammable russian plastic materials might even cause Great Inwood Hill fires which will smoke up the entire Manhattan island. Too much of the risk. And so I decided that I want my trauma toy animal to be eaten by dogs.

The problem I faced once I brought Cheburashka to the park was ridiculous: dogs around here are way too friendly. They are not interested in tearing psychological ritual totems apart. I left it under a tree for 20 minutes, sat in the distance and watched retrievers, bulldogs, poodles, terriers and huskies passing by. I then got scared that my ugly cutie pie might attract creeps or drug addicts. I had to return under the tree and pick Cheburashka up. Across, there was the river.

"Cheba Pixel Blyat" photo video collage

He’s been thrown into the dark muddy waters returning back to the shore, to me, in the matter of minutes. I picked him back up with a stick, turned upside down (scratched round eyes facing the sky) and pushed far away. Fast river flow coming down from Hudson pushed the toy back to the rocky shore of Spuyten Duyvil Creek where I were standing. I had to leave him stuck in the mud. Next day, the waters will rise up, and he’ll be picked up and washed away. Poor, poor Cheburashka.

Selfie with a stranger

Today I went to check on him. Walking through NYC Park felt like some kind of an endless festival of Dominican Summer: Latina beats, baseball, folding chairs and grandmas with golden hoops earrings sitting next to speakers blasting music. I saw people chilling, having dates, kissing, picking strawberries at picnics, playing sports, taking pictures and dancing.  I’ve heard some tunes and couldn’t help it but started moving my hips a bit. Cheburashka was nowhere to be seen. A sharp emotion of weird sadness hit my solar plexus. It is what it is for now //

Fred Cut The Grass

“Fred cut the grass and walked in all itchy: that was a lot of work, and he’s finished. “Did you know that long jucy stems secrete this liquid which has a specific smell of the freshly-cut grass for a reason?”

I didn’t know the reason, and I was just enjoying the smell. Reminds me of a late summer evening in the countryside back home.

“To keep predators away” - he continued.

Freshly Cut Grass by D.S.

A vegetarian hater already told me about this once. “You feel sad killing and eating a cow? Then have compassion for plants, too. Do you know that energizing smell of freshly-cut grass?”

“Buddha through pink glasses” 06.16.2024

I inhaled the air with traces of the smell. Dust specks flying around in the sunlit room shuddered. I made an attempt to imagine how harmful Fred’s actions were for the grass over there. I pictured wildly growing weeds on the side of a staircase. Sharp blades and chilling sounds, bright green sprouts flying around… It is sad, indeed.

If I want it to be.

Scenario by D.S.

Doubled // Dimension

“Assimetry” - view of The Cloisters, June 13th 2024

What would you do finding yourselves in a forest inhabited by fairies who manipulate lost humans with the power of their minds? While you’re desperately trying to figure out what’s going on they are engaged in their own domestic intrigue and won’t rest your brain. You are just very confused and want to leave, but it seems impossible - it’s just this scary dream you were chosen to watch. But you are also curious AF (and easily manipulated by fairies). Would you run away? Take deep breaths?

“Beatrice, 26 foor” 2016 - Self-portrait

You see, in the Fairyland nightmare dimension everyone is just so terrible at playing their roles that you start to laugh hysterically as if it meant to be a comedy. But it is not. And so your new master friends don’t like it and get really mad.

“Zoom-in Error” - The Cloisters, 2024 / View from Beatrice Apartments, 2016

You can sense that there’s some danger in the air, but also doubting your own fear as you start to think it’s just a dream in an unfortunate afternoon nap.

It is June Thirteen 2024 in New York City, and it got really hot today. Siesta!

Hello, who am I?

I’ve been around for some time: from Brooklyn to Manhattan - Midtown, Harlem, all the way into the woods of uptown now - very beautiful place. Sometimes I have to remind myself how prosperous that sounds and listen to my own voice: «New York City (-y-eah)»

I am currently sitting in my living room, a bit uplifted from the street and reality.

I’m in a psychotherapy.

Fort Tryon Park - 04.18.2024

The promising process of fixing my head started on Tuesday, several weeks ago. That was a day in May when I realized that all my life problems, struggles, worries, anxieties, fears, tears and depressions are unnatural. Mind-made, if you say. And so I’m trying to retrieve some answers out of subconscious parts of my brain with the help of a strict doctor who speaks my language. He’s using different techniques on me. One is art.

«Paint your pain» - 06.11.2024

In order to recharge and stay focused on daily tasks I step outside.

Trees, leaves, flowers, shadows, butterfly wings. Nature sounds. It turns my mood from blue to popping pink. Today I’ve heard some conversations:

“How old is she, you said?” - asked one grandpa another. They sat together on a bench, and the sunbeam was going through both of their hands’ fingers.

“She has a heavy foot” - was the answer, his voice a bit apologetic and shy.


Genie, Genie - come to a dance floor

«Coincidence». A remarkable concurrence of events or circumstances without apparent causal connection. I know the meaning. And yet, every time I face one of those - I can’t help it, but shiver.

I had a friend once, he introduced himself as “Jimmy”. Soon, I found out it wasn’t his real name.

“Jimmy, Jimmy, - sings Parvati Khan in “Disco Dancer” 1982 Indian film. - Aaja, Aaja”. While growing up, I always thought it’s “Genie, Genie”. Genie in a bottle. Repetitive lines from the song sounded like some kind of an invitation. “Wizard, wizard. Come to a dance floor”.

My friend made a choice. He took the Jimmy-name because his real one was way too romantic for Harlem, where he worked in a shoe store. The fake one sounded friendly, popular, simple. New life, New name, New everything. New York.

The neighborhood I live in is filled with Dominican dollar stores, neon-sign bodegas, fried chicken shops, jewelry and lombard corners as well as grocery, electronics, furniture and clothes. Street fashion retailers. Local style stores like these are often seen in louder parts of Brooklyn and Bronx. There was one in Bushwick on Knickerbocker Ave. Most of them are called “Fashion Planet”, “Primadonna”. Sometimes — “Violetta” or “Havana Mama”.

Shabby headless mannequins placed right on the street walk. Cheap synthetic stripper outfits in windows. Lots of sheer pants. Biker shorts for $8, tank top “BABE” for $10.

I walked in, hoping to find a simple cotton t-shirt and maybe a summer dress. You never know with these small businesses around here: such stores existed long before Amazon or, forgive me, Temu. Looking at rows and rows of clothes on walls, I’ve noticed a set of two green eyes watching me from a far corner. He stood there, heavy, for a minute or two, learning my taste and neurotic shopaholic movements. I quickly walked around one clothes rack to another, scanning hangers. He stopped me: “Take this one. Nice color” — it was a salmon dress.

I looked at him: in his 60s or even 70s, he was tall and big. Strong man. Significant nose, green eyes. Wise. “I don’t have any other dresses in your size anyways” — he smirked. I noticed that his left eye was a bit smaller than the right one.

The man knew his business and he sold me the dress. After that, followed a question: where I am from. “Guess!” — I answered, as I try not to name my country of origin to strangers recently. He looked puzzled. — “I can’t really tell”.

“Where are you from? Yourself?” — I aimed back at him. My favorite small-talk technique borrowed from gaslighters: ignore, mirror the question.

“I’m from the Middle East, — he finally said. — And you are…” — “Russian”.

I followed him to the register. He wanted me to bargain. I gladly did, winning extra 20 bucks. He handed me a black plastic bag and said:

“My name is Jimmy. And yours?”

I took a deep breath.

“Jimmy is not your real name, is it?”

The man kept quiet. I turned around, walking out of his store, and then heard his voice following me:

“My actual name is Amen. How did you know that Jimmy is a fake?”