at last some sleep...
I can breathe more easily here, away from those wistful sites, injured organism of the city.
The trees are absorbing weakly rays of the bastard sun,
The clouds are swinging back and forth above my bleeding head;
it’s Cézanne I think. it must be. Or else how come I recognize it so well.
The nature does not change, only the canvasses
...................
my work is such that it demands all my strength. sometimes it persists, the work, turning me into a body without organs, half human half a machine.
But I am oblivious to the demands of the work, I have my defense, I am well grounded in nature, in people that surround me. I only work in order to survive this day, this summer and then love. If I could I would stay here forever doing nothing.

I have spent past few days sitting. The room that contains me is clean and square, with three windows facing the street and a small door leading to the other rooms, occupied by other tenants. or so it seems from this side of the room as I've been unable, in spite of my good hearing, to detect any noise usually signifying the human presence. Most of it is coming from the outside where people and cars are pacing up and down, overtaking each other. I have observed that cars colliding with organic assemblages such as trees or animals make a very distinctive noise. from this, the sound of the car’s front compartment and the back of the head falling, I can usually tell who the victim is.
More often it's a dog.

I am growing weak and frail. Everything penetrates more deeply, dragging me into delirium. At least in this I am at one with my people, with people of my atoms.
In summer Tbilisi smells of cement and dead animals. Each city has its own smell. Tbilisi has one which has been made out for it and fitted badly, so that there are holes in places. How strange they never notice this, those busying themselves at the factory.
I was out. I saw a man dying in this magnificent room, his small body scattered on a huge bed with wooden ornamentation. outside it was sunny and the room itself was flooded with light, in spite of the dying man’s childlike body and its urgent wish to seize, to finish with it all. The light was somewhat strange though, as if a bastard sun has taken over and was now selling itself for real one.
I was out. I have noticed a change, a change of the Image. it was no longer legible. like some tropical plant, with old skin pealing off and the new one still too weak to shoot out. This change had something sinister about it, something which demanded the real tears.

It was in the evening news. In 15 Bejanishvili street, dilapidated two story building next to my house four stray dogs were captured and sent to the pound (if such thing existed in Tbilisi). Certain mr. Mikadze, the father of two called the police complaining about the noise.
I know now where that sound was coming from, the vicious animal sound that kept me up all night. I remember thinking that although clearly belonging to some kind of animal it was human nonetheless, the unanimous barking of the Bejanishvili street dogs. A square faced TV commentator added that the four dogs were difficult to capture as they fought furiously and went on to announce the weather for Tbilisi and the surroundings.
The only collective struggle I was to witness so far was the one mounted by the Bejanishvili street dogs.

I can only work in the morning or late at night, in this way I am less intrusive with my camera. Only then can I enter these places, the blind buildings pregnant with someone else’s memories. but not without some fear and embarrassment. Especially in the evenings. I can almost grasp their putrefied thoughts and enter the wet dreams they are dreaming, their stench still heavy on the passers by. So far they've left me in peace and do not pursue me for my arrogance, for my stupid attempts at capturing their ‘essence’, their fading beauty.
I think I am beginning to see, very slowly but still