Humanity is keen on small material objects. It is addiction, lack of them makes people sad, and this sadness, apparently, is the ultimate manifestation of free will, you see my point? People sell and buy stuff, exhibit it in museums, hang it on their bodies to denote their wealth. Culture is actually billions of multi-color pebbles put together. But dear God, who cares about pebbles, once sand is passing through the sieve? Pebbles are things to stumble upon, useless leftovers of filtering. The only important thing is pure sand, and the sieve is just a tool to make its flow apparent. I would feel very reduced to consider, that artists are specialists in pebbles; I would focus at least on sieves or, hopefully, on sand itself, its purity, its motion. I would throw all the pebbles in the air, so that they would become weightless and fly away without a trace, like your afternoon dreams. That would be really artistic – to trust the universe so much, that it is not necessary to keep any evidence of togetherness or declare any proof of commitment.
By the way, I never take a nap in the afternoon like you do sometimes, but if I did, I know what would I see. Yes, indeed, because, according to Schopenhauer, I can do what I want, and if I want to see particular dreams, I will. Namely I want to see little Katurian, aged five or six, who’s also watching a dream, a nightmare. In this nightmare he sees himself, tortured by surgeons, who are at the same time homicide detectives, on the operation table, that is at the same time as he lies in his severe iron cradle. And it is New Year’s Eve, and Bois de Boulougne is dim and gloomy… And little Katurian in my dream wakes up and sees me sitting near him on the bed. And we feel, we are together, united, a continuation of each other, and nobody can trap this moment inside a photo, since in dreams pebbles are invalid, like expired tickets. This I want to see, and I will.