FIREWORK IN AMARETTO - under accusation

Angel Gabriel

Summary

Right, I am sitting in a High Security Prison in Israel after having been taken there by the police force. Accused of 10,000 things, in my relative peace I am trying to collect my thoughts. I am beginning by the attempt to destroy the accusations by a certain justification, but I notice after some while that it does not make any sense because I have no clue what proof or justification these people have or not. While more or less concentrating on ordering my texts that I have taken with me to prison in order to obtain clear thoughts, I am developing a strategy so as to get out and not to be only free, but also innocent. In the meantime, I have to have it out with different situations and people which also help to clarify my thoughts / ideas.

Indeed, and that’s what most of the texts are about, a novel which I had wanted to write in Greece had then coincided somehow with reality. So that I did not know any longer what was fantasy and what was reality. In the attempt to establish a connection between one and the other, I always stumble into the most incredible stories,  which to a certain point even justify the accusations .There is a wild mixture of stories about diamonds, drugs, antiques, viewpoints of law, religious observations, electronic bombs, all of which somewhere have something in common, and where or cross-references continuously refer to other stories. Nothing is true. And real even less so. It is my task to establish, up to a certain point, the connection of these stories with reality and perhaps to obtain the relative social proof of my innocence if I manage to get an insight into other people’s understanding through the determination of mine.

Whether I manage that or not, that is the crux of the matter.

“Y si me abrieras el costado con una lanza,

sacaré con mis dedos de mis entrañas,

una diadema de rubíes

por gotas de sangre entrelazadas,

pues soy yo la frontera de Oriente,

mi cuerpo un molino de viento,

mi alma, una iglesia bizantina,

porque me había hartado de ver belleza

al oriente -

y la hice con mis manos, viva,

en frente de tu ausencia transparente.”

De : Un molino de viento, al oriente