and type stories that would immediately come true. So whether the sailorman started singing serenades in a tweeting high voice in the street, or a dog barking outside from neighbors’ window, you should think that was her work, part of her story, coming from her fingertips. Once, I saw it myself, several youngsters sitting on the bank of a canal would one by one fall into the dirty water, then trying to rescue each other; twice (once I saw, another time I heard) the same couple would enact a proper love story ending – they would quietly say “good bye, my love”, wave the white napkin and one of them would fly away. First time a man, the second time – a woman. Another day a man with a suitcase would stop and take his black sunglasses off; people found out that the lady was writing her autobiography.

The Objective Realist claims that everything we encounter in the sensual realm could be described as fictional. Every sensual experience might be called a property of imagination, thus imaginational itself, thus – not existing in a real world? And if it does not exist in the real world, can I still call it real? The same objective realist who also appears to be real, he is Graham Harman from his interview with Jonas Žakaitis, insinuates that every object we come across is fiction. But those fictions, those sensual objects, they all have real qualities. One is thinking objects through imagination, – where imagination serves as a translation agency and the primary vehicle at the same time[*].

While I kept imagining tragedies, a perspicious thing happened. A woman would go to the shelf and take a bottle and a glass with ice, while the TV screen in a room would show the President. His glare was steered to journalist so she could drink unwatched. But the woman conceived herself of being in a cheap hotel room at that moment and she wanted to be in another type of film – by John Cassavettes, for example, the Opening Night perhaps. What she would do is remove her earrings, a pair of expensive golden earrings of gently square shaped metal with round brilliant eyes inside and insignias on them; and put those on a white napkin on a black elegant high top table near a crystal vase with three white Freesias bended. Then she would take off her black high-heel shoes and leave them and go bare-feet in pantyhose, through which one could still see her painted toe-nails shining. The woman would glide on elastic surfaces all night and in the morning she would remember anything.

A friend of mine once asked me if the imagination space is a heterotopia. According to Michel Foucault, heterotopias are spaces of otherness, which are neither here nor there, that are simultaneously physical and mental, such as the space of a phone call or the moment when you see yourself in the mirror. Everyone can enter into the the heterotopic sites, but in fact that is only an illusion – one thinks he enters where he is by the fact that he enters. Can he, my friend, invite me to his imagination space? Will I come? No, but you can invite me to your room, where I will find the real objects and be able to encounter your imagination through mine.

He looks sad and disappointed, I bring him a glass of water and quote Jacques Derrida, The Politics of Friendship: “We are first of all, as friends, — I read aloud, — the friends of solitude, and we are calling on you to share what cannot be shared: solitude”. But I see this doesn’t help so I turn on the Imaginationland series from South Park.

 — I-ma-gi-naaaaaaa-tion, I-magi-naaaaaa-aaaa-aaaa-tion — they sing along in a giant hot-air-balloon.

But to everybody’s great surprise, the fat funny guy in a purple suit and a bowler hat with a chain-hunter pocket watch, delivers the boys one by one to their homes and their rooms. Just imagine their reaction!

ML, 2011

for Intermission, Riga