Days of 1813

Flat surface for a planar time, my paper, my pencil. Cities look at an Emperor as a Hero, a Villain, Megalomaniac, Murderer, Saviour. While he sits by the battle fields, he must reflect on the balance of power, forced to measure carefully, inches of blood, strings of muscle. The boundaries of an empire are made up of promises, ideas, and lives of countless young souls.

The folds of a city enclose preserves of lungs proxies, breaths, fevers. Rooms, in Houses, in Streets, in Neighborhoods. Alveoles, surfaces, lights, shades, spectres, vibrations and continuous decay.

The city fights the urge to return to a flat surface, by expanding and growing, self digesting and renewing. It is a gluttonic monster, a carnivorous plantlike entity. An anisotrope, it expands between oportunistic and power lines.

The fertile bodies of our cities feed on rivers, their portraits are dandy-esque, hectic, hysterical, blind amoebas. They are oblivious of the cruelties or the generosities of their coral like cavity dwellers. They witness, maybe, death during the perionds of cemetery growth. 

1813 is an abstraction. A blink in time, a point of inflection, it had to bear a number, or a name. Struggles for liberties and power are ages long, and the battles are carried with all sorts of values. The city lives around the struggles, it is in constant motion and the days of 1813 reveal this image, this identity, this imprint.