I do not know if the cult of speed managed, with exceptions, to give us small or big moments from the ‘smell’ – essence of time – to be honest, I was never interested, and that is the only reason I could not become a futurist.

Yes, like the Elder who, while talking to us in his yard, at the same time and moment some people can see him in Alexandroupolis pulling out of the wheels of a truck a child safe and sound. Or like someone else who while talking about wines, his handfuls get filled with the tears of an underage prostitute in Bangkok.

Tell me please, can you see the East in two different places at the same time? No, either you see her with Those who walk on the waves all over the world, or you see her at half past dawn, after spending the night and drinking, sinful and rash.

What can I tell you, it may be the fault of “the metaphysical muse” of De Chirico, who on her first trip with the cog in Pelion, immediately became the mistress of the Centaurs.

One thing is for sure, the best bottle in the world is what Umberto Boccioni΄ made. What a great piece of work! “Whispers through command” as arrogant village people would say, but also Severini, Carlo Carra and Balla, a ball from Napoli to Milan and from Syracuse to Genoa for Marinetti to play when he throws his arlumbs like Aphrodite who emerged from the muddy waters, ecstatic by the caterpillars of the tanks, the lover of fascism, audacious and greedy in the stench of the machine gunners.

The most subversive work of recent years, is the missed penalty of the little Buddha, Robertino, who plunged the whole of Italy into such a futuristic depression, which spread to the plains of Argentina and withered thousands of acres of colored tulips in the Netherlands. Max Van der Stoel in resignation, and Queen Julianna in a tearful cry with hot tears, piercing her fitted suit, turning it into a strainer and the ladies at the prices, running to cover with Lockheed bonds all her holes, where fingers could fit. And not only that, myriads of ranas came out of the canals shouting but Jessye Norman golden-green melodies, scaring the little green Dutch women, even Rumenigge across the border.

My God, what times! I try to put things in order, and Luigi falls in front of me “tonight we are improvising” like the Athenian government, whilst Jaqueline de Romilly from the Elysium cries “Thucydides is the man I love and I consider him to be my husband”.

Fourteen words with which a small nightingale made a nest.

December 2010
Dimitris Xonoglou

*some thoughts on Futurism