Tramp

It wasn't my idea to call him a slut or a bum (you pick). In fact, it was a bilingual German girl that I used to know, who was practising English with her British father, when she mispronounced the name of the then president of the USA for the first round - to the amazement of the entire civilised world - leaving said father with the not-to-be missed opportunity to share the joke online. Nor was it my idea to send a postcard to the White House at such an opportune and sombre moment. I simply responded to the first Mail Art call that caught my eye and sharpened my wits during a specially creative fever period and many personal and professional collaborations, if you can call those so in the potentially sacred name of art, i.e. non-profitable. I had just joined the international union of mail artists, which I hadn't known about for more than twenty years, and it couldn't have been more intuitive and fast, the collage I made with little tobacco papers I have been collecting, cut-outs of The Little Prince in Hungarian that I found abandoned on the luxury rubbish-strewn streets of Berlin, and my ever growing stash of cardboard, magazines, newspapers, shiny silver chocolates' wraps and the like. The open call was named #TheIdesOfTrump, just like Rome's Ides of March, the decadent empire one. It seems to be a repetition of an attempt at peaceful but grandiose mass protest, just like the oligarch's inexplicable re-election. I'm not American, I'd say to Caesar what is Caesar's, were it not for the global and irreversible implications of this charade.

So here we are. Some hours after I published my first contribution at the network, there was already another postcard misspelling the felon‘s name. I was impressed in a refreshing way. A day later I took the train to Lisbon to take a good friend‘s daughter to the cinema, my first trip to such a venue in almost two years - the time I had to settle down on the land and to finally get a cheap, monthly train green-pass - and he was the one who ended up mailing it. I came back a couple days after that, both to visit the cinema on my own and to pick the same kid from school afterwards, and we said goodbye the morning after by discussing the birth of original ideas within the whole family. We all agreed that the goal of creativity also is to feed each other’s minds by adding and passing it over and over again - not by double doing it. Neither of us is afraid to starve. Not like that anyway.