Here’s a beautiful image to visualise on a rainy day: a gorgeous blue flower in the middle of a turquoise pond. Suddenly, upon closer inspection, you realize that the source of the blue isn’t a flower but a bird and that a malicious greenness, ever-spreading, is conquering yesterday’s turquoise. Now that I think about it, this image isn’t really about a flower in a pond, nor about a dead bird being swallowed by a swamp. It’s about the penetrating Order of forms, which drives the world in bolder directions…I’m joking, of course. Don’t fall for it. I’m a fool. Yet even a fool knows that there is absolutely no Order of Forms in the universe that supposedly exists; only impenetrable walls of random misfortune, chaotic waves of greedy points of interest. That’s how seeds are planted, and that’s why there is both a flower and a dead bird in the swamp-pond. A flowbird in the swampond. I adore such precious trifles. This is “Ararita” in a nutshell.

“Ararita” is precious indeed—she truly made me a better person. Ah yes, she's a "she", by the way. It's true, she made me a better person. I’m an angel now, my friend. Just kidding, just kidding. Did you fall for it this time? I hope not.

“Ararita” is no ornament. “Ararita” is gathered like broken glass from the floor: each shard a tiny cut on your fingers, gradually infuriating you. Oh man, “Ararita” pisses me off. She is really the death of the mind’s wunderbar. No magic remains. All squandered. Finished. I’m not joking—but of course I exaggerate.

“Ararita” blossoms when you deny her the chance to expand. She expands anyway, because that’s how her inner landscape remains immortal. Have you heard of that deep-sea jellyfish that, every time it is stressed or injured, returns back in time, transforming from an old, withered sack of tentacles into a sweet, plump, youthful little drop? That is the real wunderbar! And that is precisely what “Ararita” is not.

“Ararita” remains unmoving in a timeless, ever-expanding straight line. She inspects herself eternally, methodically, curiously, to find the “exact what.” What am I even saying? “Ararita” isn’t some kind of philosophical or artistic pseudo-manifesto. “Ararita” is fermented like Greenland shark meat. The taste of both, a mixture of ammonia and oil. And yet, I truly sympathize with her two protagonists. Protagonists—proctagonists—proct-agonists… there, once again I act like a fool.

And still, even the fool knows these two Small Ideas are up to no good! Surely they mean trouble! In truth, they don’t do anything in particular. They observe. They slip into the Mood—and by doing so, they drain the magic from everything. They drain the magic out of all things, just to slip into the Mood, that place where Wunderbar dwells… and by doing so, by sucking out the magic from everyone and everything, they rob me of my Mood! Imagine that! Those two foul little assholes… I function as their battery, and by draining me, they thrive. Like little blue flowers in a pond, or dead birds in a swamp, they flourish as they bleed me dry. What a nuisance.

But then, why do I love them so much? Oh yes, I adore those two little devils. For devils they are, haven’t you realized yet? They are the right and left brain lobes of Satan… just kidding, just kidding. Shame on me. No, they are merely cogs in the machine, pieces of an organism. No, that’s also a lie. Cogs sometimes rust and stop working. But I don’t think these two will ever be in danger of that. That’s where their bile comes from. What a life! What fascinating little bastards.

What a universe, what a World! A world filled with luxurious silence, a symphony of precision. At the same time, a place of flesh, screams, magnificent slaughter. I love this World of Wunderbar and its glory. I love what it promises. I love its order. I love its chaos, I love its violence. I am in love with its persistence, which turns the flowbird into point and line, the swampond into a surface, the deafening silence into a whispering dog-hum.

That is why I am glad to admire this World through the eyes of the fool, because as the clumsy step falls in love with the discreet puddle, so does Ararita stretches across like a horizon, eternal and unspoiled, immediate and bloodsoaked, proclaiming that "until the movement finds release, let movement rise and never cease"... Yeah, I can vibe with that, I guess. At least, until the wunderbar is drained yet again...then the process starts anew. Man, Ararita really pisses me off so much, that I think I fell in love with her.