Reading Faces

Now, I always preferred to portray things, rather than people;

use them in my work, in that sense, for that matter.

I must admit that it is harder for me, here. Not with objects. They are easier, they are lovely, there are plenty; of them. They are old, they can be found at every corner - not the good ones, mind you - they have different sizes and colors.
To tie in with the start, to read faces. Most objects dont have them. And to be read. It takes more.
By mentioning it, I might fuel or force it, but I have been told, that I was from the North. Is just one of several examples.
That might be the case. Still, as I am my socialisation, things might change.

Also, I returned the gesture, not exactly with a mirror, more with semi-transparent plastic foil. Similar to the one I put the piece of cardboard in, right before it left, among other things, in the blue mail. Back to a place with rain and grey and history.

Fuel or force a process, not really, an occurrence maybe, presumably a manifestation of stigmatisation, is what it could be.  

Is this mentality thing I develop a tendency to believe in - at least the corners of it, not the whole plate loaded with acted out prejudices and not so latent racism - only and purely projection?

And why would, being my subjective projection only, make it less real -

If; When I use language I like to be capable of controlling, or at least executing some influence on what is going to be understood by whoever the receiver might be. Bear in mind what connotations and shades of meaning might spring into life. 

In any case, my command of two of three tongues, that I use here, in general, is fragmentary at best. 

It makes me uneasy, makes me doubt, leaves me -

Conclusion and line at the bottom, I want to work on and with The Other.
What makes it different, what makes it same. Me, with endings, beginnings.
Borders and admissions.

Residing, living in an area, geographical space, whose culture is less known, less exposed to me, ambiguously so, I am not aware of consequences, implications, of dangers even;
The air that I breathe is still not as saturated with meaning, with information; makes some things easier, more convenient, others more tiresome; some require more courage.
At the beginning I had no past, at all.
Anonymous life, however, is most probably already over, once and for all.

Each day you decide to let someone new enter your life. You start re-telling the story, that you keep telling to yourself, the one about your name, the places you have been, where you learned or studied, your coffee drinking habits and so forth. It makes me think, too much at times, how many of them matter, which of these points; whether they can be applied to a person, a character, being in a permanent state of change, of flux, or not; performance and repetition, reiteration; and not to commit oneself! Not to determine.

You pick up words. You pick up phrases. You look at that grand puzzle in your head, for which new pieces are being painted every minute. You draw pictures. Hold on, try to hold on.
Now, that was less abstract, more like concrete and stone, in relation to what I usually write.

--- I hope the whole denial thing works out.