DISMANTLED PERHAPS
Meri Utkovska's latest short film, DISMANTLED PERHAPS, is a transcendental collection of everyday events that portray the artist's quiet exploration of her humanity and place in the world.
Scenes of nature, cities, countryside, rain, animals, chess boards, wind, movement, dance, and old photographs meet the viewer as the artist leads them through her poem of the same title.
Shot on different locations in North Macedonia, but primarily in Utkovska's family home, DISMANTLED PERHAPS captures the depth of Meri Utkovska's relationship with herself and the world she comes in contact with.
DISMANTLED PERHAPS is now available to watch on YouTube, along with Utkovska's other short films and spoken pieces.
DISMANTLED PERHAPS
The sounds of the broom’s mouth
Old and choking with dust rise from
The ground as they’d been what hot air is
Sometime (before all this)
Before I was what I am the
World was what is now not -
Robbed by our own (can you believe it?)
Both of us. Like an argument lost
By the argumentative, I wait for
Night each night. And night always comes.
I am made of a terrible amount of
Dismantled perhaps’. I contradict even
My belief in my own contradictions. Before
I was what I am I feared the madness with
Which I loved. It only took a lifetime for
Me to realize that I must love madly, for
Love maddened by its madness’ intensity
Is the only love I know to be real — the heart,
Torn at the seams burns burns burns like money.
I burn.
Everything in me is made of water -salt
Water taken from the primordial sea. I rise
With all my waves -flooding buildings, houses,
Eyes, ears, lungs, spleens, roads,
Valleys — treacherous and beautiful. Before
I was what I am the Moon was but another
Insignificant thing. Now, vigilant, both of us,
Of earth’s intricacy. Both of us. Like forgiveness
Lost by the one who forgives, I welcome
Bitterness. And I smear a little honey on the places
Where it settles. I am made of a terrible amount
Of dismantled parting of ways. I don’t run from them.
They’re only little children. Before
I was what I am I feared the madness with
Which I grieved. It only took the ripping Of my chest for
me to realize that I must Grieve madly, for
Grief maddened by its own intensity
Is the only love I know to be real — life,
Torn at the seams burns burns burns like money.
I burn.
Sometimes,
You can even hear me sing.