constant eclipse

~ because the night ~

2012-01-28T16:52:00.000+01:00

the reason she commits blaspemy is because she's believer

father Arteta, it's just like with many things in my life, it is. so

i'm on the verge of crying, but i don't cry

i'm on the verge of collapsing, but i don't collapse

i'm on the verge of salvation, but i'm not saved

~ an.aesthetic. surrender ~

2012-01-09T20:46:00.000+01:00

in bed, embraced by sheets, wrapped in darkness

a candle across the room, i see the ceiling, the flame's halflight

swaying, shifting glow, a sweeping sensation, i think

that's what an angel could look like

i fall asleep

my head in the hands of sound

almost company

~ cinder alley ~

2012-01-08T18:56:00.000+01:00

the good shepherd
lo he left all the others
an' went to look for you

an' yes he did find thee
an' with bruised hands

a shade against my skin

its weight, its will combined with mine. a perfect dose of resistance just to amplify this movement

without past, deeply in the now, breathing future

hungrily, with the pores of our skin

just in a second

growing blackness

a shiver

and what's left of it

~ blades that cut, hands that reap ~

2012-01-04T14:15:00.000+01:00

peel

~ secret daughters of europe ~

2012-01-03T01:33:00.000+01:00

materia in transit

souls in transit

you can't always make it pretty

a mouse trap, eyes of a murdered doll, old keys

what doesn't fit together of itself

can fit perfectly in a hand

memory lost

bars mean no security

are frontiers

spill the parts, gravity is beautiful

recompose

~ flash-never-back calac & polanco ~

2012-01-01T05:37:00.000+01:00

two wine(sic!)glasses crashing against a bridge of oslo. thrown behind the backs of two stray girls. danced in the almost-first snow of oslo, outside, in the wind, under snowfakes falling into their hair. the only mermaids that were ever able to dance without any pain in their knees. eyes on them. why should they care.

true angels only meet on the edge, and they're not white

glass filled with black rum. bottom up, my dearest friend! and a throw behind you. never to come back.

without the past, not caring about the future, which will come anyway. will we get fired from out workplace tomorrow for our wild latino dances? don't think so. this is what your rules are worth, world.

there were two girls who drank the black rum bottom-up on a norwegian bridge. a snowfall. glass splintering against the street surface. we - the centre of universe, for a second, and the universe acknowledging that. for a second.

having stuck a whole in my skirt-trousers garment. i'm gonna sew it together RED. for everyone to see. THIS GIRL IS RECYCLED and she knows what your religions mean.

everything was meant to be.

fate or coincidence. it's just a matter of perspective.

and after roof toasts, after a wild pirate ride in a broken apocalyptic lift, after a gift of heart - a fortune-telling from one of the books of our lives, translated simultaneously:

when there was a time he could come down, much further, the corner was a corner as almost always in The City, gates and arcades disappeared in the distance, and in the background there was beginning of a commerce city with its towers and with the flash

and then she's abandoned the book and forgot the page number. the future obscure. the glass left behind, never looked back at. drunk in the middle of the road, with car-lights coming closer. where does their courage spring from?

tread in, girls.
whoever you think you are.
there is a one to see you.

to remember a teaching without remembering the lesson.
no, it didn't look that nicely.

~ shimata darlings, crayon recollections ~

2011-12-30T00:45:00.001+01:00

- hey, dolphin called and told me to pass on the message. if you don't show up at new year's, he'll totally kick your ass.

hah, sure eastern dolphins do this with a lethal precision. unless they eat a mischievous pineapple pizza slice. and chain-toast with a homeless snail.

moving from a guesthouse to a guesthouse, post-christmas cleaning and found my highschool drawing-diaries. touched. all the small takes and details that warm your heart after all those years. forever dreaming sounds like a good idea for the upcoming year when past will be shut off to the last fast rewind.

~ lower remedy lane ~

2011-12-28T12:08:00.001+01:00

and to survive this, you need to sleep long, you need to sleep sound

sleep deep, see your own within the haven of your eyelids

remember dreams of angels blowing black balloons for you

you say there's beauty in a scar

i find it sick, but it's a part of me i've long ago accepted

now what a stupid thing you are

sometimes

as you watch it

you draw your lips closer

and with all tenderness you can find

you slide your fingertips over its surface

not to make it hurt

- to understand better

feel like your own
give it warmth, give it cold
whatever it needs

now isn't it sick

drawn to each other for every stain

when you see beauty there

but without taking any pleasure

and asking yourself:

where are the lost rites

and when you've opened so much

that it's made every rib in your chest break

for a land that's hidden it had no sky

and thrown you into an airless void

the ill-mended bones, you know

you need to break them again, by yourself

so you run

straight into this wall

so you run fast

onto the pain of salvation

~ i do my crying in the rain ~

2011-12-27T02:30:00.000+01:00

i'll come with the flood and teach you to breathe underwater

for this to happen you need to go to the shore, stand on the edge in the storming weather

you have to be fearless, you get lost only if you fear drowning

1+1 = 1

mathematics of rain

our count

you know surface is for the easy, it reflects the sun beautifully

depths are for those who are ready to drown, if together

the sun is taken in

the greatest drama of the story of little mermaid is that she at all needed to go on land

walk in pain and mute

if a dive had come, there would have been sounds, music

a new kind of breath

~ i read in these ash signs - ~

2011-12-26T01:34:00.000+01:00

when you're on the edge and drunk, you don't think. and when you don't think, you might end up foretelling your future from a random page of a random book, might you not. a random sentence of a greenbacked voice.

but i said: 'if you please, we will commit ourselves to this void, and see whether Providence is here also. if you will not, i will.' but he answer'd: 'do not presume, o young man, but as we here remain, behold thy lot, which will soon appear when the darkness passes away.'

william, seriously? the pages i've always felt were meant for me, now at random? is a sign that obvious still a sign or is it more like a poke in the head of a fool?

- we've been through hell

even if married

they say manuscripts never burn

shall we see if i am one

~ our first names: angelene ~

2011-12-25T16:21:00.000+01:00

there was one crooked street

and two crooked girls

crowned with countless shadows

putas baratas!

shouted two cycling brazilians right into our faces that night

unaware of that by doing so they had made us the happiest girls in the world. we laughed to the sky, recognized.

and now, in a few days' time, a minute to 2012, drinking black rum on the roof of the opera house, breaking glasses against the houses of oslo, branding the humanless streets - two pirates. carry shadows for parrots.

two corsairs. and a tune wafting after the waves of their coats:

do not look back

~ then came the rain ~

2011-12-22T21:25:00.000+01:00

don't want to start any blasphemous rumours

but i think that god's got a sick sense of humour

a question:

why do i always turn blakian at the break of winter
end up thinking of lions and black birds high up in the sky
this time: of a lion and a black bird high up in the sky

a feeling:

the chess-pieces are moving
where to?

and this fox? september fox of oslo. september fox of paris that looked just like me.

a me that knows not. with eyes wide open recognizing no shapes, knowing nothing, just like a child. only i can't look like a child does anymore - i'm not a tabula rasa, i'm a palimpsest. a one that recreates itself, and each time, even if it becomes a new sheet ready to be written on, it gets heavier. by the ink it has contained, by the number of recompositions, by the crash of bonds broken. i feel like i'm on my way under a printing press. in a way i really want it. i wonder if only girls can be this self-destructive.

so, flicker, this page is not clear - it's only empty.
flicker -

when i die i expect to find him laughing

~ magnetic south ~

2011-12-18T21:29:00.005+01:00

but the true travellers are they who depart

for departing's sake; with hearts light as balloons,

they never swerve from their destinies,

saying continuously, without knowing why: 'let us go on!'

having decided in your youth
on the policy of truth
you hear

a calling

~ remember without retrospection ~

2011-12-16T18:12:00.000+01:00

to drop wings when blades travel just as fast? hollow out holes behind your ankles. change hermes for a varg, feathers for tar muzzles.
the difference?

is the reason why not touching the ground can hardly be compared with flying.

ravenous wolf, let me look into your eyes
that bleed

to fly on these engines?
dear angels

on the razors of lobofobia

~ tanzt, tanzt sonst sind wir verloren ~

2011-12-09T14:31:00.000+01:00

never can you dance with chains around your feet.

without the risk of going into a skid -

- there is no dance

~ inner shores ~

2011-12-04T21:41:00.000+01:00

step into this room and dance for me

as if you scented a flower in your early childhood, through a mist you seek what lingers there all these years. you remember a trace imprinted on the brim of your taste buds. a promise you follow at the verge of your senses. you won't rest until it fills your nostrils, rests on your tongue, flows down your spine falling with you into the soil, until it moves in your hair. inner shores. you never know where they lead.

and at times i find myself seeing love and music as one and the same thing. so -

hold me closer than that

~ people are stranger ~

2011-11-26T00:16:00.000+01:00

sunshine sunshine go away

if you can't reach my heart

~ vollmond ~

2011-11-21T01:52:00.000+01:00

this is too close, far too close

are you afraid?

are you scared?

if you are not, look again

and deeper, focus

now, you see?

which way will the sunflower turn surrounded by millions of suns

are you scared?

if not, you should be

if yes, be brave

which way will the blindgirl turn surrounded by millions of eclipses

~ love you but i've chosen darkness ~

2011-11-16T00:05:00.000+01:00

there's no mystery in love, he said.
indeed, there isn't. when it comes, it's obvious. the rest is a miracle, leaving you with things to accept or deny, and admire.

though there is a risk.

that the butterflies in your belly will turn into moths

filling it with a lightless flutter

how long, my long lost

will the last day be?

~ east? east is everywhere, indeed ~

2011-11-13T12:00:00.001+01:00

a cloudy sky over umeå that hadn't yet known

i am the woman dancing to the post-punk band in der himmel über berlin, i am her voice, i am her everything, i am. she worked in a circus, i live in one.
and still i don't believe her when she's dancing. it's because she knows she's beautiful, she's thinking about it - the only difference between us. i never do, i only am, the most, when i dance. and dance is water, you must not think then. to think is to drive a rock across its stream.

dear bresson. if art lies in suggestion, is this the reason why happiness doesn't belong there?

es gibt noch andere sonnen, als die oben am himmel

~ calling on symmetry ~

2011-11-01T23:53:00.001+01:00

you're a real famme fatale, prima!

so that's what you're called when you smoke a cigar without ever lighting a cigarette before. that's the first time when i didn't negate. i've never fancied being one. names? i've been called so many.

my steps clattering through the midnight streets of a city i baptized as chamber paris, red coat, searching what i believed was a graveyard and what turned out to be rooftops. bridges. sitting in the hotel window and looking down at the lights of place de la gare, with a heart beating like charlotte's of lost in translation.

a portrait of rafael as baron von petit paris scribbled on the backside of a beer coaster, a few seconds. a red coat, the bridge, the songs.

sinking my hands in the moss of grund's stone walls, its mildness, soft green, wet leaves, the thrill of relief.

i'm calling on symmetry of your mind

~ serenade for the renegade ~

2011-10-27T12:34:00.000+02:00

we starve for light and yet we

devour darkness

dance

to the rhythm of stars crashing under our teeth

then
we fall asleep

the moon crumbled, in our hair

mingled

making love through stone walls

we breathe

into each other's lips, only

come, 2 a.m.

tu dois voir plus loin
tu dois revenir
tu dois tout essayer
tu dois devenir

~ i mean you ~

2011-10-22T00:36:00.000+02:00

and each time i will come

each time i'll be another

a sinner, a saint

your enemy, brother

the rush of freedom when a perceived part of you, a deeply true one gets expressed for the very first time - a thrill from the depths of an ocean reaching the surface, rucking it up, revealing its inner movement, released with an unheard sound.

whatever the face, its expression is constantly beautiful as reflecting the deepest truth.

it's an ascending shiver.

the wodnica who has finally found her way out to the surface

through the channels of ritual photography

will she sing?

~ the colours change, we need to leave ~

2011-10-17T13:29:00.000+02:00

wake up, little sparrow

an old belgian castle. a forgotten street of dordrecht. a breath in nakedness.
dirty windows of a desolated greenhouse. air into the brushes.
words of pina bausch, the sister of motion.

vocabulary

found

still ahead

homecoming
banition
why do they feel like one and the same thing?

~ to all that enter here ~

2011-10-04T18:17:00.002+02:00

staring at lightning won't keep you warm

and yet i catch the electricity in my hair so easily
so very easily

_

2011-10-01T04:12:00.000+02:00

a space taken from someone's love confession

wide awake

~ are you shivering yet? ~

2011-09-29T00:00:00.002+02:00

starving for beauty

and then

at night, landing in The City
welcome by a homeless man reading in a telephone booth
and a rat, running across the raincoated pavement
an attic red floor and songs of bul
being called -

so unexperienced

- by an italian thief, result: stealing a doll's eye at st. ouen's flea market
leaving her half-blind to save the powerful magic of this totem
being given a book on orchids, reason being: i must be one of them

oncidium surnommé

or pluie d'or. golden rain
wandering long hours over bridges
almost converted by notre dame's stained-glass resting
a faint red plain on christ's temple, the pietà
red wine, the stream of champs elysées, théâtre marigny
and the golden water cast from the fountain, time circling

long nightly hours at the banks of seine, lights, rats running around
spinning thoughts, mobile still not working, messages that don't reach
and a message that reaches, the only one sent to disappear in the buzz
from behind jussieu blinds the words leaked out never to be heard, yet they happened
and the whole magic of it, dispersed with the morning line
incomprehension, a black cat sneaking in through the window

a dollhead hunted at les puces, operated on the floor, razors
a not even symbolic murder that felt like a real one, ideas do live
however i tried, i could not take the photo so that she didn't look so endlessly
sad. who's made her?

films of marker and godard understood in their essence
by almost obsessive taking the darkly dense underground
vaudou art album blew fire into my vision, blaze, particles
missing salomé at bastille by chance and not being the only one
being moved to tears by the architecture and space passing les invalides
fountaine des innocents, a tired gaze

- baudelaire?
- pardon?
- baudelaire? là-bas, madame

now seriously, do i look like that kind of person from the first glimpse? merci monsieur.
a leaf out of very baudelairian grave of charles, collected for patti
talks to the dead and close men in montparnasse, contrarily: in the morning
a polish corner found
strains lost
a breath

so, where is your renaissance?

~ cat end ~

2011-09-16T00:02:00.006+02:00

sing me back home

wherever it is. i've felt september already in august and now it has finally come. the reminiscences of this found in a forgotten corner of this place:

the foretaste of autumn. rainy saturnalia, sparks reflected in the blackness of pavement. fall undertows, movements in my soul that i was waiting for the whole summer. the saturated static, the excitement. it's not even september but the rain moves me to the callendar future.

and the future is now. yes, jane rose. it calls for paris and tomorrow paris will be now.

moved out and in once more. found a lost cat on one of the walls, all about my latest nights in a city where i don't feel safe.

caw caw, mjau. i'm getting ill and everything shifts ridiculously from blur to high contrast in a short while. and then again.

cry for laconism, girl!

and don't mumble to yourself in public ever again.

especially not in written form.

~ thousand knives ~

2011-09-10T22:03:00.011+02:00

so that day everything was going differently than it should, not necessarily wrong - just not as imagined. left home halfway through kafka on the shore, completely unaware that it would become a part of yet another sign the very same day. i walked to the opera, picked my tickets, went out. the weather got an-hour-to-apocalypse, i breathed out and filled my lungs with relief, a kind of peace i can only find there - standing at the opera house and inhaling the sea.
the sky was leaden, a storm sure to follow very soon. the leftovers of the new york hurricane approaching oslo with a mad wind as their herald. i stood at the edge, gazed at the waves breaking against the white stone, then at my coat, The Rag, thrown in all possible directions by the insane gusts, just like my hair. that moment i realized - standing completely in black, with The Rag almost torn in the raging, cold air, surrounded by this powerful white building, for a while i've become a part of murakami's novel. the girl named crow. kafka on the shore.

crow on the shore
caw caw
kra kra
(as it would scream in polish)

as for the picture, i got totally stuck with it, the sketch lying open and abandoned on the floor day after day, mute, and my thoughts around it, numerous songs i filled it with. and then i moved out, moved in, moved out and moved in again and right away when i sat peacefully down in the sofa and played the song, it's suddenly become clear: the picture needed this apartment, its high ceiling, long windows, white floor, its all whiteness filled with just these sounds, to be finished. and so it is.

kra kra
(do you hear the rip?)

~ of patti and .w ~

2011-08-18T17:59:00.005+02:00

why do they say he's mad? he has faith

- i've heard in a great movie contemplating the nature of madness, madonnas, light and rain. a relation that nurtured me for a long time and now i somehow lost my interest in things this relative. after all, i've never seen a person getting healthy only by hearing the diagnosis.
and after all, quoting the same motion picture, it is the so called healthy who brought this world to the verge of ruin.
still, so many miracles hiding in the cracks, like this photo that kind of leads me for a few months and that i've finally succeeded to paraphrase. so -

follow the piper of hamelin

~ ziggy sundust ~

2011-08-16T00:23:00.004+02:00

poetry is born from insecurity

there is something in this sentence but i remain distrustful. last night there was a full moon over the hospital. i had this extremely vivid dream, with dark oak wood, library, naked skin, and a voice, a calling. i woke up and read. then caught a glimpse of sleeping v. and in a short while i saw a deamon in the scarce sunlight. i blinked - it was gone but i remembered his arm. i grabbed the pencils. the sound of paper and graphite. cars passing. a new day.

a sketch. a beauty of imperfection. an energy of temporarity.
soft graphite. hard sunlight.

~ raincoated ~

2011-08-13T01:18:00.008+02:00

open arms, open heart
in the sight of telescope

at the moment the stars are raining over poland.
from a distant grass - i'm listening.

~ promise and the monster ~

2011-08-10T08:57:00.004+02:00

you're playing very strange music,
can you switch to something more pop?

i heard the other day. well, guess that's who i am.

yesterday i watched yoko's father putting potatoes from his bowl to hers after a long period of silence. this simple form of the deepest love in the age of miscommunication moved me so much.
tonight i dreamt of an old laundry room and a spirit of a dead man embracing and warming.
today i woke up under a leaden sky. i smell november. we're walking through flea markets and our shelves are only getting weirder.

off to nowhere

like we needed a future

~ a music lesson, interrupted ~

2011-08-08T00:23:00.005+02:00

don't forget the nights when it all felt right

so i hold it close. i thought about drawing this dream of mine for such a long time. an angel blowing black balloons for me and speaking silent words i don't remember. sounded like a minimalistic stream.

all the hope i would ever need, in black rubber.

~ through a lens, darkly~

2011-08-01T22:35:00.011+02:00

when i light the candle and get into the water
they pull me out

on thursday night i joined a ritual of lenses led by a french adept of oddity who gives his heart away for a beauty of the most unique kind. looking into the lenses from 1920's, celebrating the birth of a single photography and presence of an antique eye - i touched the art of captured pictures in its most poignant essence.
singular. sounding. meditative. focused.
a concerto for percussion of time and camera parts.

they pull me out
they shout: "you are mad!"
understand?

no, and i never will. you won't either.
we walk in red, right into the dawn.

~ invite the bullets in ~

2011-07-22T23:54:00.002+02:00

dance
exorcism through possession

i've been listening to this piece countless times. the title got in a mysterious way connected to this entry on more than a few levels. without noticing, i started dancing, completely lost in the music and everything it brought. my body has become the fifth string of her cello.

once in a while i would catch a glimpse of the hospital across the street. a few hours after oslo shooting outbreak and bombing only meters away. a few floors over the emergency centre in the hotel building.

tonight, for some beautiful minutes
i was clearly happy

the breaking strings have reached, at last
first muscles, then heart
beat

~ unintended ~

2011-07-20T22:59:00.004+02:00

please, smile

i feel like oharu returning from shimabara. last days have taught me to understand japanese art on a completely new level, a deeper one. i overtook their way of existence.

there's something deeply wrong with being broken under a clear sky, in warmth, in a perfect surface and a practical non-worry. coming from a country of paradoxes i should be able to handle this dissonance skillfully. i am not. running on autopilot, i have no clue what i am doing.

i weep for him, i weep for him now

i'm singing a lot lately. today i sat and scribbled down a map of oslo, leaving supposedly many tourist out of any cartographical clue about the city. june married saturn. in july i marked the city of swan.

~ el pequeño caracol ~

2011-07-16T21:46:00.002+02:00

and the little snail could no longer tell:
was it a temple or a circus

that's how everything other has become banality.
a person focused on truth would be grateful for realizing these borderlines.

i will be one day.

~ goodnight sweetheart ~

2011-07-13T00:46:00.000+02:00

this afternoon i snuggled into my cover and lied listening to music. quite unexpectedly, i was able to listen to these two tracks, i couldn't do that since may. and now they soothe, make me unsolitary.
i remember one june night a few weeks ago in my hometown. never before have i been so scared in my life, and hopeful. a dense, sticky nightmare. but then, in the heart of an eclipse, i felt a sudden relief, a wave of overwhelming peace spreading over my body. it was like a sweeping of a hand over a soul, warm and light. i fell asleep.

today i listened to mark with my head buried in the pillow. i got this feeling the mattress moved as he sat down on the bed and watched over me, putting his hand between my shoulderblades. i still feel a kind of sweetness and i know we breathe the same air at this very moment.

maybe it should worry me that i feel such strong bonds with people who passed. and i'm still not sure who is saying that to whom:

goodnight sweetheart

~ transit oddity ~

2011-07-07T19:35:00.002+02:00

do i come from age that wasn't
do i belong to age that will never be

i'm living on. waiting for water to have taste again.
wandering around oslo in search for signs. found one in a twisted antique shop today - a half face of a man who sold the world, now he watches over me from my own wall.
somehow, it corresponds with the latest days when i walk around and recognize nothing. i've lost my comprehension of this world. living with a cruel insight that if people are apart, it's often not because they don't love each other but because they are on different levels of existence.

but we are all lifts
here, to balance and launch each other

so why not?
why deny the absolute for movable things?

~ after the flood ~

2011-07-07T00:38:00.002+02:00

because the light
go on, heart. beat

they'll come
they come

~ forbidden colours ~

2011-07-04T22:47:00.005+02:00

david. what would you tell me now.
my love wears forbidden colours too.
my life believes.

it tears me, how do you survive
these things that fall on your open heart as may raindrops and turn into rusty spikes a moment before they reach its membrane

how did you embrace the darkness thrown upon you

while doubting the very ground beneath me
trying to show unquestioning faith in everything

i dream of good hands.
a good wrist to carry the kite only onto the warm winds.
good hands that would change all shed tears into sweet water.

i trust the future, i love, and i keep my eyes only on truth, still.
that's why it hurts double.

when four years ago i set as my life quest feeling and experiencing as broadly and deeply as it is possible and training myself in perception and lucidity, i forgot to make an annex there should be a balance between the light and the shadow.
now - it's only to be brave.
stones thrown.

~ it's only castles burning ~

2011-06-27T22:03:00.008+02:00

a snapshot from long years of fiddling with darkness so dense that you could mould it with your own hands and feel its pulse going through your whole body. this riff still does.

when risking with your life, it's the light side that scares the most. both by the intensity of light and the depth of shadow it can cast. dante. william. neil. unholy trinity that unchangeably gives me so much strength and that has granted me a warming halo for today. now landed in an evening.
so. this is how it is to defeat darkness and feel its eyes watching every following step.
so. this is why to look back is to fail in the very moment of looking.

mor gi oss solen

mother, give us sun.

yours,

osvald, arthur and .w

~ non-citizen (i won't be disappointed) ~

2011-06-25T00:50:00.004+02:00

how do you call a being that would always grow back its wings to feed on them, in the absence of unpolluted nourishment?

i have nothing to say.
this sounds. painfully exact. musical portrait updated.
my skin is motionless. like a membrane of a drum abandoned by its spirit and left with an overactive echo.

it's not safe

~ a bat in the closet ~

2011-06-21T23:53:00.004+02:00

a huge, ancient door is opening accompanied by a simple, beautiful sound. physician's white light is pouring in with each centimeter and my soles turn towards it.

oslo. first lesson of walking in the light.
now. thinking of all the matrioshka-closets we free ourselves from.
holding mikhail with one hand and david with the other.

towards a breath.

~ shoulderblades sound ~

2011-06-20T00:41:00.002+02:00

low fly swallows before downpour comes
or so they say in poland

~ exorcist fairytales ~

2011-06-06T19:22:00.009+02:00

i'll tell you a story. a dream that i find the most beautiful of all mine and that is regarded as a very sad one by most of the ones whom i shared it with.

it's the one when i looked into the eyes of love and they were blue and full of movement.

there was a girl sitting on the edge of a high cliff. softness of july under her hands and the wall of a forest not so far behind her back made her smile. hot gusts of wind moved her hair now and then under the clear blue sky. below only crop fields and meadows, colours dulled by the dust of long summer days. the school building below looked so tiny and still from this height. time stood still. some points were moving around the grey old manor. soundless. hypnotizing.

a sound raised her ears but eyes remained focused on the same spot. smooth steps were growing closer from the woods. then they stopped, surrounded by idle reality. only her golden hair danced like careful pendulums. a soft sound. now two more legs hanged on the outside of her own, swinging over the panorama. nothing really happened. no one spoke. no bird sang. an early afternoon.

- spread your arms - he whispered. - like a bird.
slow vowels. sweet drones, like in a song. it was no echo.

blink I

- we will jump - he said in the same whispering manner, putting his hands a bit over the girl's arms. softly. everything about him was soft, ash-whispering. he was close yet his presence was light in a very peculiar way, like a september wind painted by afternoon sun.

he pushed her forward, following her body with his own, always close by a breath. they were falling, down, to the distant ground.

it should have felt scary. it should have felt fast. it felt like a flight.

the air around was mild, the boy's touch delicate. no hurry in falling.

being aware and yet not realizing - is it the heart's way? if so, they were following it to the ground. it drew closer, they were almost...

NOW. it got to her a few meters before hitting: they jumped and fell, and now they'll ----- but why aren't they?
just some centimeters above the ground, the dust flew into the air and they landed. softly, no sound. they sat there when the dust fell. silence. togetherness.

blink II

many people gathered that noon on the schoolyard, intrigued by hammer slams and rumbles. she made her way through the crowd.
a rocket. a really shabby space rocket. and he was building it. or rather - putting together pieces of different sizes, colours, materials. it wouldn't work, he was insane. and determined.
days passed as he worked restlessly to build the vehicle. and when he was finished, she was there, in the first row among all other students, awaiting the start.

why didn't anyone try to stop this? couldn't they see? couldn't he?

he was doomed to crash in that piece of junk, although everyone looked enthusiastically when he got in wearing an everyday-like looking overall and a helmet. the door slammed behind him. the girl looked up, speechless and paralyzed. buzz. more buzz. dust in the air, a hot wave spreading from under the rocket.
then it flew up, one, to, ten, thirty meters, like in a slow motion film.
and it started falling. her heart pounded as the rocket crashed exactly with the start point. smoke shooting from the inside, burning flames.
she stood there nailed to the asphalt yard. someone carried him out, black, covered in ash.
she stood there. forgot to blink.

blink III

a few weeks later she was pushing his wheelchair up to the cliff. they stopped close to the edge and observed the world below. it was still and motionless, they were quiet. his messy hair was in the colour of wheat fields.
has anything changed?

would he walk again? she swinged her feet over the landscape as she came back there again. has anything changed? was she calm? was she sad?
everything looked the same. dusty sunlight, hot quiet. only she was alone this time. spread her arms. didn't move. wind did.
jumped.

and she fell like anyone would, no mysterious cloud raising her right above the ground.
a hit. a thump. dust. darkness.

blink IV

she opened her eyes in a whiteness.
a room. bare, whit walls, white night table, white hospital bed. voiceless.
a window in the roof, an attic room then. door on her right stuffed with a dense shadow. she turned her head towards it and looked. she couldn't move. no pain. no motion either.
then the shadows shifted and he rolled in on his wheelchair, without a word, with eyes fixed on hers. creating a kind of unbreakable channel between their pupils.

they were blue and striking. strong and sad. his eyes. if water could become fire without losing itself, it would look just like that. the ultimate blueness absorbing all of her, asking without a question mark and with all the love the world could contain:

why would you

~ fearless ~

2011-05-27T20:31:00.004+02:00

.,.

~ aura ~

2011-05-25T15:20:00.003+02:00

Consuelo, le démon aussi était un ange, avant -

i have this feeling

that inbetween, there were those mirror people, reflecting both god and the devil, scar and flawlessness. that heaven as well as hell hang agaze admiring themselves in the mirror dividing their grounds. and that this mirror is earth.

~ kafka coelenterata ~

2011-05-23T15:01:00.003+02:00

poland is like a sanctuary filled with unintended blasphemies.

that's where its weakness springs from - the forcelessness of what should be powerful and devoted to an idea, defended with the life and flame of the believers. if lucipher rebelled like that, he'd get stuck in heaven eating dog food.

still there are steps to be found, leading down into an ancient pride, strong beauty and
omitting the atavistic or idealistic solutions, unveiling the truth. i guess they are the bourderlines. the tension inbetween unleashing the energies of both realities, uniting and amplifying them upwards. to the stars.

letting then fall in a rain created somewhere over the clouds.

everything happens on the bourders, universally. they can merge together but if the existences are strong enough, they can merge into each other and broaden the common-event-bourderzone without losing themselves on the way. there's the air of the inspiration days.

chimneys and faeries in a leukemic country.
time to throw the door on the back in a self-imposed exile, drift until they carry somewhere. far from mother suckling with bad milk. far from bread with stones.

MORE LIGHT.

~ visual spells ~

2011-05-19T09:10:00.012+02:00

"Bob," I said, really looking at him for the first time. "Somehow you don't seem like a Bob to me. Is it okay if I call you Robert?

heavy heart and quiet hands.
halfway through removing pictures, photos, sketches, posters, notes from the walls before moving out. white walls. tones stepping down like a little girl after her white ball, right into the dungeons.
so now what. flashbacks from so many similar evenings developing into flashbacks from other evenings, and nights, and days, and mornings and leading into a broader reflection over the bygone. over which evil is necessary and which is not. if any. or pain. or blood. is it only astray rhethorics for those on the brink of sanity to excuse their scars.

stripped myself from the walls, the room looks like a mental institution now. whiteness cubed. only this messed-up patti triptych left. how she, in years, pinched my neck delicately turning my perception. towards the rightest.
white tea, white wine. wine. candle flames make the air more human.

is it twisted to think that falling is in a way good? without gravity there would be neither rivers nor rain. yet it's we who pay the consequences. at the speed of light and at the speed of its absence.

fell asleep in the middle of writing this entry. vague rememberance of what shall follow. the morning came with the rain and led to calm gardens, scenting wet dust and cut grass. radio thrown me into the right rails, started off in swirls and ritual dances over the suitcase. spinning wheel got to go round.

still not answered.
can bullets be the beauty.

~ stray dogs ~

2011-05-15T02:01:00.012+02:00

when a saami is chosen to become a noaidi, a shaman, he has two options. he can accept this promotion or deny it. in the case of the second alternative sajva, the helping spirits of a noaidi, torment him until he changes his mind.
tonight it striked me that for long, long years i've had my chest cramped because of this denial. the field was different but the rule remains the same. and now? a release. countless beats. full colour. urge. eights. limitlessness.

the snake is long, seven miles

when the houses of cards fall, which is by as little as a breath, you can finally see the sunset.
it's now. what has begun in december - side 24 in a why-so-morning-and-why-so-broke nomad sunshine - reached its closing within the last few days. got a level-up of my understanding of plato's triad: there is nothing more worth living than the truth.

~ this town will kill you ~

2011-04-29T07:32:00.001+02:00

i believe in purity preserved in the cracks of this world.
just like salt in the rocks.
i'm no mahatma but i raise my hand full of these crystals and look ahead in silence.

the sketch for this one is seven years old. it felt completely strange to draw it.
i've spent last five weeks in my room, ill. no views for any change. doctors seemed to be more confused than i was. isolation has reaccommodated my sight.
i'm lying in my room, listening. blinds down, sun up, sky blue, time rushing unnoticed, unused.
and i don't like this picture.

~ catkins on the wing ~

2011-04-22T20:44:00.007+02:00

spring has come and i could no longer resist. to sit on the post-winter grass, sharp yet soft, to breathe in the scent of river. to find catkins that recall all the homemplaces, all heart-warming thresholds.
a seagull landed. a butterfly fluttered. a bumblebee flew and disappeared. a duck looked around. a beaver swam. an ice floe floated to my shore and turned, and then floated further.

i sang going through my playlist. recalling the well-known, saturated riffs and passages. serenity. sunwarmth. being.

green angels of bieszczady mountains. by the edge of feather.

i'm being heathenly unproductive. lost the count of days. i guess i'd use some resocialization after the last weeks, too. mind somewhere. laces on the wind.

flutter. flutter. gone.

~ take me alive ~

2011-04-16T17:09:00.003+02:00

distance begins when the first thing passes you by.

with every other fling the distance rises and so does the sharpness of sight. you see the picture and the frame. you see the wall and the very first brush movements. you see the shadow of the hands.
you see all the time although the world we're living in is trying to convince you it's the other way round. with all the pictures, tasks, ambitions, desires, futures, opportunities.
while the only one is the chance of life. the chance of step. of touch. the possibility of voice. of a blink.

how many times you've shaken hands?
how many times you've remebered it?

~ a l'envers a l'endroit ~

2011-03-11T00:37:00.005+01:00

for not so long ago i ended a talk with a friend with words:

- omg, i need to listen to des armes tonight.
i have this feeling it'll end with a drawing.

and so, in spite of the fever (or maybe because of it?) i was right.
so i played des armes and thought about a kind of tautological sketch i could draw to it. then dance to l'appartement, entitled this entry with another song and finishing with lost. things don't really go as planned, still it's more than ok.

i'm pretty sure this picture will become my new utensil for recognizing people's true selves.

i'm lost but i'm not stranded yet

~ ready, able ~

2011-03-01T18:45:00.005+01:00

and when i trek alone back home

missing my few and close, heart-warming soulmates. here and now. and unable to help myself. everytime i under no circumstances should waste my time and yet i do it, i make pics in microsoft paint, explaining to myself that these are no pics really, just halfway productions. they don't count.
but they do.
and even if drawing by using touchpad makes me feel like a complete manual retard, there's still something in the picture. now there's everything. and despite knowing there's aurora borealis going on at the lake, i won't go because of this chaining "state of sigh." heavy longing, yet at the same time kept in a sweet tone - because there are ones to long to and they make me smile softly in this very moment.

they go we go, i want you to know

that i draw about you. kisses.

~ don't blame cocco! ~

2011-02-07T09:04:00.012+01:00

it's not the right season for a coconut

yes. this lovely quotation taken from my brother's sayings occupies my head for some time now. last months are even sponsored by a new coconut fragrance that turns my mind coconut, of course, and totally positive and... nuts (; and it seems all the goodness i've been obstinately sending out to the world is slowly coming back. even circumpolar winter is mild this year. i'm walking, singing and smiling.

tell them you've been licking coconut skins

yesterday i played this song and it filled the rest of my day. it's always been one of my favs but it wasn't before then that i've realized it's just perfect for my coconut present.

or you can sit on chimneys~!

because hell is for heroes, of course. to run a short balance of the last days: i lost my favourite raspberry earring when dancing, i was making sketches on every single lecture and all were crazy and nice - at last reaching good momentum for creating visual stuff. i also got a hellish throat infection which makes my voice way too useless even now - a week after the relative recovery. i danced a lot, went to jokkmokk for workshops again and heard some of the most touching and reflexive stories about jojk ever told by members of the most famous saami theatre group in sweden. i froze my everything off because my clothes are not suitable for any winter. and so i end up quoting my brother here and planning another week.
of what i see, it will be just as much coco-nuts.

tell you, i'm cooking coconut skins

~ surprise ice ~

2011-01-26T00:58:00.006+01:00

brother, are you watching me
i've been walking a straight line travelling from town to town

amazing how a song can diametrically change its meaning if only you switch focus from one line to another. how this dichotomy can run down your spine one day - that surprise ice can become something more and different from what you've taken for granted.

there are nights when splintered mirrors which you resurrect with afraid fingers give a better picture in the end. there are nights when you sense for the first time the closeness to becoming both strong and tender. this is a night like this, a night when i sat down at the desk without a purpose and suddenly found myself in this trace. the brush landed in the remains of my tea that soon became blue, violet and chaotic. accident and running while took over.

i am surprised with myself, and with ice.
time of shiver, yet i can't help myself from daring. done pale days' homework.

~ tangerine dream ~

2011-01-08T00:12:00.000+01:00

agaze. i've just realized, clearly like never before, how it goes. how it always goes.

you see this person and in the first moment you want to run to him and kiss him right away. and then you wake up to reality and start breathing again. and you look at him and then you slowly get closer to each other, reaching the place where you both already are since the very first second.

the moment of recognition.

~ the draft ~

2010-12-24T22:28:00.006+01:00

i'm kneeling on my soft coconut-carpet as i call it because of its cream colour and a bit worn-off softness. perfect for the floor enthusiasts of my sort. cosy in orange semi-darkness, the walls are covered in a shadowplay of the small round lamp, just as if a hand-granade of tangerine feathers, leaves and butterflies burst and paused in the mid-motion.

so the carpet and the orange leaf-feathers hung in a glimpse.
and me on the floor browsing through my sketch folder, re-discovering the to-be-drawn pics. expect some new stuff here when i'm back to sweden and to my sweet analog set.

[metathought #1: why am i always ending up BABBLING about non-importances while i really have a short core-thought to pixelize into this place?]

i feel very tender. at the moment. never before have i cared less about christmas. just because. a very positive state, maybe it's just priorities. maybe it's my heart overwhelmed by an unknown-yet-well-known sweetness.

[metathought #2: if you by any chance have noticed the concentration of hifens in this text, you can probably imagine how well the wallfrozen tangerine butterflies correspond with the liminal phase i'm going through]

so it's coconut, tangerine, sweet and inbetween. still the world of surprise ice. everything seems to be a draft, just like this fragment of a pic i've never finished.
my lovely december transition, please lead my steps.
because i'm tender and intuitional, and trusting - something i once was harshly criticised for and told not to. yelled for not to. hurt not to.

i'm longing with a direction and all clocks point midnight.

~ your name i spoke many times ~

2010-12-04T00:15:00.001+01:00

and yet again we call for safety
while what we actually crave for is a total

commitment

~ nordtatt: et eeventyr i et halvkapitel ~

2010-11-30T21:19:00.003+01:00

inappropriate? it's just a matter of definition.

let's go iron pancakes.
let's go.

~ descend, snowflake ~

2010-11-11T01:56:00.009+01:00

so yesterday night i made the first analog drawing since high-school.
how did it feel?

as if you awoke to the world of sparks

i can't imagine i could forget how much joy and happiness it used to bring me. unbelievable how that could happen. never again.

it's about what it's about. i stepped into the fresh snow tonight, snowflakes fell gently and landed into my hair. it was night, Maria and i were taking a walk to the folk dance classes.
when i'm alone and walking in the snowfall, i often raise my face towards the falling whitebits., then stop, breathe deeply and feel how snow is turning into water on my cheeks. and when a snowflake lands on my lip, when i feel how the ice melts into something warm and soft - it's like a kiss.

it's like a kiss.
a promise.
then i know you're in every particle.

~ to be the crack of your voice ~

2010-11-08T20:51:00.000+01:00

are you, too, tired of coalition relationships?

~ sun's gone dim ~

2010-11-06T20:45:00.003+01:00

there's only a few things i love more than an underlying, indirect darkness. like in this one. dense, concentrated, unobvious.
winter arose.

i'd never think i'd post this pic anywhere, did it just for the sheer pleasure of photoshopping the photo into an idea i got. but it seems the only one that could suit the moment. the first thing appearing in my mind when i see the photo is that, in a way, it's run pretty much out of date. maybe my darkness got some new dimensions.

the second thought is that vinyls can make lovely halos ;) at least for black madonnas.

the third one hovers around the worth of darkness. i'd like to put the cliches aside now. next to love i regard darkness as the second in turn of the most over-exploited and flattened words of today. just because the word fades out, however, it doesn't mean the idea shares its destiny. and so - it doesn't.
and it's here, cutting daytime's golden hair a little bit every passing hour. dear friend that always has it place in my head and that will find her shelter in my eye from now on. here it is, making me nightly reflexive, oversensoric, metaphysical. seems like a perfect time to write about those night-stamped peoples of norwegian music, the wolves evolving, tricksters unleashed, cold-feeted prometheuses.

no wonder i felt this irresistible undercurrent two days ago and started writing my master thesis. it took me so long to sit down and get started but then i suddenly rediscovered how passionating it is.

so time to shift forms for the night, change to sonic existence.
imaginary steps into and out of the darkness.

turn off the lamps to decode the enigma.

~ darker side of the moon ~

2010-10-29T02:14:00.001+02:00

what is it that makes night so appealing?

i should be long asleep by now. instead - i'm feeling.
reflecting the shadows on the walls. chat noir on the poster above. music on.
something's gone wrong with my lung today, it still hurts when i breathe.
i don't know how things happen to me. they just do.

and it's not that i don't like daytime, only that -

sunrise comes too soon

~ of how seeds change the world ~

2010-10-17T23:45:00.003+02:00

can't help seeing wonders glisten in the most pedestrian greybits.
why wouldn't a rainbow start in a puddle?

~ accidental babies ~

2010-10-17T00:52:00.002+02:00

i remember when i walked along the river last week and sang because it was the only way to keep the thoughts out of my head.

and if you hate me, hate me, hate me

i remember when i walked a few days ago in sofiehem and gimonäs looking for a house, sang a song that loosened the cord so that i could breathe freely.
it got dark and freezing cold, but kept on wandering around, determined to find what i was looking for. well... i failed, stopped now and then to take some photos, then got completely lost. luckily, the way back home was finally found, yet the woods, road, deserted paths, night and chilly needles did their job. i felt alone. truly, naturally alone.

then hate me so good that you can let me out

how singing always helps out.
how music always is.

and how good it is sometimes to jump and land on the ground just to feel it under the feet.

~ fishbowl ~

2010-10-11T01:43:00.001+02:00

and some music soft in distant sails
but it don't sound like it did before

nobody needs to know what this picture is about.when everything we felt failed. song for a blue guitar.

your relationship with _ will be cancelled upon saving

the peak of cruelty. i froze when i read it, such a ruthlessly depersonalized welcome to the machine. is this what we've become? no, i don't really believe it. i'm just having a few hours of being dramatic.
i don't like myself tonight, my head is blank, i feel heartless, lost. and i don't know what to do, what to think, why i'm sitting in front of this computer, why i'm listening to this song, all over again why i'm writing this. what's there to see. what should i play to make myself calm.

~ sunflowers aloud ~

2010-10-09T02:14:00.004+02:00

today the world was smiling at me.
and i smiled back everytime.

i removed some private parts from this picture. it has a story but i'm not sure if it's a happy one.
so let's skip it. for today.
let's smile at the night.

~ i love my brother ~

2010-09-30T23:58:00.002+02:00

and today is his birthday. kiss.

if you didn't care what happened to me
and i didn't care for you
we would
zig zag our way~

~ i got scared of my own shadow tonight ~

2010-09-28T22:54:00.002+02:00

thought it happens only in movies but... it's just my specialty, isn't it.

threatened by shadows at night
and exposed in the light
shine on you crazy

i remember taking this photo. it happened during one of those long midnight walks of mine. one overconscious step after another, a narrow lane after a narrow lane ringing in the essence of something deeply anticipated. calling. got this vision and just couldn't resist.

and when you finally meet the answer - only thereafter you can form the question - carve the question mark - and then straighten it gently to tie your hair.

then move on to find a dirty rim on your way. take it home.
scrap is only a definition.

well i wore out my welcome
with random precision

ride on the steel breeze.

~ i never wandered down this road, i swear ~

2010-09-28T01:08:00.003+02:00

to you i am a stranger
always a phone call or letter away
from another letdown

and this is how reception of music can cause a blog-overflow. hey, it's me again. it's just inevitable when i'm up here with no nightwalk partners to share my nightly reflective tracks. ---
--- and i had to make a break to write a chapter for the novel i'm trying to materialize out of my mindmazes. and yet this rasmus kellerman song appearing exactly tonight. right when i've finished de mello's book touching a similar topic and having a bunch occupying thoughts around it. this day seems to be pretty much destined to pass under the sign of wondering around who we are to each other, how we exist in time, what our relations are in the depersonalized societies, cyber identities, imaginary lives of today.
and do we exist without our names? consider it carefully, it's not that obvious. can you say you know a person not knowing their real name?
how can one not feel lonely in a world of this kind?

further. what's communication about? in the flesh. i get this impression we no longer communicate who we are but who others want us to be, who would make them happy, who would make them like us, love us, make us feel better and belonging somewhere. is this communication based on projections of beings? if so, it would mean we communicate our coats, leaving the soft, warm body underneath undiscovered. we make it sleep, become a semi-existing life and let the fancy outer shell play the part. how is it to be worn by the clothes you chose yourself and paid for them?

hello you flicker on the other side of the screen. who's playing alice tonight? what will you give me? your hand or your glove?

~ raindrop calamities ~

2010-09-25T00:25:00.004+02:00

i'm facing the street lamp outside my window right now. its light is seeping through the shutters and tiny prisms of rain are glittering with oddly white hue.

it's good here. harmony is still to be regained but otherwise... it's good. only when i sit down for a while and let my thoughts and emotions float unoccupied i can't resist this feeling that always lurks in silence when i'm far away from home.

maybe it's my imagination. maybe this feeling of semi-existence in a shadow-like or a wind-like state is just an indicator of my oversensitivity. but what if i simply need to touch people? hug, and cuddle, pat, caress, do stuff with hair or just sit close to someone, lean on a being with a beating heart and a radiant soul. what if i find it hard to live without those moments when my thoughts melt with someone else's, when i feel we're both roaming in a very intimate and vulnerable area. a soft place where people can be truly themselves and - truly with others.

leave me out with the waste
this is not what I do
it's the wrong kind of place
to be thinking of you

it's the wrong time
for somebody new
it's a small crime
and I've got no excuse

damien rice's embracing voice in the speakers kinda makes it only more vivid. the people i've met here so far are warm and open so i can easily regard myself as lucky. the but here is that it's not the idea because i'm the one who can't live on without touching. when the post-arrival dizziness and enthusiasm have passed, the longing for a true together-being is settling in and preparing to turn me into a spiritually transparent, ontologically unconfirmed passer-by.
longing for the essence. for instead of a ribbon around my wrist, i'd prefer some true blood in my veins.

give my gun away when it's loaded

~ julia dream ~

2010-09-24T01:08:00.004+02:00

picking nightberries. thinking about this whatever-film i've watched some time ago., there was this thoughtstream: it wasn't so hard to cross that street after all... it all depends on who's waiting for you on the other side. back then i found it beautiful. now - cowardly. if you leave, leave a person. only not leave for a person. it's just an easy, secure exchange. not any choice, just opportunism.

i have changed the numbers on my watch,
and now perhaps something else will change.
now perhaps
at precisely 2a.m.
you will not get up
and gathering your things together
go forever.
perhaps now you will find it is
far too early to go,
or far too late,
and stay forever

brian patten

~ cognition in the red ~

2010-09-15T11:02:00.015+02:00

so dear rain is here again and the books are piling up to the ceiling when my attention hover somewhere around the thought - i need to paint now. i've just got this kick and the vividity of imagination, all necessary feelings in my fingers to paint. not play the guitar, not scribble on the tablet (which i didn't take with me here anyway), nor shoot photos, write the novel in my head.

i need to paint because it's fall and fall is when my spirit and imagination live most intensively. and i need to paint because it's swedish fall. short, condensed, beautiful. but fleeting.
and i somewhat miss the smell of paint and garnish, stained fingers.

the meditation over the flat, linen surface. unleashing all the impressions, emotions, thoughts i've taken in. it's unnatural to accumulate them inside. there's something that wants out.

my mind is working, my hands are resting.
action!

~ a charade ~

2010-09-11T14:12:00.005+02:00

viva psychedelia!

time has accelerated and the winds seem to spin instead of the usual gusts. good energy and candles, orange rags on the window.
and the psyhand's owner visiting.

in my cultural analysis handbook i've found a passage on the role of different human senses in the cognitive processes. touch was placed at the grey end in the ranking of importance.
why.
i mean, not much of a novelty but - what does it say about us? why sight and hearing, the easier and the most obvious ones? the ones that don't really require any closeness.
what about all this safety? isn't it just an illusion? aren't we close to the source of today's overwhelming loneliness, worldwide confusion in the impression of non-existence and floating?
why not stop using different objects without ever noticing their presence and nature, facture, temperature, weight, form, feelings they evoke?

why not use our hands and feet to live?

~ lucipher: reinvented ~

2010-08-28T01:28:00.004+02:00

if an angel falls in a forest and nobody has seen him
does he make a sound?

in the north again, rain devours almost all my thoughts.

~ these cinnamons ~

2010-05-21T11:26:00.003+02:00

dreamers of living pictures.

~ traktat o hawajach ~

2010-05-15T17:22:00.001+02:00

anioł tkwi w szczególe.

~ dżuma ~

2010-04-13T00:52:00.000+02:00

geje nieukołysani
lesbijki w twarz bite
trans tłuczeni

choć polityce w poezji: NIE
mówię, wyrwę uszy każdemu
kto powie, że o polityce to

gdy o człowieku
o zbrodni na duszy
o nożycach w sercu
krzyczę

bo muszę
bo dzieje się błoto
lawa brudna

zaraza w świecie miłości

geje nieukołysani
lesbijki w twarz bite
trans tłuczeni
nożyce w sercu

gdy o człowieku
gdy o miłości
łamię palce o klawisze

dziś łkołysanki na linii g.-o.
zło, które ścina.
wszystko.

~ kawa z deszczem ~

2010-04-08T00:07:00.005+02:00

.pogłos

~ not saved ~

2010-02-10T23:59:00.004+01:00

the blinding white
so far behind
i am
and running
over idle ground

danced with wolves.

the dark is rising.

~ trust in ~

2010-02-04T01:05:00.004+01:00

it's not about falling in love.
it's about the moment of recognition.

trust

do.

~ than the dark ~

2010-01-25T21:42:00.006+01:00

FUCKIN' HEAVEN TO KINGDOM COME

~ by human law ~

2009-12-25T10:24:00.003+01:00

kiedy cię spotkam, co ci powiem
że byłaś światłem moim bogiem
że szmat już drogi przemierzyłem
i byłaś wszędzie tam gdzie byłem
odległą gwiazdą w sztolni nocy
zachodem słońca, snem proroczym
przestrzenią serca, której strzegłem
jak oka w głowie, dla tej jednej,
mądrej i pięknej ludzkim prawem

ave.

kiedy cię spotkam, czy ukryję
wszystkie kobiety, których byłem
pacjentem, uczniem, profesorem
żal nie na miejscu i nie w porę
jak mogło być a jak nie było,
że wszystko na nic - tylko miłość
na wieki wieków i że żaden
człowiek nie był mi tak potrzebny

ave.

kiedy cię spotkam, jak mam spojrzeć
żebyś nie mogła w oczach dojrzeć
starego głodu, którym hojnie
obdarowałem tyle spojrzeń
blasku księżyca, który każe
od ścian odbijać się, od marzeń
do zjawy twej wyciągać ręce
w śniegu pościeli pisać wiersze
szkłem ryte skrycie tatuaże

ave.

ijaniemogę niepotrafię prawieniedajęrady - okamgnieniu, kiedy serce oszalałe bije i - na ułamek sekundy staje, by ustąpić swój skrawek ciszy - obłędowi czucia.
i dreszcze.
dreszcze

~ when poets dreamed of angels ~

2009-12-24T01:03:00.002+01:00

how it is to have nice dreams?

~ set the controls ~

2009-12-21T02:14:00.011+01:00

train back home.
shaky.
cold.

i like playing guitar very softly, on the threshold of audibility. and singing to its tones, it sounds beautifully at night. playing lullabies to myself - a bit insane. and then - almost falling asleep. oddly enough, i find more rest and relief in these moments than in a dream.

leaning over the angle between guitar body and neck, when you smell the timber and feel it glide under your fingertips - it's almost like singing somebody to the ear. as if there wasn't only echo in the room. as if there was a breath.

it is strange that you do not remember
any of your poetry, william blake.

~ limbo ~

2009-12-17T23:55:00.001+01:00

excess of sorrow laughs. excess of joy weeps.

now, william
watch
footprints cold

there is much to be denied

~ nutshell ~

2009-12-12T21:43:00.005+01:00

television is sorry

standing with one foot in the past and the other one in the future. can't find myself in the now. the rejection is returned.

if ever - i can find myself only in the running while. in the short, fleeting moments. like the ones that distinguish a true smile and a false one. in them there is everything.

and yet i find
and yet i find
repeating in my head -

~ deeprooted ~

2009-12-08T22:05:00.007+01:00

ladies and gentlemen, i have the great pleasure to introduce...
dj CLAUS aka SANTA!

no christmas this year, santa's on jamaica

no, i don't do drugs.
i do julpyssel ;)

light my voice

~ østenfor sol ~

2009-12-06T20:32:00.006+01:00

og vestenfor måne

kveldssanger cradling.
they are the music i missed walking to the university that silvery morning. all the whiteness on the madrass - it's frost.

the wanderer
must love all seasons

dit kommer du sent eller aldri

~ having smarter babies ~

2009-12-01T23:55:00.005+01:00

all is full of love
you have to trust it

a bright evening after a long row of insane ones
a moment of lightness
till i don't realize it's only alcohol

honey, it's only alcohol
that's how it works

~ if i could drive i'd be --- already ~

2009-11-29T15:48:00.010+01:00

oh, you'd

never imagine

these are options for desperation

~ false sunrise ~

2009-11-23T23:43:00.006+01:00

this evening i've been walking oliwa's narrow streets.
darkness. stillness. leafless trees. glittering pavements. black cat. rain.

face your fears and pierce the night

i was singing katatonia and david sylvian. then pink floyd.
soon i've realized. i looked around.
nobody.

no one living like in cortazar's novels. nobody wandering those alleys at night. just me. and the wind.
overwhelming loneliness and longing.
raindrops on my lips. and a smile. this strange one.

everytime i passed a lightlime, or a tree, i got this urge to embrace it, have a rest. at last. a utopia of laying down the weapons. a bliss of closing eyes, off guard. this lightness.
unreachable.

i let the eyelids fall cause it's another false sunrise - i feel the warmth but i can't see the light. or the other way round.

so... so you think you can tell

~ it hurts ~

2009-11-18T21:07:00.005+01:00

it's all part of the freak show

~ it is not sound ~

2009-11-17T00:30:00.004+01:00

an illuminative, hypercreative night resulted in changing the topis of my master thesis that i've been preparing for almost two years. no saami.
ulver is the new day.

and there was darkness in the heart of light.
and there was light in the heart of darkness.

a promise
of a lifetime

never recorded

~ like music ~

2009-11-16T18:30:00.005+01:00

there's a blind violinist living beneath my parents' new flat
i always wonder
if my awkward musical attempts torment him much

i want you to tell me who you are
in your dreams
who's there
is it beautiful?

~ antimatter ~

2009-11-10T23:40:00.011+01:00

third hour of sitting at my desk, stirring at these candles and listening to one track only. entranced. sinking deeper into myself.
sounds' fingers make my heart shiver, grasp it then and squeeze till there's not a single drop of blood left inside.

and then it starts beating again
bleeding again
living again

the sun is far away