~ jane sparrow's tambourine ~

so… seems like there comes some massive painting sessions, got the place that i wanted. if i'm surprised? not at all, but it's nothing i could say i've expected either. it was one of these choices that are unexpectedly enlightening when they come, completely illogic when you consider them, and just perfect when you live them. once you've recognized it, you follow it.

and now, this entry is a thanksgiving one. right now i am thinking of each and every single person that believed in what i create. i abandoned drawing for many years, it was a bit like forgetting who, and more importantly - HOW, i am. you reminded me of myself. you saw what i didn't notice. you showed me that what i do matters. that it changes a day of your life, or even a minute. that you feel at home in some corners of my soul where i thought i was solitary. you were the dots that, after joining, stretched in a line that guided me.

i am where i am because of you. i love this place and no words can contain the gratitude i feel for you. this is something i will always remember, creating will be the way of giving back what i owe. with full heart.

anyway the wind blows, time to take out the hawaii shirt!

today i am Stinky dancing with the tambourine, rolling down a green hill and inviting the world to join.

~ gone to earth ~

the air kept on pulsing with om and the square became still. people who were talking loudly a few minutes ago, passer-bies, the ones sitting around and chatting - went still and observed. when i opened my eyes a few times, some faces were lit-up and smiling. peaceful.

the sun played with hair and knees in the circle, with toes, ankles and the corners of our lips. the light inhaled with harmonized breaths. lately i feel like persephone wandering earth's surface, the smallest thing makes me smile, or nothing, like today. in my head there is this picture from my hometown, a place where i used to go - two old railway viaducts and the stairs inbetween. leading up, bringing down. 

my pupils are clear now and my heart is beating, even if in a different way. there are oxygen particles circling in my veins and i feel them dance, their colour is glow. i love wherever i am. back to the state of vision. held and carried by the water.

rest in your arms. breath in your heart. the healing place.

~ manuscripts never burn, quills do ~

when your hair becomes heavy with tears

soaked and straightened to the ground

you contemplate the gravity

drinking tears from his navel

- this was the course of yesterday, steps on my return to feeling. today is the huge full moon, high above the rooftops of oslo, antennas, i watch it. i sing about the sun and know somewhere on earth it is true, above the grey sky. it's beautifully dark blue here so - still singing - i wonder:

if the full moon makes people act crazy

what does it do with madmen

because i feel a strange peace

the only thing i cannot figure is
if it's the one of a seventy-year-old
or
the one of a newborn

~ linoleum floors ~

my camera is dead so i cannot submit any new work even though there are some.

my room is cold and its lighting is poor so i draw only in my bathroom.

the tiles are white and so is the shower curtain.

the strip lights ally with the floor level and make me feel like in a mental institution. or a movie. i hear my pencil scraping the surface. snowflakes behind the window, a wall ahead, surely make a sound too.

warm, seeing and superwhite in the deep night.

whatever you think, the floor marks your body. ascention?

polyvinyl chloride reminding me of where i am not.

~ then came the rain ~

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