~ you're miles away (the truth is) ~

this is the last entry on this blog. a website is being built, photos are being taken, films are being made, sculptures emerge and so do paintings. and i myself am turning into a catalyst for creation. let the focus remain set. this place has served its purpose and is no longer presentable for stages to come.

below, a school exercise. once again i bended the task to suit my inner rafts. i listen carefully but i sing in my own way.

poor mobile camera copy, but isn't it one of the charms this place has. a state of draft.

on doit pouvoir s'épanouir à tout envoyer enfin en l'air

we can. we do. if we ponder the possibility of light unobvious, that it also can creep from behind and sweep its fingers over your backhead just like darkness does. that the foreground can be, as it often is, the darkest part of the picture - and that the sight lightens with growing distance. the fairest Lucipher of Milton and Blake descending to hell. and taking it over.

if we realize the light that can be as solid as the shadow, as heavy as a nightly sky. that it, maybe, cuts as deep and swiftly as the borders of black, that it maybe swings the sharpest razors. maybe the only ones.

let my eyes tell you something you'll understand

goodbye

see you soon in some other place

.w

~ on the first day he took me to the river ~

he did so. there were far wilder flowers at its eastern bank.

just before leaving my room, i grabbed a book for a random fortune-telling. for it was the first day. the book was collected works of John Milton, lines chanting the future were:

In all his lineaments, though in his face

The glimpses of his Father's glory shine

indeed, a joyful reunion

how music snaps into my lifeline just perfectly

almost esoteric coincidences

tear the pages out
and write them faster

~ i want you to come empty-handed ~

this is the first and the last time i embed a video as the main contents. i know i usually link music because it simply always is there. this one is special. my soulscape for the coming weeks, found and granted by myself-claimed godparents. and just a few entries ago mentioning myself feeling like persephone. strange, strange synchronized now.

my mantras again

she commits blasphemy because she is a believer

and

because you Murder her, she arises Again

do you know

if you google this quote, you will get only one result: a one directing you to my blog. 

William, are we that solitary?

~ i can only pray this way ~

take my piano ------- and then take me

dust it with your only shirt

i will sleep, the black key in my hand, under the pillow
your forehead, lined
stretching into a stave
words, stretching into five lines
or more, if the scale is big enough

notes
pauses
b-flats
ties

endless

persistent

constant

here


hey.




here

~ next time, break me correctly ~

sonic pools. nobody in norway ever dances at concerts. raindrops. late night. quick morning. release, a postponed one. sneaking in with the daylight. sound of steps on a cobbled street. clouds passing through my forehead, canceling temples. a true release. when did it come? i danced at each one i attended. dance or cry, or both. cried last week, let it be motion this time. still do my crying in the rain, only lighter. listening to the song of my life because it sounds like rain and i want the sky to fall down on me and cover me with its grace, ice and air. thoughts spilling on the ground and rolling like faded indigo beads. some part of me still can't believe.

~ the stars we are ~

you have three life lines, dear

months have been passing by and there were hours when i would wonder. in those moments i would see myself as both kai and gerda. walking forward, inward, upward with a sting of ice nested in my heart, twinkling sometimes when the heart beat harder. or, as gerda, searching the ice-stung boy as far as to the core of a glacier. through any form of water, solid or steaming. constantly

then, two days ago, glimpsing at my hands after an evening with a prosaic defrosting war with a fridge - i walked and i looked, and blinked, looked again, smiled silently. in front of me there was a pair of hands cut with ice. discreetly

blood is thicker

blue of other reasons

~ chitin chord ~

snail is the poet in the hour of canaries