~ kafka coelenterata ~

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.

~ des armes ~

the only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable

dear french soulmate, you reach me through time. you always have.
this painting was my second one here, in ingesund. it's always seemed not right.
tonight i sat down on my bed, took small thread scissors and a dull knife. i jabbed some holes in the painting, scratched and scraped the surface. till it felt real.
it sounded as if i was stripping or tearing something, though i didn't care about what others would think i was doing. i needed it. it suited the idea of the picture. the scissors is sticked into the right corner of the canvas.

the only thing we tend to forget about halos
is that their edges are sharp like nothing in this world

dear arthur. i have a letter written to you, dated 22nd october 2004.
wish we could run out on the street together, straight into the rainy night, and fall asleep in one of those forgotten attics of paris. soaked and understood.