~ 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

~ repeatedly inside of me ~

do you know the raindrops pearling on the windowpane

when the weather is changing so quickly that they become

a filter for a perfectly blue sky. can you remember

these thirsty winter walks when you are waiting

for the rain to come back. the prime sign of things changing

the glow of the first warm shower

do you know the sound of strings when you stroke them with fingers

still soft from rain

~ 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.

~ because the night ~

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 ~

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

~ flash-never-back calac & polanco ~

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.

~ i read in these ash signs - ~

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

_

a space taken from someone's love confession



wide awake

~ visual spells ~

"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.

~ catkins on the wing ~

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.

~ tangerine dream ~

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.

~ nordtatt: et eeventyr i et halvkapitel ~

inappropriate? it's just a matter of definition.

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

~ darker side of the moon ~

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

~ accidental babies ~

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 ~

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 ~

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 got scared of my own shadow tonight ~

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 ~

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 ~

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