~ 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

~ serenade for the renegade ~

 

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

~ are you shivering yet? ~

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?

~ a l'envers a l'endroit ~

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

~ 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.