~ 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

~ to all that enter here ~

staring at lightning won't keep you warm

and yet i catch the electricity in my hair so easily
so very easily

~ thousand knives ~

so that day everything was going differently than it should, not necessarily wrong - just not as imagined. left home halfway through kafka on the shore, completely unaware that it would become a part of yet another sign the very same day. i walked to the opera, picked my tickets, went out. the weather got an-hour-to-apocalypse, i breathed out and filled my lungs with relief, a kind of peace i can only find there - standing at the opera house and inhaling the sea.
the sky was leaden, a storm sure to follow very soon. the leftovers of the new york hurricane approaching oslo with a mad wind as their herald. i stood at the edge, gazed at the waves breaking against the white stone, then at my coat, The Rag, thrown in all possible directions by the insane gusts, just like my hair. that moment i realized - standing completely in black, with The Rag almost torn in the raging, cold air, surrounded by this powerful white building, for a while i've become a part of murakami's novel. the girl named crow. kafka on the shore.

crow on the shore
caw caw
kra kra
(as it would scream in polish)

as for the picture, i got totally stuck with it, the sketch lying open and abandoned on the floor day after day, mute, and my thoughts around it, numerous songs i filled it with. and then i moved out, moved in, moved out and moved in again and right away when i sat peacefully down in the sofa and played the song, it's suddenly become clear: the picture needed this apartment, its high ceiling, long windows, white floor, its all whiteness filled with just these sounds, to be finished. and so it is.

kra kra
(do you hear the rip?)

~ invite the bullets in ~

dance
exorcism through possession

i've been listening to this piece countless times. the title got in a mysterious way connected to this entry on more than a few levels. without noticing, i started dancing, completely lost in the music and everything it brought. my body has become the fifth string of her cello.

once in a while i would catch a glimpse of the hospital across the street. a few hours after oslo shooting outbreak and bombing only meters away. a few floors over the emergency centre in the hotel building.

tonight, for some beautiful minutes
i was clearly happy

the breaking strings have reached, at last
first muscles, then heart
beat

~ el pequeño caracol ~

and the little snail could no longer tell:
was it a temple or a circus

that's how everything other has become banality.
a person focused on truth would be grateful for realizing these borderlines.

i will be one day.

~ goodnight sweetheart ~

this afternoon i snuggled into my cover and lied listening to music. quite unexpectedly, i was able to listen to these two tracks, i couldn't do that since may. and now they soothe, make me unsolitary.
i remember one june night a few weeks ago in my hometown. never before have i been so scared in my life, and hopeful. a dense, sticky nightmare. but then, in the heart of an eclipse, i felt a sudden relief, a wave of overwhelming peace spreading over my body. it was like a sweeping of a hand over a soul, warm and light. i fell asleep.

today i listened to mark with my head buried in the pillow. i got this feeling the mattress moved as he sat down on the bed and watched over me, putting his hand between my shoulderblades. i still feel a kind of sweetness and i know we breathe the same air at this very moment.

maybe it should worry me that i feel such strong bonds with people who passed. and i'm still not sure who is saying that to whom:

goodnight sweetheart

~ it can't rain all the time ~

the sky won't fall forever

the last painting at ingesund. feels somewhat sentimental.
i'd watch the crow. but. there's no night here, it's soon midnight and all i see is only central-swedish blue-greyness. and. i can't cry at daytime, it evokes bad memories. well, i use to shed some tears watching the crow and have no intention of changing this state of being.

on friday i'll have my night back.

~ clothe yourself well for the wind ~

i didn't. i chose not too.
i don't want to defend myself anymore.

strange days. inspiration comes and goes. colours invade from everywhere around. the stillness is overhwhelming.
i have to leave just when i've started feeling so well here and found people i know i'll miss.

i don't care about explanations.
when leaving is a come-back and a come-back - leaving, it feels vague. i feel i'm floating. maybe because of last night's party. drifting. maybe because i pretended to be otto von bismarck. although i thought the very same thought i use to think when i'm resting my head on the pillow after a party.
my fingers glide over my skin, i'm dulled by unreality thudding down these white walls. a huge night ray descends on me. i can't move.
maybe this evening is just a headache.

i'm thinking about bridges.

we took ourselves out of our hands
we couldn't have explained
danger better

~ 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.

~ son et lumière ~

so turn off your phone and bring some sheets

so this is a place where young lovers meet

hey, i cried to this clip last night, can't stop watching it.
why do sad love stories seem so much more real than happy-ends?

i'm listening to this song, looking at that flashing mobile screen and hands. throat. but mostly hands. reading their charge.

thinking.
about soulmates i'll never meet.
because they're gone. an accidental death. a stupid underestimation. a bus someone missed. a glimpse someone misunderstood. a smile someone overlooked. a calling someone didn't hear in city's noise.
about happiness that can be cut off in a second, when one truly believes that a miracle is happening now and that nothing can go wrong. and runs with hands full and flushing cheeks just to crash his head into the asfalt ground a moment later. eyes dimmed, lips frozen halfway through a word that yet a while before had meant everything.

anger at people who don't dare to feel and do is a secondary feeling. hurt and disappointment preceed it.
i believe i'm not the only one who understands that, truly, human life is unbelievably fragile, while fortune ruling it - cruel and unpredictable. that in the blink of an eye we can lose everything that we love and that fills our reality with meaning. sometimes though i feel as if i was alone in not wasting time for cowardly excuses and stepping back.

oh, sam
oh, sam

and now i've just come to this thought -
- that death doesn't take what already belongs to her. she's not the least interested in living dead people or emotional zombies, because she already owns them. she turns her eyes towards the ones who radiate with warmth and life - the britghter light, the greater greed she feels.

it feels heavy but i remember,
world can end in a second.

~ lovers in arms ~

/first watercolour pic ever, sketch from 2006/

i've kept this single faith,

i have but one belief

sometimes turning backs to each other brings people closer together
than lips that unite.

~ unsilence ~

bridges we under the veil of night

thrown over to each other
are now torn by the dawn

two heads i bought on arvika's flea market, the ones from one of the previous entries. just painted. arionized.
day and night. the dichotomy that fascinates me and always makes me wonder.
i broke munch's moon on night's forehead and made the motive more mine. dunno if she cries with falling stars. i let it remain so.
and both marked with hour 12, the most dual hour on the clockplate. at least that's how i experience it. the brightest day and the deepest night. yet both faces are identical, only painted differently. and both have their centres in the very same hour, though completely contradictory, it's situated in the same place and described by the same word.

i'm so away today.

~ wingsdropper ~

you have an incredibly musical ear, i heard from kenneth ekornes last august.

i smiled to him through the dim redness of one of sopot's blues pubs. that means something in such mouth. thought yeah, and drowned the pinch of newcome sadness in gin&tonic.

you should be an artist, i've just heard. smiled.
oh, i should have been so many things.
life's bitch, sorry, no bonus. nothing will come to you unless you tear it out from reality, using your full strength and determination.

the picture above is my first painting done ever. first on canvas, first with brushes and paints and all this serious stuff (the photo flattened it and messed the colours a bit).
hm. came back from lunch and heard this comment on the painting:
it's so expressive, she looks as if she was trying to free herself from her wings.
a smile again. she didn't appear to me so when i was painting.
guess i chose well my secondary nickname those few years ago.

dream on,
all we need is just a little patience.