~ 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.

~ empty glass of milk ~

not much following the brush or pencil lately, but definitely following the eyes.
as they meet the floor, the Infanticidess rises.

to recycle a pure value from the dust of a generation. to liberate it from the purgatory of the past dates. through an act of violence on the liminal grounds - let them speak. let them settle. the eyes, the hands, the lashes. let them reach the completion through dismemberment. the moment when killing becomes a dawn of a new life. does it ring a bell?
be so or not - see you soon in my new vision, have a foretaste. and until then -

remember, hardy tin soldier

damaged people are dangerous

they know they can survive

hear
the inevitability of locks and zippers

the sound of future dragged behind

~ the last border ~

how come the most shady minds are the most free ones as well?

can it be that stars breathe darkness for life, sun being the greatest of them?

it is silent here now, but i am not mute.

this non-utterance is just a space preparing for all that will fill it up.

soon. the crow is hovering. it sees.

the lion walks upon the grass.

~ gone to earth ~

the air kept on pulsing with om and the square became still. people who were talking loudly a few minutes ago, passer-bies, the ones sitting around and chatting - went still and observed. when i opened my eyes a few times, some faces were lit-up and smiling. peaceful.

the sun played with hair and knees in the circle, with toes, ankles and the corners of our lips. the light inhaled with harmonized breaths. lately i feel like persephone wandering earth's surface, the smallest thing makes me smile, or nothing, like today. in my head there is this picture from my hometown, a place where i used to go - two old railway viaducts and the stairs inbetween. leading up, bringing down. 

my pupils are clear now and my heart is beating, even if in a different way. there are oxygen particles circling in my veins and i feel them dance, their colour is glow. i love wherever i am. back to the state of vision. held and carried by the water.

rest in your arms. breath in your heart. the healing place.

~ hungry ghosts ~

wandering moonburnt

i'll cover you in my own coat

my windy red coat

dear barren tree

~ you'll pay in soul ~

i feel my nails grow

longer than your skin can hold

~ blades that cut, hands that reap ~

peel

~ secret daughters of europe ~

materia in transit

souls in transit

you can't always make it pretty

a mouse trap, eyes of a murdered doll, old keys

what doesn't fit together of itself

can fit perfectly in a hand

memory lost

bars mean no security

are frontiers

spill the parts, gravity is beautiful

recompose

~ our first names: angelene ~

there was one crooked street

and two crooked girls

crowned with countless shadows

putas baratas!

shouted two cycling brazilians right into our faces that night

unaware of that by doing so they had made us the happiest girls in the world. we laughed to the sky, recognized. 

and now, in a few days' time, a minute to 2012, drinking black rum on the roof of the opera house, breaking glasses against the houses of oslo, branding the humanless streets - two pirates. carry shadows for parrots.

two corsairs. and a tune wafting after the waves of their coats:

do not look back

do not look back

~ then came the rain ~

don't want to start any blasphemous rumours

but i think that god's got a sick sense of humour

a question: 

why do i always turn blakian at the break of winter
end up thinking of lions and black birds high up in the sky
this time: of a lion and a black bird high up in the sky

a feeling:

 the chess-pieces are moving
where to?

and this fox? september fox of oslo. september fox of paris that looked just like me.

a me that knows not. with eyes wide open recognizing no shapes, knowing nothing, just like a child. only i can't look like a child does anymore - i'm not a tabula rasa, i'm a palimpsest. a one that recreates itself, and each time, even if it becomes a new sheet ready to be written on, it gets heavier. by the ink it has contained, by the number of recompositions, by the crash of bonds broken. i feel like i'm on my way under a printing press. in a way i really want it. i wonder if only girls can be this self-destructive. 

so, flicker, this page is not clear - it's only empty.
flicker -

when i die i expect to find him laughing

~ vollmond ~

this is too close, far too close


are you afraid?

are you scared?

if you are not, look again

and deeper, focus

now, you see?

which way will the sunflower turn surrounded by millions of suns

are you scared?

if not, you should be

if yes, be brave

which way will the blindgirl turn surrounded by millions of eclipses

~ east? east is everywhere, indeed ~

a cloudy sky over umeå that hadn't yet known

i am the woman dancing to the post-punk band in der himmel über berlin, i am her voice, i am her everything, i am. she worked in a circus, i live in one.
and still i don't believe her when she's dancing. it's because she knows she's beautiful, she's thinking about it - the only difference between us. i never do, i only am, the most, when i dance. and dance is water, you must not think then. to think is to drive a rock across its stream.

dear bresson. if art lies in suggestion, is this the reason why happiness doesn't belong there?

es gibt noch andere sonnen, als die oben am himmel

~ i mean you ~

and each time i will come

each time i'll be another

a sinner, a saint

your enemy, brother

the rush of freedom when a perceived part of you, a deeply true one gets expressed for the very first time - a thrill from the depths of an ocean reaching the surface, rucking it up, revealing its inner movement, released with an unheard sound.

whatever the face, its expression is constantly beautiful as reflecting the deepest truth.

it's an ascending shiver.

the wodnica who has finally found her way out to the surface

through the channels of ritual photography

will she sing?

~ 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?

~ cat end ~

sing me back home

wherever it is. i've felt september already in august and now it has finally come. the reminiscences of this found in a forgotten corner of this place:

the foretaste of autumn. rainy saturnalia, sparks reflected in the blackness of pavement. fall undertows, movements in my soul that i was waiting for the whole summer. the saturated static, the excitement. it's not even september but the rain moves me to the callendar future.

and the future is now. yes, jane rose. it calls for paris and tomorrow paris will be now.

moved out and in once more. found a lost cat on one of the walls, all about my latest nights in a city where i don't feel safe.

caw caw, mjau. i'm getting ill and everything shifts ridiculously from blur to high contrast in a short while. and then again.

cry for laconism, girl!

and don't mumble to yourself in public ever again.

especially not in written form.

~ of patti and .w ~

why do they say he's mad? he has faith

- i've heard in a great movie contemplating the nature of madness, madonnas, light and rain. a relation that nurtured me for a long time and now i somehow lost my interest in things this relative. after all, i've never seen a person getting healthy only by hearing the diagnosis.
and after all, quoting the same motion picture, it is the so called healthy who brought this world to the verge of ruin.
still, so many miracles hiding in the cracks, like this photo that kind of leads me for a few months and that i've finally succeeded to paraphrase. so -

follow the piper of hamelin

~ promise and the monster ~

you're playing very strange music,
can you switch to something more pop?

i heard the other day. well, guess that's who i am.

yesterday i watched yoko's father putting potatoes from his bowl to hers after a long period of silence. this simple form of the deepest love in the age of miscommunication moved me so much.
tonight i dreamt of an old laundry room and a spirit of a dead man embracing and warming.
today i woke up under a leaden sky. i smell november. we're walking through flea markets and our shelves are only getting weirder.

off to nowhere

like we needed a future

~ through a lens, darkly~

when i light the candle and get into the water
they pull me out

on thursday night i joined a ritual of lenses led by a french adept of oddity who gives his heart away for a beauty of the most unique kind. looking into the lenses from 1920's, celebrating the birth of a single photography and presence of an antique eye - i touched the art of captured pictures in its most poignant essence.
singular. sounding. meditative. focused.
a concerto for percussion of time and camera parts.

they pull me out
they shout: "you are mad!"
understand?

no, and i never will. you won't either.
we walk in red, right into the dawn.

~ transit oddity ~

do i come from age that wasn't
do i belong to age that will never be

i'm living on. waiting for water to have taste again.
wandering around oslo in search for signs. found one in a twisted antique shop today - a half face of a man who sold the world, now he watches over me from my own wall.
somehow, it corresponds with the latest days when i walk around and recognize nothing. i've lost my comprehension of this world. living with a cruel insight that if people are apart, it's often not because they don't love each other but because they are on different levels of existence.

but we are all lifts
here, to balance and launch each other

so why not?
why deny the absolute for movable things?

~ aura ~

Consuelo, le démon aussi était un ange, avant -

i have this feeling

that inbetween, there were those mirror people, reflecting both god and the devil, scar and flawlessness. that heaven as well as hell hang agaze admiring themselves in the mirror dividing their grounds. and that this mirror is earth.