Our fears used to smile at us

Time doesn't matter as long as you keep it locked up in your brain. Two years or a minute are the same, they can crush your teeth or lift you at once. You always end up in pieces or with your feet above the clouds anyways. You start placing the same perfect silouhette everywhere. You start building the core of a world of changing faces.

It's been so long you say, so long. Since we ran around barefeet on summer grass. Since our knees were blue and our smiles crooked. It's been such a long time since our fears smiled at us. Since we stopped checking under the bed, and started checking inside.

We lived through captains, admirals and starship revivals in the blink of an eye. Dreams never asked for forgiveness, and every end was as open as the sea. Fears weren't for the living but for the ghosts in the trees. The end was as faraway as the horyzon in the space you could measure with words.

Some eyes are home, there are some eyes you can't help going back to, every floating second. Some eyes you find even though you're days apart. Some eyes always offer the same shade in the same shape, when the sun gets too high. Some eyes are there so you can close them and see.

Blessé means hurt, not blessed

There was a time when stone was alive, when flesh and bone were one, when nothing visible really was real. When no-one could keep track of time but ghosts, because only when life is lost you understand the cost of springtime sunshine and winter frost. 

 

Leurs yeux vides comme des boules d'ombre

Leurs têtes pleines comme des mondes de feux

 

An ancient Elephant

Made of thunder and clouds

Wanders through the sky

His track is made of doubts

A star is blinking in his eye

 

There are eyes

punches

can't turn black

 

Crushed under the beats

of your heart of stone

A beast in the shadow

Empties souls to the bone

 

If I was the night

and you were the day

I'd see your last light

You'd fade me away

 

Canvas (When colors go kanakas)

We were dancing a waltz in Abel Tasman, the sand sticking to our toes...

Winter 'til spring

In the past few days I've plunged back into book world. I really had forgotten the magic of living in two parallel worlds at the same time. The feeling of getting so involved that the braincells won't let go of the words. Anyways. It's also been a long time since I last wrote or posted anything here at all. Today I stoppedy by at Stasi's and picked up a special filmroll I've really been waiting to have developed. It was some good friends' present for my birthday. And ohw, the surprise.

Colour has a smile

I thought Matisse's ghost had accidentally vomited on the filmroll before handing it over to Andy Warhol's dead body. The colors have gone crazy. It's madnessrama, and I like it. The lines get smooth and finally melt together. A rainbow pot. Sort of art imbecìle, just quiet and lurky, with the kind of smile that a fox would have after hiding the last feathers of a chicken. Yeah.

Silly time

Time has been passing in a weird and swirly way those last few weeks. It's been hitting the doorbell nerver wanting to come in. It's been ringing and hanging up the phone on me several times without saying a word, just holding its breath. I used to observe it, now it just hides between the notes and the printed dates on my diary. Time doesn't wanna talk anymore, feelings just rush through the braincells. Weird and swirly.

Kill the pillow

I've woken up a few times with my head pounding at 1 p.m. Five or more dreams at the time, and those are just the ones I can remember. I wonder if this has something to do with the thinking. Perhaps when you have a break after a stressful time Thinking takes a vacation on Sleepy Island, making friends with the pillow and the blanket. And with all of the surprising freudian things in our brain. Do we have something to hide? Something really deep that we wouldn't even dare telling to ourselves? Sure. And all of these things just flow out through the dream, dripping on the pillow. Pillow knows your darkest secrets. Kill the pillow.

Hey stranger, sitting on a train.

I've lost count of the hours spent with an horizon dissolving behind us and appearing in the front. It's been a long time since I've become a warm bubble floating on my own, dissolving whenever I wanted to. It's a good feeling. Remembering the smells, the sounds and the colors that belong to the past. I remember every smell. The one in my grandparent's summerhouse, the one of the first perfume I bought, the smell of lego and the one of wood right before autumn came. The Cure were playing pictures of you. It had been a while since the smell of rain. I've collected images, pulses for the moments in which the heart would slow down for a moment and let this hyperactive everything float around through nerves and veins. The eyes are horizon-hungry again. But time has stopped pressing against the backside of the brain. I've got a stranger, and a train.

Retro 100

Snowy heart, minds apart. Edit the fragment, unglue the segment. Augmentation of the stations through the nation. The black smoke invades your sweet eyes so sore, its venomous smell's mass-killing dinosaurs. We are all velociraptors. Not adapters.

It's snowing cats and dogs, again. Mice are endangered.

Sometimes things look like they're speaking to you. "I'd rather cut your fingers off than have you crawling on my lawn. Just try to..."

Fragments unglued, floating on their own. In case of evacuation, use the balloon. Land on the moon. Pick up the pieces by letting them fly by.

Nature-shaped monsters stick to our brains. They wake up inside our dreams, crawl out from mouth and ears and pretend to be our fears.

It's just the Freud enterprise.

Be wise.

Recognize the truth. You've seen its profile, it's been a while crocodile.

Light does amazing things.

It really needs you to be steady, shapes your world if you're ready. What if there was a copyright on every ray of light? Argh.

No rights claimed on the soft mind bubbles. Oh, the pleasure of softness. Rr-rr, rrrr.

Glue lipstick

The heart was lying there on the floor. He could feel it from where he was sitting, even if it wasn't inside his chest. It was getting hard to breathe, but he could feel it like if it had been right underneath his skin. It was sort of shrinking, like when you get very, very immensely nostalgic. Things were running through it, he could see the butterfly waking up and leaving it behind like a used-up flower. He could feel all the words fly by like summer breeze. He stood up and walked towards it. His feet were getting lighter, the kind of cat walk you do in dreams. He slowly took the heart in his hand. It was warm and sticky, like he always had been himself. The kind of heart that doesn't slip away from your fingers easily. He squeezed it a bit, and saw the colors drip off. Small lakes started spreading on the floor around his feet. The window was open, and the fresh air was dancing around his eyelashes. He breathed in and looked down on the floor for a second. When he looked up again it was gone. He'd thrown it away. The heart was flying as fast as a spaceship towards Orion. And the ground let him go.

Hey, black cat! Where's your hat?

Cat! Where's your head at?

So, long time no nothing, had that chat before. How have you been lately? Jagger and I were discussing artistic issues the other night, and we couldn't get further than to how incredibly egoistic art is. Art in general i guess, but as film matters more to me in these exact few minutes within a lifetime, film especially, yes.

Black and Blue˙

No, wait. I did it again. It's all about myself. And although you might not believe it that wasn't the blogs purpose in the first place. I actually just wanted to shape ideas and maps that could lead to a book, a script or something. Very self-absorbed. Very stone-minded.

What?

Now that cause is lost, so why are we still here?

Golden Red˙

I guess the photography part of it started growing on me pretty fast, precisely with the first time i started wirlin' around with the olympus. Another part is, yes, yes, yes, egocentrism. You travel, you see amazing places, you hang with fantastic people, why wouldn't you want the whole world to know it? Look here, look at us! Look! Look!

Icy White˙

Is it really that bad? Yes, but. It's really freeing to. It's just mental vomit running straight from your inside into your fingers without further deep analysis. Sort of the exercise your hippie and way strange teacher would have you do in order to relax, let it go. It didn't work than, when you knew somebody could end up reading the shit. Right now, it's...Oh, it's just the same. But in a good way. Firstly, because you chose it. And the second you stop paying attention to my mind, whooom, those words are gone. Secondly, this is 2010. Right, this is neither a reason for anything or an excuse. But it's pretty damn exciting. How are you? This first month of the year has been amazing.




Twothousandandten is the year in which fourteen people and I and surely a few other millions on this planet will have to choose what to do with their lives. That's so scary and exciting that one could probably start a blog on the matter. Point is, we're all trembling and whispering and writing and wishing and half of our minds are gone! They're over there already, spread all over september, august, november. I'm wondering what to do with my leftover. Not that I have too much choice, at least if I can keep on being reasonable. But where is the other, future half?







Ooohh. One good thing with the blog is that you never need to give an answer. You can be as all-knowing and philosophical as you want and you can always end a post with a question mark. Annoying, huh? But I'm curious.

How are you?˙