I missed my flight, arrived too late from Aberdeen. Waiting to go to Stuttgart. Good to read T.S.Eliot in the net. Good to have a credit card.
Mildly good to enjoy the luxury of boredom for some rare hours. I can't complain.
When I close my eyes I see these other eyes. I see the falcon losing its tracks in the wide and high skies over the Kasakh steppes, far away hills rolling under distant clouds, smoke from fireplaces rising in fading spirals. I hear the cry of the falcon, the murmuring swell of the long grass, and I feel the clear water cool on my forehead as it flows towards me out of your eyes.
I close mine, and I let go.
I have never been to Kazakhstan.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
T.S.Eliot, "East Coker"
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
My last post from Aberdeen, today from Fraserburgh, Scotland,UK.
To give you a push forward!
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.
My last post from Aberdeen, today from Fraserburgh, Scotland,UK.
To give you a push forward!
Saturday, July 28, 2007
In our rhythm
In our rhythm of daily life we tire of light. We are glad when the day ends, when the play ends; and ecstasy is too much pain.
We are children quickly tired: children who are up in the night and fall asleep as the rocket is fired; and the day is long for work and play.
We tire of distraction or concentration, we sleep and are glad to sleep,
Controlled by the rhythm of blood and the day and the night and the seasons.
And we must extinguish the candle, put out the light and relight it;
forever must quench, forever relight the flame.
T.S. Eliot
(Choruses from "The Rock")
We are children quickly tired: children who are up in the night and fall asleep as the rocket is fired; and the day is long for work and play.
We tire of distraction or concentration, we sleep and are glad to sleep,
Controlled by the rhythm of blood and the day and the night and the seasons.
And we must extinguish the candle, put out the light and relight it;
forever must quench, forever relight the flame.
T.S. Eliot
(Choruses from "The Rock")
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Monday, July 9, 2007
Monday, July 2, 2007
Dear Mr. van Gogh
Es ist kein Platz für Menschen auf der Erde. Sie machen zu viel Scheiß.
Jeder Tag ist ein Überraschungsei.
Dear Mr. Beethoven!
I cannot call you Ludwig, I am sorry, but our relationship is difficult as you know. I listen to you and you cannot hear my words. Today I am trying to see if you are fit for any words at all. You see, Mr. Vincent wanted to cut off his other ear today!
He does not listen. His only interest is to see what he wants to see. I followed him for a bit through a kind of revolving glass door . He kept going as if he knew where his way would lead to. He didn’t stop for one moment. I think he found it more than just hard to look around and see what I could see. But then, this goes for the other way round too.
And you? Though you are deaf and unwilling, you listen to your own music and you are probably as blind as Mr. Vincent. I am sorry to tell you. Now, don’t get that mad at me. You are throwing things again, no, not this glass please. Now look, all these shards here.
It is difficult. You know about all these magic tools of perception but you run away, spiralling out inside your inner universe. Don’t you realise that it is connected to mine whether you like it or not?
Seriously, you are one bit of a hot and noisy hellbender!
I’ll better approach you tomorrow again.
Dear Mr. Vincent!
Look if you don’t listen. Mr. Beethoven is mad with me. Why are you artists such a wonky lot? I don’t know how to do this. I know you, you know? But then, I guess it doesn’t matter really. Do I bore you?
Yes I know, you cannot wait for these fucking sunflowers. I didn’t have one summer in peace. When the full moon was up in the night, yellow, sensuous, lazy and fat, I could just wait for you howling at the sky, drunk, restless and full of an insatiable desire for sunflowers. When I was lusting for women, white bodies in the night, dark and secret triangles, soft breasts and whispered promises you interrupted my longing with your shouts and with your merciless dances.
Destruction must make your autumn possible, and when spiders bridge the golden light between windows and trees you are busy to burn out the skies with sunflower-whirlwinds.
Mr. Vincent, I don’t want to criticize you. I want you to talk to me.
Jeder Tag ist ein Überraschungsei.
Dear Mr. Beethoven!
I cannot call you Ludwig, I am sorry, but our relationship is difficult as you know. I listen to you and you cannot hear my words. Today I am trying to see if you are fit for any words at all. You see, Mr. Vincent wanted to cut off his other ear today!
He does not listen. His only interest is to see what he wants to see. I followed him for a bit through a kind of revolving glass door . He kept going as if he knew where his way would lead to. He didn’t stop for one moment. I think he found it more than just hard to look around and see what I could see. But then, this goes for the other way round too.
And you? Though you are deaf and unwilling, you listen to your own music and you are probably as blind as Mr. Vincent. I am sorry to tell you. Now, don’t get that mad at me. You are throwing things again, no, not this glass please. Now look, all these shards here.
It is difficult. You know about all these magic tools of perception but you run away, spiralling out inside your inner universe. Don’t you realise that it is connected to mine whether you like it or not?
Seriously, you are one bit of a hot and noisy hellbender!
I’ll better approach you tomorrow again.
Dear Mr. Vincent!
Look if you don’t listen. Mr. Beethoven is mad with me. Why are you artists such a wonky lot? I don’t know how to do this. I know you, you know? But then, I guess it doesn’t matter really. Do I bore you?
Yes I know, you cannot wait for these fucking sunflowers. I didn’t have one summer in peace. When the full moon was up in the night, yellow, sensuous, lazy and fat, I could just wait for you howling at the sky, drunk, restless and full of an insatiable desire for sunflowers. When I was lusting for women, white bodies in the night, dark and secret triangles, soft breasts and whispered promises you interrupted my longing with your shouts and with your merciless dances.
Destruction must make your autumn possible, and when spiders bridge the golden light between windows and trees you are busy to burn out the skies with sunflower-whirlwinds.
Mr. Vincent, I don’t want to criticize you. I want you to talk to me.
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