Friday, August 17, 2012

all about the kettle

The kettle was noisy in the background. It was ready to eject its little emergency feet (they all have them) and run off from the burning stove spiral.
The floor under our knees was getting warmer.

The kettle was almost at the point of suicide, but us two, we were at the point of forgetting our parents and we would have if that puzzle did not guarantee to be completed some time in the future. I do not even own a kettle, so that one was imaginary anyway, so do not judge us for being bad parents to our kettles or anything. We are coffee drinkers anyway. And that coffee shop franchise was having a lottery: you could win a glorious pile of stuff if you lucked out and got the cup that had a golden ticket under its rim. So we were buying those coffee cups at that time and rolling up the rims, like mad, believing, never losing faith, waiting, waiting, being unreasonable, waiting...

Tomorrow morning we will have to fly across the completed part over to the opposite end and try to finish the whole thing.

I am hoping the house is not too offended by us being so negligent. After all, we simply let it be. We let it collect its own stories in tiny pieces of dust and puffy crumbs of lint.

daisies ladies

skin thin to touch feels like yours cold and thin
now i know what pills you were on
thin and cold snaky beauty
crumbs on pajamas
liters of coffee to kill cravings
takes fighting day and night to make such a good thing die
liters of coffee
and milk
and wooden mixing sticks
water glass
take the pills
easy and quizy like a daisy
recover from leucaemic nightmares
appear healthy
thin skin like yours thin pain painted thin mattress on the floor

orange marmalade
bags of childhood
crystals of sugar
walking home from ballet lessons
frosty evenings
crowds of rosy cheeks

familiarity and calmness
close to the ground
everything will be all right

stainless steel water can shiny
outdoors outside of the dorrs in the yard
dirty but shiny
country place, strawberries, crows, bike down narrow paths
far away in the dreamland me and Ulya, far away the paths made just for us

leg warmers for dancing
traveling on the bus
shopping with the girls
funny, FUNNY, bursting with laughter
faith and ambition
loving each other
jumping like children, knowing it is for the best to stay children
although far from being children
Danish food
beautiful Danes, horns on our heads

back to daisies

"I like clowns," the clown said, "All my friends are clowns."
I looked around, there was nothing but the desert and the sky. Nothing but dark orange and gloomy navy. There is reason in everything, and so there was a reason for a bus stop to have been placed right there, in the middle of the dry cracked flatness. A girl-clown and two boy-clowns were at the bus stop waiting. Every now and then the sound of applause came pouring forth out of the air, and the three clowns cordially thanked the surroundings. One of the boys always yelled "Thanks for coming late!" Half-offended and half-loving.

I gently invited the memory of the clowns from my childhood. They took the position together with their circus. They never came without the circus. The magnificent Moscow Circus was their only territory as my memory holds it. They were fantastically funny and screwy, and, as I remember, always the best part of any program for me, but the smell of their make up used to be so strong and repelling, that, sadly, my amazement was always cancelled by disgust.

"Yeah, I like clowns too," I lied, for the reason that there is always a potential.

If theatre is not physical, there is hardly any aesthetic wonder in it for me any more. It is easy to flick the switch of preferences, when by default they are all classical. Creative predators make your classical setup a desirable target. They throw themselves at you from every curtain, trying to convert you their way. They appeal to you effortlessly.

There is reason in everything, and so there was a reason for the bus stop with the clowns to emerge out of nowhere in the middle of Mojave. They will always be waiting for the bus, and the boy-clown will always yell "Thanks for coming late!" I will always say, "I like clowns too," and there will always be a confusion as to what my relationship with clowns really is.

In contrast, what has not happened yet possesses tremendous power to be changed, to be modified, and to reemerge in your dreamscape in as many different disguises as you have time for. "I like clowns too, let's have some coffee," you can say, never retrieving the armies of memories about clowns at all. But you can also say: "I like clowns too. Back in my childhood there were so many of them, performing exclusively as a part of a circus program, they were fantastic. And I never liked seeing poor animals being forced to do merciless stunts anyway. I only came to circus for the clowns. I only talked about them when adults asked what I had seen."

You can say: "Oh, I am completely free now and will follow you to your next planet, so where is the spaceship, will I turn into eggs and fibers as soon as we cross the Earth orbit, let's go, let's do it, for I am excited, so what should I pack" Or, conversely, you can say: "What are you expecting, you are such a clown and your make up stinks, and I am classically trained, and the only reason for you to be here is to make me laugh." Or you can just say: "If I can kiss you now, I will kiss you again and again, until I don't know where you end and I begin." and all the various optional ways and complications...
some days.
A monstrous ocean comes after you with a single wave, roaring itself hoarse, violent and icy. It never reaches you entirely, it never invades you all the way. Even though it keeps moving closer, you never move away. You are paralyzed by terror and anticipation. Somehow you know: if ever this wave actually covers you, it would not trample you completely. Instead, it would push you into tunnels of everlasting energy. You would lose the ability to rest.
Your apprehension of the threat from this ugly ocean, it covers you with its power and inevitability. Some days the wave is colder than other days. It is icier and longer lasting. Its presence is global and non-climatic.

I want to stop remembering. crazier. icier. colder. breatharrest. I am not tired. I cannot (will not) rest.

and then you throw yourself into searches. and then you push yourself off the ground over and over and over. watching with your heart through the closed eyelids. open the eyelids. shut them open. nothing changes. icy water dripping from your eyelashes. dry sand, ocean foam, and blood around your mouth. sickness to your vegetarian stomach. the sky darkens.

and then I throw myself back into searches.

anything. one word. one word. and then oh look here it is I see it how incredible. steam all over my insides. hot and burning. it kills me. as anything would if there is too much of it after nothing at all. a loaf of bread would kill you if you starved for weeks. one word kills me over and over.

I should never come back searching. so I will not.

And I never do.
not until the next time


"You are like a microwave," I say, into space, and "You melt me with warmth progressing into heat from the inside to the outside."
"If you were a dish you'd be a spicy Mexican," I say, and "If you were a dish, you'd be something 100% organic, without any additives, and naturally sweet."

"If you were to point me in the right direction, which way would you point?"

Miscalculated twist due to apathic unconversion of the grumpy mornings.

a miracles curfew impending like a wake up alarm.

when you are hurting and I am hurting, to tackle the curtain of the obvious is ...

a stick of celery after a creamy latte

we made it up

Olympics season

There are seven incarnations (and six correlates) necessary to becoming an Artist: 1. Explorer (Courage) 2. Surveyor (Vision) 3. Miner (Experience) 4. Refiner (Patience) 5. Designer (Intelligence) 6. Maker (Experience) 7. Artist.
First, you must leave the safety of your home and go into the dangers of the world, whether to an actual territory or some unexamined aspect of the psyche. This is what is meant by 'Explorer'.
Next, you must have the vision to recognize your destination once you arrive there. Note that a destination may sometimes also be the journey. This is what is meant by 'Surveyor'.
Third, you must be strong enough to dig up facts, follow veins of history, unearth telling details. This is what is meant by 'Miner'.
Forth, you must have the patience to winnow and process your material into something rare. This may take months or even years. And this is what is meant by 'Refiner'.
Fifth, you must use your intellect to conceive of your material as something meaning more than its origins. This is what is meant by 'Designer'.
Six, you must fashion a work independent of anything that has gone before it including yourself. This is accomplished through experience and what is meant by 'Maker'.
At this stage, the work is acceptable. You will be fortunate to have progressed so far. It is unlikely, however, that you will go any farther. Most do not. But let us assume you are exceptional. Let us assume you are rare. What then does it mean to reach the final incarnation? Only this: at every stage, from 1 through 6, you will risk more, see more, gather more, process more, fashion more, consider more, love more, suffer more, imagine more and in the end know why less means more and leave what doesn't and keep what implies and create what matters. This is what is meant by 'Artist'.

[you know where this is from]
less means more
luge is sled when you do it with the Vikings in the Slagen countryside near the Oslo Fjord

heartquickening, hunger-confidence, 'no choice in overabusing our hardworking feet [but letting them rest and consequently having to reduce plate sizes is a decision]', it is atypical and abnormal but the way I see it, it rains harder under trees even though they filter and catch on leaves, the majority of time there is no rain and then wind shakes them tree branches to assure us that wind too can cause rain:

it rains harder under trees the way I see it


there is a crack on the palm of my hand, again. sometimes there is so much feeling you want to bend the truth in half. and then you do. and then it's all just fucked

I miss that tiny room with a wide opening underneath the door, with a mattress on the floor, a black-and-white screen and food in bed. I hurt missing it. Just me and my roommates and every little hurting crawl out of my eyes wasting other souls.

That is what I want.