an arists' refuge

You make me sweat...

2009-11-23T17:18:00.003-05:00

I was right...

Your lips were soft as the moved from my mouth to my neck...

The drove me insane with pleasure as you let them go as they pleased.

I was right...

Your body felt good in my hands...

It felt even better when you wrapped your legs around me.

I was right...

Your sweat was sweet...

And your love tasted good.

I was right...

I couldn't push hard enough into you...

And you pushed me for more.

I was right...

You fit so good around me...

And your body obeyed my commands.

I was right...

You made my mind explode into you...

And left me dripping in sweat.

Old Friend for Lunch...

2009-10-13T19:19:00.004-05:00

Today is my birthday, and I haven't seen her for years...

Its in those eyes of hers, I know what she wants...

It does not bother me, at least in the moral sense.

I intend to take her.

After taking stock she asked me if I was happy.

I assume she meant my life- where I'm at...

But all I could think about was her-

I'll explain my happiness, my dear lady, when I enter you- over and over and over again...

Maybe I'm out of my mind.

I am full of hunger; that's my burden that I carry...

A savage beast that seeks to feed...

It feasts on the silky-smooth flesh, devouring with my hands, mouth, and tongue.

It quenches its thirst with the perspiration of Ecstasy...

It is me, dear lady...I am the beast...

And I will have you...

Pale Fragrance

2008-12-06T12:17:00.005-05:00

It wasn't enough to just talk to her. I had to know her, but I couldn't. It was one of those immutable ironies that leaves the heart heavy, and a feeling of such vast emptiness that one feels as if they could hold eternity within the confines of their chest.

With a cool breeze biting the skin, her cheeks were red as roses…my gift of flowers with the same name became less than she deserved if such beauty could be generated in her flesh from something as simple as a cold wisp of air.

And yet I stood there. I could not move. She was gravity, and yet I wanted to run. Despite her confidence I could not help but to think her lonely…or perhaps it was just her singular beauty. It was a cruel spirit that tormented me with a suggestion of enormity that nature had not afforded to me.

It was her hands, the way they caressed her hair as she flipped it from one side to the other…it called out to the universe with desperation…almost as if they felt that there was no other presence in all of creation. The longing for the touch of some other soul emanated from her skin and fresh scent of her personal fragrances…it left a trail for me to follow.

Everything about her was so potent that a man absent of the blessings of sight and smell could find her purely by the beating of his heart. So it is for me. I have wandered in the dark for the duration of an eternity, only to be at once brought into the burning sunlight of her presence.

I have spent every waking moment of my life reaching for her with a passion that is near obsession. I cannot help but wonder…

Would she dare to think of me?

A Day's Work

2008-11-30T13:37:00.003-05:00

This is one of my short stories. I hope you enjoy...

By Ernest Maestas (Crime Analyst)

Maximilian wiped the sweat off his brow. His work was harder than he had imagined it would be; but that’s ok, it’s good for the soul. He looked over his table at his project and measured his progress. Can’t take a break yet he told himself. He wiped his hands on his work apron and considered his project with near confusion. He was unsure on just how to proceed from this point- it took all day for him to get his project from its point of origin to his workshop.

He was proud of his workshop. It wasn’t fancy but it was effective. He had ample room to conduct his tasks while still having room to hang all his tools. He even had room for a cleaning station. Here he could, not only wash himself off, but clean his tools and dispose of the left over materials.

He gently stroked the project with his hands; it was more anticipation than anything else. But it was also calculation. What shall I use to begin? While mulling this over his project stirred a little, as if coming to…

Maximilian took back out his ether and his handy-dandy handkerchief (his father always told him to have one) and placed it over the face of his project. The stirring stopped. Can’t have that…no, no, not yet…Max said to himself with a business-like jubilee. He had worked long and hard to get his project to where it is today and he wasn’t going to let things fall apart now.

Maximilian wasn’t using names but his project did in fact have one. The project’s name is Jim. Max fingered his tools and selected a hack saw, a meat cleaver, a knife, and a meat tenderizer as his tools for today. He liked the tenderizer. As he rubbed his hands over the tools with an intimate admiration, he considered Jim.

Jim was an asshole; make that a self-centered, pretentious asshole. Jim had made trouble for Max- he liked being called Max because his friends always called him that- for nothing more than holding him to regulations. These regulations weren’t particularly troubling, they were just fair. And Jim didn’t want to play fair; he just wanted to promote himself.

When Max had blocked Jim from using his volunteer status for the promotion of his personal business, Jim turned the situation around and went to the Mayor’s Office and complained. He stated that Max was making trouble for him because another volunteer owned a business and was trying to squeeze him out through unethical and illegal practices. Max knew this wasn’t true and found this accusation to be the last straw in an ongoing problem with Jim.

Max walked over to his trunk and opened it. Max liked his trunk; it had all kinds of goodies and surprises. Max called it his Community Chest, like the Community Chest in Monopoly. When he was a kid he would play this game with his Mom. He always liked landing on the square marked Community Chest because when it was opened you got something good.

With both hands and wide, excited eyes Max took out a fish bowl. But this was no ordinary fish bowl; it was designed, not for fish, but for humans. Extending from the top of the fish bowl was a hose that ran to a water tank. He then took out a harness that would clamp around the fish bowl and around Jim’s neck. Once the clamp was locked in place it would form a near water-tight seal. It didn’t matter if the seal was less than perfect because the moderate amount of water leaking from the fish bowl made the process more menacing for the project.

He slipped the fish bowl over the head of his project. The clamp was fastened; right side first (doing the left first is bad luck) and then the left side. With everything ready Max was giddy…time to wake up!

Max walked over to his water tank and turned the nozzle. A slow and quiet shuuuuurr emanated from the tank as it transferred air pressure from the fish bowl and replaced it with water. The water was up to the project’s ears when it began to stir. It was trying to move but hadn’t fully comprehended that it was fastened to the work table.

The water had covered the cheeks and was beginning to obstruct the air flow when it would turn its head. It was fully awake now and Max stepped back into the darkness, slipped on his mask, and watched as the project moved from confusion to fear, then to panic as it realized its situation.
This was Max’s favorite part.

This project wasn’t like other projects. Don’t misunderstand, he was still a dirt bag; but he was better dressed, better educated, and had a higher level of motivation than his usual work subjects. This project had an extensive background in the Air Force and spent some time doing disaster planning for the City. Max bet that he would struggle longer than the others, calm down, then try to reason his way out of this trap. Only as a last resort will he call for help. He wouldn’t be like the others…

Jim was screaming…he hadn’t even tried to assess how he was fastened. Pussy, he thought. Max walked over to the little chalk board mounted on the wall. Picked up the pink chalk and placed a single tally mark under “wrong.” It was the third tally here; under “right” there were forty-one. Damn, I owe myself lunch now…Max didn’t like to lose. This made him unhappy.

The project had heard the chalk tally and stopped screaming. He tried to position himself to see but every time he moved his head the water went up his nose and he couldn’t breathe, so he was forced to keep his head straight. Max let the water fill the fish tank only to the point where the project’s nose was protruding. The water was interfering with the project’s vision, and it would also have to be selective about speaking because the water would rush in from the sides of its mouth.

The water was entering the fish bowl at a slow, steady, pace; just enough to replace the water that was leaking from around the seal. The project’s arms and legs were struggling against the restraints in a calm and steady fashion while it waited for its captor to formally announce himself.
Max considered the situation. He decided that the project didn’t yet deserve the honor of meeting his very own, personal craftsman. Max was going to make Jim better; the way he should be that is. Max would create Jim wholly anew, and Jim would be better for it. Well…maybe better is too strong a term. More accurately, Max would create a more correct version of Jim. Of course the old Jim would have to go. That was always messy.

Project (Jim): Hey!

Max: (silence)

Project: Hey...w-what are you doing?!?

Max: (silence)

Project: Why aren’t you talking to me? What are you doing? Why am I here?

This last question got Max’s attention. Does this idiot really not get why he’s here? He’s strapped to a table with a fish tank full of water over his head, and he’s confused? The project kept trying to talk while looking for Max. The result was always the same: he would try to talk and begin choking from the water. Max made another bet with himself and began counting how many times the project would choke and nearly drown before figuring out he should shut up and be still.

Twenty seven times later the idiot finally stopped. Max got up and went over to his tool bench drawer and pulled out a pencil and a pad. He made a note to himself, “lost again.” Max thought it would take less than twenty attempts before the project realized he was drowning. Apparently this project was thick skulled. A well applied grinder could fix that.

Max looked at the note on his paper…the words “lost again” rolled around in his mind. He looked up from his pad at the chalk board with the new tally under the “wrong” column. He lost twice today- in one session with this pathetic project; one the most pathetic projects ever to have the pleasure of being in his workshop. This was intolerable.

Max walked over to the table grabbed the project's right hand, and pushed the pencil through the back of the project’s hand, not stopping until the pencil completely penetrated the hand and broke its lead on the table. Of course, the project was screaming.

Again, this idiot wanted to know why he is in his current location and wanted to know what he had done.

Max: You are here to be tortured and killed.

Project: (exasperated whisper) What???!

Max: Yes Jim- You think that you are strong. So I’m going to remove much of your muscle tissue to demonstrate that you are weak. You think that you have vision, so I am going to remove your eyes. You think that you have command presence, so I am going to carve out you spine to prove you’re- well, do I need to explain that one? And finally, you think that you are smart- so I am going to cut a hole in your head and scramble your brains with a cake mixer.

Project: (weeping) I’m sorry…

Max: For?

Project: WHATEVER I NEED TO BE!!!! PLEASE DON’T!!!

Max: We’ll discuss it while I cut off your legs…

The project started to scream and protest but Max put on his Bose personal sound system headphones and returned to his bench to talk with his tools. So, which of you desires to go first? In his mind all his tools began jumping saying Pick me! Pick me! He would tell them what he needed- some heavy cutting. And while he loved all his tools, the first up would be his hack-saw. The other tools would sound in disappointment, but he would assure them that they would get to play.

Now, for the music. Max chose an array of music including Black Sabbath- with Ozzy, Jimmi Hendrix, Pink Floyd and ZZ Top. That should keep Max happy.

Max approached the project’s right leg and gently squeezed it, as if he was squeezing fruit at the store to see if it’s fresh. He then squeezed the left. He stepped back and with one hand to his mouth he studied both legs until he reached a decision. He walked over to the left leg and grabbed just above the knee and pressed down with his weight. With his saw in his left hand- he could work well with his left hand even though he is right handed- and began to saw.

The leg of the project began to tremble and shake. He was trying hard to get free, but the moving would cease in a few moments when he cut deep enough. He had difficulty getting started because the project’s knee cap kept sliding. Finally, he got a rhythm going and with enough force and enough tissue damage the knee cap flew onto the floor anyway.

As expected the moving of the leg subsided. He was always surprised at how hard it was to cut through live bone because the bones were wet and somewhat spongy making it tough to get through.

There was a lot of blood. Luckily for the project Max had a soldering gun, and in no time his wounds would be cauterized. Max took the project’s leg and placed it in his cleaning drain. He would dispose of it tomorrow.

Max then went to work on the project’s muscle tissue. With the project still attempting to resist Max wasn’t able to be as precise as he would like. It was going to take some real concentration to get the muscle tissue without severing the arteries. Max made a quick, deep slice across the project’s right arm. Unlike the movies which show a neat cut, real flesh flays open when such wounds are made…as if the skin wanted to cooperate by pulling itself apart.

So far Max had spent five hours on his project. It took such careful work to extract the muscle in the thigh region and then cauterize the wounds that he hadn’t noticed how silent it had become. He again wiped his brow. Max looked at the project only to see that his eyes were wide open and his breathing was very rapid. He was in shock.

Max had tuned out the screaming, literally and figuratively, so he couldn’t be sure as to when his project psychologically imploded. Max pulled up a chair next to the project and began to speak to him very gently.

Max: Jim, you don’t know how important it is for you to live.

Project (Jim): (swift, labored breathing)

Max: I guess I should tell you a few details since this was so important to you when we started our work. (Removing mask) It’s me Jim, Max. I know you’re surprised but you should know that I have never forgotten your behavior. You left an impression on me, and I came to realize that you were not in your correct state. You should be honored…I am correcting you.

Project: (breathing slowing)

Max: Jim!...what are you doing??! Come back! WE’RE NOT DONE! JIM! DO YOU KNOW HOW FUCKING HARD IT IS TO KIDNAP, TORTURE, KILL, AND THEN DISPOSE OF SOMEONE WITHOUT GETTING CAUGHT??!! YOU SELFISH FUCHING PRICK! WAKE UP OR I’M GOING TO DRIVE NAILS INTO YOUR FUCKING TESTICALS!!!!

Project: (breathing stops)

Max threw his tools across the room. He was really looking forward to grinding his skull while he was alive. Jim should have lived. He did far worse to the last low-life he brought into his workshop. He actually had to drown that person.

Max very frustratingly began his dismemberment and clean-up procedures. This was very anticlimactic for him…it was like getting a really pretty woman in bed only to find out she can’t get you to orgasm to save her life (that’s why she died). As Max finished and turned out the lights he wondered what the world was coming to.

Siren

2008-11-19T21:09:00.002-05:00

It is ironic that I spend so much time thinking of death only to be surprised by it. There we were, a conspicuous group, planning as we do...for mounds of wrecked humanity no longer discernible through oblivion and carnage. I was in a hospital.

We discussed as we always did, preparing for the inevitable- reveling in our planned ability to react with a measure of courage above our fellow man...and then at once there it was...

A shriek of pain...

It was so close...and yet I had no connection to her...and yet I could not pull my heart from hers.

From deep within her this pain called...it was the kind of pain only a woman can feel...her cry was that which finds its birth only in the heart of a woman.

I could not see her- we were separated by a soup of cement and steel and glass...and yet at once her cry of sorrow called the entire universe to her side and I was among it.

No, I could not see her but I could see her legs give way...demanding the very presence of the ground to her side.

Her shriek of pain was so pure that at once it penetrated my consciousness and separated my soul from this world...if only for a moment- and pulled me into the Divine.

This divinity was generated by her pain- its power called to angels who, in their infinite compassion and generosity, afforded her their loving caress...

Does our blog have any future?

2008-11-15T17:09:00.003-05:00

Dear (invisible) friends. I write this post to share a thought with you. As you probably observed, our blog, (which indeed was supposed to be a community), is suffering a long season of stagnation. I wonder what is the problem? At the beggining there were five people to write posts. We were supposed to be more each year - instead, the blog shrinked. We got one new member for the one that was out, but he haven't posted once. The actual member greenthumb haven't posted for a year. Is it that csometimes doesn't care for her own child? Or maybe c is no longer "csometimes" but "cinthepast"? If it is so than I have to state, that starting January 1 2009, if nothing will change, I will stop posting on this blog, which for me is no longer an artistic community, but a blog of two guys, (that makes me and Crime Analyst). And I'm sorry Crime Analyst, that you have to read this.

With best regards,
Raphael Gadomski

Happy Halloween...

2008-10-31T21:32:00.007-05:00

We come to it at last...

The great night of the dead...

It is in this day that I play...

In this day that I swim in the social inversions...and the many perversions...

of my fellow man.

That is not to say that I conduct myself improperly,

Or that my celebration of social ironies ventures into the criminal...

No, but I do enjoy getting closer to the darkness than normal.

In the spirit of this great night I will share a story.

It is a true tale- as I remember it- of a shadow...

Whispering in the dark...

What feels like many moons ago, when I was a boy, there was a house.

There are many houses in New Mexico but this one was unique to me.

It was unique because it scared me...it scared me from the moment I saw it as my parents drove over the hill along the long dirt roads on the mountainous outskirts of Santa Fe.

New Mexico is large...we have counties that are bigger than states...this emptiness can be a vacuum...it can be lonely. This house was lonely...

A night with no moon could mean a night so dark you would have difficulty making your own outline.

My Aunt, Uncle and cousin lived there. We would often go and visit- but even during the daytime if I found myself alone the hair on the back of my neck would begin to stand...there was something not at rest in this house.

The house sat on a couple of acres of land and consisted of the house, a barn, and stables all connected in one structure.

One night my sister, my cousin, and I decided to spend the night in the stables. There was a large open area in the center of the stables, surrounded by the pens for the horses. It was dark, and there was no moon.

Even with our flash lights the dark seemed to hover...as if trying to push the light from existence. We set up a tent and began the usual discussions of children in their early adolescence. Above the laughter there was a sound...ever so subtle at first...but became undeniable. Someone was in the stables with us.

We could hear the footsteps on the thin layer of hay on the ground. At first we thought it was our Uncle because he was a bit of a prankster, but it was not him.

The steps began to circle our tent. Slow at first, then faster and faster...until it was running...then running so fast the it would take two or three steps to completely go around us. I unzipped the front of the tent a couple of inches but did not see even a shadow moving...but I heard it.

We put up our lights on the side of the tent but did not get a shadow cast...

Finally my cousin screamed at the top of her lungs causing the running noise to stop...instantly...

A person would have to take a couple of steps to slow down from that kind of pace...but it just stopped...and all was silence...a loud silence that suggested you weren't alone.

After a few seconds...it just walked away. Not long after that my relatives moved, and I never saw the house again.

Sleepless...

2008-10-01T22:22:00.000-05:00

At night, with all the lights out, the lights of the City illuminate my room...It's not my City but its familiar to you...I look everywhere, hoping see a magical trail of where you walked. I want to walk there too- so I can smell your perfume mixed with the pleasant scent of your skin...

But you are not here...but the mere proximity of our journey to this place makes me tingle...

You could be here with me...I could have you against the window...with the room completely dark no one would notice your nude body pressed against the glass on the sixth floor...

They wouldn't see my hands all over you or me pulling your head back, sucking on your neck.

No, they wouldn't see me turn you around, prop you up on the ledge, and run my mouth all over you...

They wouldn't see because the lights would be off...and we would be in the sky...

I would take you to my bed and perform feats of agility and endurance...

You would have me push into you...and you would thrust yourself on me repeatedly until you overflowed with ecstasy...

I would then bathe your body, and underneath the water I would enter you again...and again...and again...

And only when you couldn't take anymore would I let myself go inside you...and fill you up...

I can hear your exhausted breath in my ear...your nails squeezing my flesh in satisfaction...I remember our labored silence...I wake up in a deep sweat...on fire for you...

Video clip that promotes our new book.

2008-09-22T15:38:00.005-05:00

Hello friends. Here goes a video which promotes our translation of H.D. Coulter's "Anatomy of Hatha Yoga" on Polish market. I think that it is really cool and that's why I decided to show it to you.

Polish Poets - Juliusz Słowacki

2008-09-20T15:49:00.003-05:00

There he goes! The Polish Sheakespeare! The Chopin of Polish Literature! The Romantic genius, the one and only - Juliusz Słowacki.

It is not a surprise that I sing Slowacki's praises so loud. No more than a hundred meters from where I live there is a monumental monument of Juliusz Słowacki, (who dethroned on this pedestal the former comunist leader - Dzierżyński).

Not that easy it was to find some works of his in English - first of all, because he wrote in the romantic era (19th century), and then he wrote most of all large pieces (which i really love, as an indefatgable devotee of Polish romanticism) - more like Sheakespeare like I said before. Nevertheles there goes some of his, enjoy! As you will certainly notice with the last poem exposed, a real prophet he was...

AGAMEMNON’S TOMB

(Selection)

by Juliusz Slowacki

O Poland ! As long as you imprison
An angelic soul in a boorish skull,
So long your flesh will be hacked by a headsman,
So long your revenge sword will remain dull,
So long a hyena will lie over you
And a grave – your eyes opened in the grave too.

Throw off completely those hideous tatters,
First – that Deianira’s burning attire :
And then arise like great shameless sculptures,
Naked – and bathed up in die Stygian mire,
New – brazen in your iron nakedness –
Not embarrassed by anything – deathless.

Let the people arise at the dead of night
From the quiet grave and frighten the others,
It’s such a big statue – from one block cast tight,
And so hardened, it won’t break under thunders.
But with thunderbolts its hands and wreath are rife,
The eyes that disdain death – the flush of life.

Poland ! You are still deceived with baubles ;
You were the nations’ peacock and parrot,
Now you are a handmaid of other peoples.
Though I know these words won’t quaver a minute
In your heart – where thought doesn’t long remain :
I speak – for I am sad – and full of blame.

Ay, curse me – yet my soul will make you run
Like Eumenides – through the snaky canes,
For you are Prometheus’s only son :
The vulture doesn’t eat your heart – but your brains.
Although in your blood my Muse I will stain,
I’ll reach to your bowels’ core – and pull with a strain.

Put a curse on your son and howl in torment,
But be aware – the hand of the curser
Stretched over me – will coil like a serpent
And snap off, withered away from your shoulder,
Black satans will snatch up the bits of dust then ;
For you have no power to curse – bondwoman !

[...]

Song VIII from "Journey to the Holy Land from Naples".

HYMN

by Juliusz Slowacki

I am sad, Savior ! For me in western skies
You poured out a radiant rainbow array ;
In azure waters you quench before my eyes
The fiery star of day...
Though You gild the sky and sea for me yonder,
I am sad, Savior !

Like empty ears of corn, their heads erect,
I stand bereft of surfeit and of pleasure...
To strangers my face has the same aspect,
The silence of azure :
But to You my heart’s core I’Il uncover,
I am sad, Savior !

Like an infant who cries for his mother
When left atone, so am I close to tears,
Looking at the sun that throws from the water
Its last flashing spears...
Though I know tomorrow new dawn with gtitter,
I am sad, Savior !

Today when lost in the wide sweep of the sea,
One hundred miles away from either shore,
The flying storks above me I could see
In a stretched out skein soar.
That once I knew them on a Polish pasture,
I am sad, Savior !

That I’ve often brooded over catacombs,
That I have barely known my native home,
That I was like a weary pilgrim who roams
When lightning sears the sky’s dome,
That I don’t know in what grave I’ll linger,
I am sad, Savior !

You will behold my whitened skeleton,
No brow of a column stands guard over it;
Yet I’m like a man who enviously looks on
The ashes in their pit...
And that my bed will be restless forever,
I am sad, Savior !

They told an innocent child in my land
To say a prayer for me each day... and yet
I know my ship doesn’t sail to my home strand,
When it sails straight ahead...
And that the child’s prayer will not help ever,
I am sad, Savior !

The rainbow of lights which in sky’s canopy
Your angels have spread in an enormous string,
Some other people hundred years after me
Will look upon - dying.
Ere to my nothingness I humbly surrender,
I am sad, Savior !

Written at sunset, at sea off Alexandria.

MY TESTAMENT

by Juliusz Slowacki

I have lived with you, suffered and shed tears with you.
No noble person have I ever passed aside.
Today I leave you, ghosts in shadows to pursue,
And if happiness were here – in sorrow I stride.

I have not left behind me a single offspring
Either to play my lute or to carry my name ;
My name has passed away like a flash of lightning,
And will last for generations like an empty strain.

But you that have known me, pass to all in legend
That I wore out my youth for the land of my fathers ;
When the ship struggled – I stood at the mast to the end,
And when she was sinking – I too drowned in deep waters...

Yet some day, pondering about the destined lot
Of my poor homeland, any noble man will consent
That my spirit’s cloak was not by begging begot,
But as my ancestors’ glories shines resplendent.

Let my faithful friends at night gather together
And burn up my poor heart in die leaves of aloe,
Return it to die one who gave it to me later :
So the world pays mothers – giving them ashes to stow...

Let my friends sit down, each one holding a goblet,
And drown in wine my burial – and their own despair...
If I am a spirit, I’ll appear to them yet,
If God frees me from torment, I will not come there...

But I beg you – let the living not lose hope ever
And bear the torch of learning before their compatriots ;
And when called, go to their death one after another,
Like the stones tossed by die Lord onto the ramparts...

As for me – I am leaving a small group of friends,
Those who were able to love my haughty spirit ;
One can see I have fulfilled God’s hard assignments
And assented to have here – an unwept casket...

Who else would go on without the world’s accolades,
Such indifference to the world as I display ?
To be the helmsman of a boat that’s filled with shades,
And fly off as quietly as the shade flies away ?

And yet I leave behind me this fateful power,
Useless while I live... it just graces my temples ;
But when I die, it will, unseen, press you ever,
Till it remakes you, bread eaters – into angels.

all translated by Michael MIKOS

OUR SLAVIC POPE

God’s bell the Conclave's petty strife has stilled :
Its mighty tone
Brings news of Slavic hope fulfilled –
The Papal Throne !
Pope who will not – Italian-like – take fright
At sabre-thrust
But, brave as God himself, stand and give fight :
His world – but dust !

Made radiant by the Word, the Pontiff's face –
A torch that guides
The faithful swarming towards that lighted place
Where God resides.
Obedient to his prayer and his command,
Not only men,
But, if he wills, the sun itself will stand :
Power beyond ken !

Now he approaches, he whose hand constrains
Globe – spanning forces –
He whose word turns back along our veins
The blood that courses.
Divine enlightenment, a mounting spate
Informs mankind ;
To think a thought therein is to create –
Power of the mind !

To bear our load – this world by God designed –
That power we need :
Our Slavic Pope, brother to all mankind,
Is there to lead !

With balm from all the world, our souls’ torment
Is soothed by him ;
About his flower-decked throne a regiment
Of cherubim.
Love he dispenses as great powers today
Distribute arms ;
With sacramental power, his sole array,
The world he charms !

His word, like dove set free, takes instant flight,
The news proclaims :
That yet the Holy Spirit sheds its light,
Devotion claims !
The heavens above him open wide their gates,
While he, alone,
Sits on his throne and humbly re-creates
Both Earth and Throne !

Among the nations, with a brother’s love,
He spreads the word :
Man must, to reach his final goal above,
Brave fire and sword.
The sacramental power of realms untold
His willing slave ;
Power that the soul of man may yet behold
Before the grave !

From the world’s wounds he laves corruption’s blight,
The maggots teeming ;
Health he restores, fanning our love alight,
The world redeeming.
Sweeps out our churches, makes the portals gleam –
So that each one
May see his God within Creation’s scheme,
Bright as the sun !

Written in 1848.

translated by Noel Clark.

Man on Fire

2008-09-10T21:52:00.004-05:00

Pain is Purity...

So say the beloved Christians...through blood and suffering is salvation.

But what of fire...?

Fire is alive- it jumps and moved-dances in the dark.

It devours all it touches...needs air to breath...

How do we feed it...this burning thing, alive?

Deep in the desert you will find my home...It is a rugged place that, paradoxically, brings tranquility and calm...

We do not fear the fire for it bathes our skin-lights our way...We learn to respect it as ruler of the sky...

It is no wonder that we use fire to purge our sorrows...

We set our man -Zozobra- as the great sacrifice...

He carries our sorrows to oblivion...

He carries our worries to the void...

He brings joy and cheer with the burning...

In fire- it dances- and so do we...

Polish Poets - Zbigniew Herbert

2008-08-19T16:08:00.005-05:00

Second poet from my beloved country will, maybe surprisingly, be my favorite polish male-poet, thinker and philosopher Zbigniew Herbert . Someone might say that it definitely should be Czeslaw Milosz, another of the polish Nobel Prize Winners in Literature, but first, he would not look too good as a second, and then, I still feel to young to read his stuff, so I know his works only a little.

So here he goes Mr. Cogito - Zbigniew Herbert:

Report from the Besieged City

Too old to carry arms and fight like the others -

they graciously gave me the inferior role of chronicler
I record - I don't know for whom - the history of the siege

I am supposed to be exact but I don't know when the invasion began
two hundred years ago in December in September perhaps yesterday at dawn
everyone here suffers from a loss of the sense of time

all we have left is the place the attachment to the place
we still rule over the ruins of temples spectres of gardens and houses
if we lose the ruins nothing will be left

I write as I can in the rhythm of interminable weeks
monday: empty storehouses a rat became the unit of currency
tuesday: the mayor murdered by unknown assailants
wednesday: negotiations for a cease-fire the enemy has imprisoned our messengers
we don't know where they are held that is the place of torture
thursday: after a stormy meeting a majority of voices rejected
the motion of the spice merchants for unconditional surrender
friday: the beginning of the plague saturday: our invincible defender
N.N. committed suicide sunday: no more water we drove back
an attack at the eastern gate called the Gate of the Alliance

all of this is monotonous I know it can't move anyone

I avoid any commentary I keep a tight hold on my emotions I write about the facts
only they it seems are appreciated in foreign markets
yet with a certain pride I would like to inform the world
that thanks to the war we have raised a new species of children
our children don't like fairy tales they play at killing
awake and asleep they dream of soup of bread and bones
just like dogs and cats

in the evening I like to wander near the outposts of the city
along the frontier of our uncertain freedom.
I look at the swarms of soldiers below their lights
I listen to the noise of drums barbarian shrieks
truly it is inconceivable the City is still defending itself
the siege has lasted a long time the enemies must take turns
nothing unites them except the desire for our extermination
Goths the Tartars Swedes troops of the Emperor regiments of the Transfiguration
who can count them
the colours of their banners change like the forest on the horizon
from delicate bird's yellow in spring through green through red to winter's black

and so in the evening released from facts I can think
about distant ancient matters for example our
friends beyond the sea I know they sincerely sympathize
they send us flour lard sacks of comfort and good advice
they don't even know their fathers betrayed us
our former allies at the time of the second Apocalypse
their sons are blameless they deserve our gratitude therefore we are grateful
they have not experienced a siege as long as eternity
those struck by misfortune are always alone
the defenders of the Dalai Lama the Kurds the Afghan mountaineers

now as I write these words the advocates of conciliation
have won the upper hand over the party of inflexibles
a normal hesitation of moods fate still hangs in the balance

cemeteries grow larger the number of defenders is smaller
yet the defence continues it will continue to the end
and if the City falls but a single man escapes
he will carry the City within himself on the roads of exile
he will be the City

we look in the face of hunger the face of fire face of death
worst of all - the face of betrayal
and only our dreams have not been humiliated

The Envoy of Mr Cogito

Go where those others went to the dark boundary
for the golden fleece of nothingness your last prize

go upright among those who are on their knees
among those with their backs turned and those toppled in the dust

you were saved not in order to live
you have little time you must give testimony

be courageous when the mind deceives you be courageous
in the final account only this is important

and let your helpless Anger be like the sea
whenever your hear the voice of the insulted and beaten

let you sister Scorn not leave you
for the informers executioners cowards - they will win
they will go to your funeral with relief will throw a lump of earth
the woodborer will write your smoothed-over biography

and do not forgive truly it is not in your power
to forgive in the name of those betrayed at dawn

beware however of unnecessary pride
keep looking at your clown's face in the mirror
repeat: I was called - weren't there better ones than I

beware of dryness of heart love the morning spring
the bird with an unknown name the winter oak
light on a wall the splendour of the sky
they don't need your warm breath
they are there to say: no one will console you

be vigilant - when the light on the mountains gives the sign- arise and go
as long as blood turns in the breast your dark star

repeat old incantations of humanity fables and legends
because this is how you will attain the good you will not attain
repeat great words repeat them stubbornly
like those crossing the desert who perished in the sand

and they will reward you with what they have at hand
with the whip of laughter with murder on a garbage heap

go because only in this way you will be admitted to the company of cold skulls
to the company of your ancestors: Gilgamesh Hector Roland
the defenders of the kingdom without limit and the city of ashes

Be faithful Go

A Description of the King

The king's beard on which sauces and ovations
fell until it became heavy as an axe
appears suddenly in a dream to a man condemned to die
and on a candlestick of flesh shines alone in the dark.

One hand for tearing meat is huge as a whole province
through which a ploughman inches forward a corvette lingers
The hand wielding the sceptre has withered from distinction
has grown grey from old age like an ancient coin

In the hour-glass of the heart sand trickles lazily
Feet taken off with boots stand in a corner
on guard when at night stiiffening on the throne
the king heirlessly forfeits his third dimension

The Trial

During his great speech the prosecutor
kept piercing me with his yellow index finger
I'm afraid I didn't appear self-assured
unintentionally I put on a mask of fear and depravity
like a rat caught in a trap an informer a fratricide
the reporters were dancing a war dance
slowly I burned at a stake of magnesia

all of this took place in a small stifling room
the floor creaked plaster fell from the ceiling
I counted knots in the boards holes in the wall faces
the faces were alike almost identical
policemen the tribunal witnesses the audience
they belonged to the party of those without any pity
and even my defender smiling pleasantly
was an honorary member of the firing squad

in the first row sat an old fat woman
dressed up as my mother with a theatrical gesture she raised
a handkerchief to her dirty eyes but didn't cry
it must have lasted a long time I don't know even how long
the red blood of the sunset was rising in the gowns of the judges

the real trial went on in my cells
they certainly knew the verdict earlier
after a short rebellion they capitulated and started to die one after the other
I looked in amazement at my wax fingers

I didn't speak the last word and yet
for so many years I was composing the final speech
to God to the court of the world to the conscience
to the dead rather than the living
roused to my feet by the guards
I managed only to blink and then
the room burst out in healthy laughter
my atoptive mother laughed also
the gavel banged and this really was the end

but what happened after that – death by a noose
or perhaps a punishment generously chained to a dungeon
I’m afraid there is a third dark solution
beyond the limits of time the senses and reason

therefore when I wake I don't open my eyes
I clench my fingers don't lift my head
breathe lightly because truly I don't know
how many minutes of air I still have left

Passion...

2008-08-16T00:31:00.003-05:00

The world is near fire,
On the brink I dare say.
And yet,
All I can think of is her...

She moved towards me with deliberation.
And deliberately I took her...
Our bodies moved together,
As one.

At once I see it,
The full moon.
It beacons me,
Calls me back...
To her...

Her skin was perfect.
She felt good on my hands,
Like a dream.

Her hands on my flesh,
All over my body.
Not hurried or frenzied,
but slow and deliberate.

But that was her.
She was practiced and steady.
And yet she was accidental.
A paradox of passion and meaning...

Every move screamed passion...
And she ignited mine.
The last time we met, those many years ago,
She burned her place in my mind...

Here, in the full moon,
My body screams for her presence...
Her passion...

The wind blowing in her hair,
Her deliberate passion...
It moves me,
And wounds me...

Perhaps its the moon,
The wolves howl,
Yet all I hear is the crickets...
And the sound of urbanization...

She is out there...
Her body calls me...

Fear

2008-08-13T22:57:00.002-05:00

I am afraid...

For the Darkman cometh...

Across the sea his winds carry the forces of war.

All will rise and despair.

I am afraid,

For the Darkman sings.

It is a tune of pied piper...

Where all dance and follow...

They do not see the cliff.

I am afraid.

It is the Darkman's hour.

His bells ring and the masses panic.

His grasp is far reaching and wields great power.

I am afraid,

For the masses will starve but will not eat.

They will thirst, but will not drink.

They will fatigue, but find no rest.

They will suffer, but find no quarter.

I afraid.

Mostly because he brings death and woe to mankind...

Your hand in mine, we will stand,

And say "no more."

Addition

2008-07-27T09:29:00.003-05:00

First let me thank RG for keeping our blog going- his dedication is the fire of survival for our expressions...

This poem, which I will add to RG's new series, is one I read when very young. It's tone translated it's meaning for me- as I didn't fully comprehend its words. And my mother's emotional reaction to this poem said the rest. As I have grown into a man with a family- its meaning has found new relevance in my life...

SHOULD YOU GO FIRST

Should you go first and I remain to walk the road alone,
I'll live in memory's garden, dear, with happy days we've known.
In Spring I'll wait for roses red, when fades the lilac blue,
In early fall, when brown leaves call I'll catch a glimpse of you.

Should you go first and I remain for battles to be fought,
Each thing you've touched along the way will be a hallowed spot.
I'll hear your voice, I'll see your smile, though blindly I may grope,
The memory of your helping hand will buoy me on with hope.

Should you go first and I remain to finish with the scroll,
No lenght'ning shadows shall creep in to make this life seem droll,
We've known so much of happiness, we've had our cup of joy,
And memory is one gift of God that death cannot destroy.

Should you go first and I remain, one thing I'd have you do:
Walk slowly down that long, long path, for soon I'll follow you.
I'll want to know each step you take that I may walk the same,

For some day down that long, long road you'll hear me call your name.

-A.K. Rowswell

Polish Poets - Wisława Szymborska

2008-07-20T15:58:00.002-05:00

Hello there. Yet it is hot as it does in july, still our blog somehow escapes the silent mutilation of a paralyzed member...

I open this new series about Poetry, because it is one thing, that I really enjoy reading, and I wanted to share this joy with you - my invisible friends.

First of all - a women of a nation, someone who does not need any further introduction, namely - Wisława Szymborska - the Nobel Laureate in literature.

The Turn of the Century

It was supposed to be better than the others, our 20th century,

But it won't have time to prove it.

Its years are numbered,

its step unsteady,

its breath short.

Already too much has happened

that was not supposed to happen.

What was to come about

has not.

Spring was to be on its way,

and happiness, among other things.

Fear was to leave the mountains and valleys.

The truth was supposed to finish before the lie.

Certain misfortunes

were never to happen again

such as war and hunger and so forth.

These were to be respected:

the defenselessness of the defenseless,

trust and the like.

Whoever wanted to enjoy the world

faces an impossible task.

Stupidity is not funny.

Wisdom isn't jolly.

Hope

Is no longer the same young girl

et cetera. Alas.

God was at last to believe in man:

good and strong,

but good and strong

are still two different people.

How to live--someone asked me this in a letter,

someone I had wanted

to ask that very thing.

Again and as always,

and as seen above

there are no questions more urgent

than the naive ones.

Cat in an empty apartment

Dying--you wouldn't do that to a cat.

For what is a cat to do

in an empty apartment?

Climb up the walls?

Brush up against the furniture?

Nothing here seems changed,

and yet something has changed.

Nothing has been moved,

and yet there's more room.

And in the evenings the lamp is not on.

One hears footsteps on the stairs,

but they're not the same.

Neither is the hand

that puts a fish on the plate.

Something here isn't starting

at its usual time.

Something here isn't happening

as it should.

Somebody has been here and has been,

and then has suddenly disappeared

and now is stubbornly absent.

All the closets have been scanned

and all the shelves run through.

Slipping under the carpet and checking came to nothing.

The rule has even been broken and all the papers scattered.

What else is there to do?

Sleep and wait.

Just let him come back,

let him show up.

Then he'll find out

that you don't do that to a cat.

Going toward him

faking reluctance,

slowly,

on very offended paws.

And no jumping, purring at first.

translation: Joanna Maria Trzeciak

Love at First Sight

They both thought
that a sudden feeling had united them
This certainty is beautiful,
Even more beautiful than uncertainty.

They thought they didn't know each other,
nothing had ever happened between them,
These streets, these stairs, this corridors,
Where they could have met so long ago?

I would like to ask them,
if they can remember -
perhaps in a revolving door
face to face one day?
A "sorry" in the crowd?
"Wrong number" on the 'phone?
- but I know the answer.
No, they don't remember.

How surprised they would be
For such a long time already
Fate has been playing with them.

Not quite yet ready
to change into destiny,
which brings them nearer and yet further,
cutting their path
and stifling a laugh,
escaping ever further;
There were sings, indications,
undecipherable, what does in matter.
Three years ago, perhaps
or even last Tuesday,
this leaf flying
from one shoulder to another?
Something lost and gathered.
Who knows, perhaps a ball already
in the bushes, in childhood?

There were handles, door bells,
where, on the trace of a hand,
another hand was placed;
suitcases next to one another in the
left luggage.
And maybe one night the same dream
forgotten on walking;

But every beginning
is only a continuation
and the book of fate is
always open in the middle.

translation: Roman Gren, Sarah Hardenberg

Hitler's first photograph

And who's this little fellow in his itty-bitty robe?
That's tiny baby Adolf, the Hittler's little boy!
Will he grow up to be an LL.D.?
Or a tenor in Vienna's Opera House?
Whose teensy hand is this, whose little ear and eye and nose?
Whose tummy full of milk, we just don't know:
printer's, doctor's, merchant's, priest's?
Where will those tootsy-wootsies finally wander?
To garden, to school, to an office, to a bride,
maybe to the Burgermeister's daughter?
Precious little angel, mommy's sunshine, honeybun,
while he was being born a year ago,
there was no death of signs on the earth and in the sky:
spring sun, geraniums in windows,
the organ-grinder's music in the yard,
a lucky fortune wrapped in rosy paper,
then just before the labor his mother's fateful dream:
a dove seen in dream means joyful news,
if it is caught, a long-awaited guest will come.
Knock knock, who's there, it's Adolf's heartchen knocking.
A little pacifier, diaper, rattle, bib,
our bouncing boy, thank God and knock on wood, is well,
looks just like his folks, like a kitten in a basket,
like the tots in every other family album.
Shush, let's not start crying, sugar,
the camera will click from under that black hood.
The Klinger Atelier, Grabenstrasse, Braunau,
and Braunau is small but worthy town,
honest businesses, obliging neighbors,
smell of yeast dough, of gray soap.
No one hears howling dogs, or fate's footsteps.
A history teacher loosens his collar
and yawns over homework.

translation: Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh

June Bug

2008-06-08T22:49:00.002-05:00

There he is crawling across the floor...

Curios little bug- where are you going?

You move with such purpose and yet I get the impression that you have no destination.

As I study you I find it hard to keep pace...you are so very energetic...

You seem oblivious to my presence despite my efforts to keep you from harm.

I make sure that the giants around you don't step on you, or that you don't fall victim to the world that was built prior to your arrival...the machines of men can be cruel.

You sample everything imaginable in your environment- even those things I rather you didn't.

Yes, you are a curious little creature with an unending thirst for mental acquisition; and more energy that I could possibly hope for...

Then again, you are my Son...I should expect nothing less.

Memory...

2008-05-11T22:38:00.005-05:00

I met her at work...quite incidentally...
We exchanged emails...then talked on line...
It became immediately apparent that she was full of passion...

Its 5 in the morning, and I’m up taking dirty to you, and now I’m on the hotline over here lusting for you. Let’s talk about sex baby, let’s talk about you and me, let’s talk about bubbles in the tub, let’s talk about making' love, let’s talk about you on top, while its going down. I wanna talk dirty to you baby, on the hotline.

I spoke to her on the phone...
It was one of those conversations where turned off the lights and spoke with a calm passion...
A passion that was deliberately calm so as to not betray the deep burning desire to connect...

The sun’s not up but, I had to call you cause I’m home alone lusting' for you. I’m in my room nothing' but a towel on, take them granny panties off put a thong on. I love it when I hear you moan, you got the sexy tone that turns your boy on. You’re in a completely different city, on the fan line, with nothing but a baby tee on. You’re the kind of girl that’s sexy in some boxer shorts; I’m that kind of guy that’ll make you ride it like Porsche. Yeah, I met you on MySpace, now I’m about to fly you out to my place, in the morning.

I invited her over...I didn't think she would accept...
To my surprise there was a knock at my door...
It was her...

Its 5:30 in the morning' I’m lonely, my lovely. We’ll be touching and rubbing…call me, please call me, called you seven times, baby girl don’t stall me. I want to kiss you from your temple to your feet, to the dimples in your cheek, to your tattoo and your belly ring. Conversations underneath the sheets…know me RED BULL like an energy I'm a freak...

She was relentless...
She moved me to the couch and undressed me...
She was all over me...her lust was intoxicating...
Her sweat a drug...

Baby girl you know I’ll put it down like a vet, you say the sound of my deep voice make you sweat. You call me 5 am on the dot, now I’m thinking about you from the bottom to the top. Picture this you say your coming over, 30 minutes later you were parking the rover. You jumped out the car and I met you at the door; 3 seconds in the house and you were begging me for more. Kiss you in the mouth, lay your hands on my cheeks; great action on the carpet rug burns on my knees. Overdose on this lust-scratch marks on my chest. Satisfaction guaranteed by this playboy’s rep…

I can still feel her skin on my hands...
Her breath on my neck...
Her nails in my flesh...
Her on my body...

Finger Yoga

2008-04-06T05:15:00.004-05:00

If you sometimes feel, that your hands and fingers miss the exercise I strongly recommend the site Finger Yoga by Tim Tyler. I have checked those exercises on myself and can say, that they contributed a lot to my health, by eliminating some terrible pains in the knuckles of some of my fingers, which I didn't expect to exist in the first place...

The Task of Writing

2008-03-08T15:07:00.002-05:00

I have been writing a Star Trek story for some time now; about 2 years. The story comprises 4 "books"- each with 3-5 parts. By my estimates, it will comprise 17 parts and approximately 3000 pages. I have completed part 1 of book 1 and have completed about a third of part 2.

The story is about the Federation take over of their region of space which eventually leads to the take over of our galaxy. It's a huge story...going to take a while to write.

This effort has been a challenge as I have three "stories" to keep track of. First, I must keep focus of the story line of each part I'm writing. Then I must tell the story of each developing piece and characters. For instance I am using an intelligence organization as the main antagonists/protagonists of the entire story line...I can only tell a little bit about them at a time to keep their development moving throughout the entire series. Finally, I develop the Federation from part to part, book to book...not to mention all the character development that I have to over see.

I figure that it will take me years to finish. You can find part on the Star Trek Fan Fiction website at www.trekfanfiction.net

If you get a chance to peek at it please do so and tell me what you think. Don't worry I can handle criticism...just be gentle...LOL

The longest books I have ever red: "Anatomy of Hatha Yoga" - the emerging hope

2008-02-23T06:38:00.013-05:00

In this last entry of the series about long and tricky books that engage your time in such a degree, that it changes the course of your life, I wanted to tell about my recently finished translating project.

The book "Anatomy of Hatha Yoga" by H. David Coulter, was one of the positions, that I got interested in during the four years in which I visited several times (staying for longer or shorter periods) the Finnish capital Helsinki. As you can probably imagine, at that time I was already acknowledged to a large degree with the practices of hatha yoga, so I decided to check for myself how is the yoga in this small but interesting city. I was not at all disappointed, I got to admit. And I discovered a tiny shop with yoga books and artifacts. There it was, when I bought some missing books by B.K.S. Iyengar, and there was when my attention was drowned by this one written by dr Coulter. Of course, I havn't got any idea about how difficult it was to read...

And so it was how it started: when I showed this book to my old friend - also a yoga passionate - he, almost at once, proposed me to translate the book into Polish. I thought - why not? After all, it was an opportunity to better understand this extremely difficult, but also very important book. Today, when even the book's cover is done, and we are all waiting for the last few amends to take it to the printing house, I don't regret any second spent on translating it, but it took me an entire year and a month of work (starting January the 1st 2007, until the end of January 2008) , day by day, more than 10 hours a day, on weekends, with no vacation, to turn this:

into this:

Now that everything is ready and heating the engines at the printing house, we just start to feel how important is this project for us, and for the whole yoga in Poland. We hope that it's power will enable a new point of view on the old problems, and turn many new faces to the light of yoga..

A VALETINE TO YOU

2008-02-14T16:46:00.004-05:00

a poem by Sylvanus Felix

Take mine, though it is not thine

Your steady eyes traveling both road

Of then and now stoke the fire of youth

And I may say it is not a familiar one

But it’s too late, I can not now return for another

I want yours too, but take your time

You know it is dark we must not rush

Lets we would not cover distance from here

But being you, and I as I am

At dawn we would come down to a temperate end

Both wet, and smelling good, you will look good too

Your smile would resemble mine

And then

In each, we would find a road

To travel again, and forever

Inexplicable

2008-02-09T01:01:00.000-05:00

She was there inexplicably...

Her quiet, soft, stand-offish demeanor betrayed her true character...at least to everyone except me...

She was full of passion...

I could tell in the way she gently sucked the minute drops of her beverage from her lips...

Even though it wasn't meant to be, it was so soft and sensual...it was just in her nature...

She sat on the couch across from me, she drew her knee up so she could rub her leg...

Her hand slowly traced the exterior of her high black boots...then to her skin...

It was just a glimpse, but her skin was beautiful, I could tell her legs were shapely and smooth...

She touched herself as if her skin was a child, begging to be caressed...

I was begging, screaming, in my mind...touch me...caress me...

I had to feel her...

She didn't know it, but at that moment I was her slave...

Dark, but art nevertheless

2008-02-06T23:19:00.000-05:00

The above pics are from two of my favorite artists: Giger and Beksinski

Giger' pic is on the left.

Giger's work, as I understand it, finds its inspiration in his religious practices...troubling and nightmarish...but it works. He often depicts the female image in an erotic position; and yet simultaneously this female does not seem to be in control of herself.

Quite the contrary...she is a slave to herself and her surroundings...maybe a punishment for her transgressions in life...one should not assume Giger's work relates to our plane of existence...

On the right we see Beksinski. His work finds heavy influences in World War II. He was young during the Nazi occupation and had the very rare opportunity to stare evil...true evil...in the face.

He was murdered not too long ago...I don't know the particulars of course but I cannot help but think it was a fan...maybe his work drove someone to madness...as I said I do not know and I could be very wrong.

There are other works of the abyss...Barlowe's Inferno, the Dore`, The Witches Hammer, and others...but these two are my favorite.

Why would I choose such artists? In my line of work I am often asked to predict and mitigate really bad behavior...I try not to look into the abyss because, as Nietzsche said, it looks back into you. By studying the work of these men I can look into the abyss through their eyes...it acts as a filter and helps me to keep my sanity...

The longest books I have ever red: "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" - a life written by a book

2008-01-19T07:53:00.001-05:00

Hi. It is a long time ever since I have posted my latest post, and it is also a long time since I have red the book, that I wanted to write about today. More than 15 years have passed already, since I have taken the thin, inconspicuous book from a shelf in our living room. I do not remember now, what was my main interest in it at the beginning, I think that it belonged to some series of books, that I wanted to read all...

Yet,

was quite a different book than any other that I have red before. I decided to include it into this series not because it took me years before I have finished it. Not at all. The reading was quite fast, as expected from the book's slim body... The reason is, that I still see this book as one which time lies "on the other side", within myself - just like if it related my own story; at least that was the impression that I still guard within my memory, after all those years after reading it. Let me explain. Usually, when you read a book, the action (time) of the story is taking part in the outside world; if it is quite interesting and absorbing, you can engage your imagination, and even forget for a while about the reality of the world surrounding you, and dissolve your mind into the action. It is sometimes more like watching a movie than reading. But when I was reading "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" I rather felt like it was the book that was reading me. I managed to identify so strongly with the main character (Stephen Dedalus), that I came to believe, that what I lived and experienced as a child and a youngster was very similar if sometimes not the same as his. Now I can wonder, if there is really something, which you could call "a pattern of personality", or if it was just the magic of this man:

Mr. James Joyce, which made me interpret my recollections in such a way, that I believed that they made a similar path, that this of the Joyce's hero? Anyway, it was an amazing experience, and I still can feel a trace of that past enchantment deep within.

Raphael Gadomski

Nothing More Beautiful...

2007-12-12T23:48:00.000-05:00

I've been scolded for being a man...

What does that mean? Being a man?

Well I assume its our (my) inability to keep our eyes to themselves...I lose myself...

Hmmm...I wonder why...

Perhaps its because of all the images in the world, of all the majesties afforded the eyes by nature, none is more beautiful than that of woman...

You are an art form...living and breathing...it is your raw power

You set us afire with out flame...

You drown us with out water...

You steal the air in a wind storm...

We float in your presence despite gravity...

You warm us in the cold...and yet make us break out in a cold sweat in the heat of the sun...

You are an enigma...and we are your slaves...

The longest books I have ever red: "The Teachings of Don Juan" - the magic of a blameless warrior

2007-10-20T14:33:00.000-05:00

I've started my adventure with C. Castaneda's university of magic, maybe 5, maybe 10 years ago? Of course the first sparks of interest were fanned with the wave of general consumption of drugs, which at that times, (I think it was rather 10 years ago), was a very popular pastime. The need for some philosophical excuse, and maybe a universal necessity, maybe even hunger of knowledge have pushed me and some of my friends to study literature connected with drug consumption. There was "Cinnamon Shops" by Bruno Schultz, "Narcotics; Unwashed Souls" by S.I. Witkiewicz and, among others, we have discovered the magical world of Carlos Castaneda, the disciple of Yaqui Master Sorcerer (Nagual) and a Blameless Warior - Don Juan Matus. Unfortunately I couldn't find any pictures of Don Juan, but those two can give you an approach, of how he looked like:

The stories of encounters of Castaneda with his "master", (so called only, because, as Don Juan says, the Warrior can't be a Master, and no Warrior has a Master), are embedded in the picturesque scenery of Mexican Sierra, and abound in disarming sense of humour. At first we were deeply impressed with the Castanedas adventures with The Pipe and Mr. Mescalito, but soon it became visible that it is something more than just "high". Indeed, I wouldn't recommend those books, (because it is a whole series of books), to junkies, because they are all about magic. And magic could be dangerous. Even one's life could be in danger if, as Don Juan says, his or hers Tonal is self-destructing and you indulge too much... The Nagual is not at all a funny guy. It is really scary.

And so it was, that to understand the principles of the Magic of Don Juan, one has to grow up to it. And it could take years, but it is worth more than anything else in this life, to discover the Separate Reality. And what started here

is really an adventure which has no ending... Although some people say that Teachings of Don Juan is an invention of Castaneda. I have read somewhere, that he was deprived his Ph. D. in anthropology, and have heard an opinion of a Polish Professor, who met Castaneda personally, that he copied his system from Tybetian Buddhism. Was she right? Did Castaneda invent everything? Maybe... But he didn't invent Magic, and he wasn't the only one to follow the blameless path of a Warrior. Invented or not Don Juan and Don Genaro are always characters which you would miss... My adventure with the Knowledge of Don Juan has just started, and I'm always at the beginning, no matter if it's 10 years ago, 5 years ago, or today...

Fall In Albuquerque

2007-10-14T20:52:00.000-05:00

Fall in Albuquerque...

Chilli roasting...

Wolves howling...

Coyotes crying...

Mist on the Sandias...

Balloons...

Beer Fests and Halloween...

Harvest and the Full moon...

My Home...

SEASONS IN MUSIC

2007-10-13T05:52:00.000-05:00

Surf the SEASONS IN MUSIC Website and enjoy this week's Artist of the Week - PEARL JAM !

Magnetism...

2007-10-13T01:16:00.000-05:00

It was a late night conversation…
I knew her, she knew me…
But we didn't know each other the way we wanted to,
The way we needed to.

We talked and laughed…
Our words turned to each other…

“Come over?” she asked…
I was nearly overcome by the wave of nervous excitement…

In her living room we stood…
Looking at each other…into each other.
Shadows ran across the room from the moonlight…it was the only light between us.

I moved to her, and she to me…
I can still feel her lips…
Her body felt good against mine…

We parted…
But she left a whisper on my lips…
And music in my soul…

WORLD UNITED BLOGGERS

2007-10-10T05:03:00.000-05:00

This wonderful project, which unites bloggers from all over the world, is a spark of hope for peace and understanding between people of different ethnic provenience and cultures. Visit it yourself!

Art in the Strangest Places

2007-10-04T19:02:00.000-05:00

So I'm looking at a map; talking to the dots. The dots in this instance represent crimes and I must use the mundane and mechanical to determine what the dots are telling me...

Superficially, they tell me dates, times, locations, and what crime has been committed. But it cannot tell me the next set of events, nor can it tell me how it felt to be victim or criminal. It does not tell me motivation...

I start by using statistics, then GIS mapping systems; I might even throw in an algebra or calculus equation to be sure...

But the art comes by building a picture through imagination. I determine the set of motives based on method of operation (MO), I then use this information to determine what kind of person I am dealing with. Breaking and entering, no evidence, little damage, identified target items for theft with little effort searching...I'd say an experienced burglar, probably male, comes from the dominant ethnicity of the neighborhood if their were no witnesses and it was day time, maybe a risk taker...probably 29-35, been arrested before for various crimes, and will steer from violence unless cornered.

The above comes from knowing the creature...experience. There are other things; I've learned to treat repetitive predators like spiders. I will always tell a detective to ask himself: "what kind of spider is he?" If he has a hunting ground that victims stray into then he's a "webber" and he is comfortable operating in the area because he frequents the area or lives there...he even knows the residents and business persons who live around there. If he has no preferred ground then he's nomadic and hunts wherever he can find prey; say like a wolf spider or the like.

Then there's tracking criminal organizations like cartels, gangs, and terrorists. Developing alternative futures to determine the next set of actions your target may take is something you learn over time. You get better as you go along and can get a "feeling" rather than hard data to support your conclusions. Its difficult to get others to believe in your intelligence product when they know that half of it is done on a hunch; but once they know that your are operating on well developed instinct they learn to respect your artistic ability.

feed your head

2007-09-16T07:20:00.000-05:00

In visual perception a color is almost never seen as it really is - as it physically is. This fact makes color the most relative medium in art.
Josef Albers

just wanted to share this. input welcome.

thanks
-c.

image found here:

http://web.mit.edu/deansgallery/albers/Albers.JPG

The longest books I have ever red: "Wole Soyinka's Collected Plays" - The rarity of an exotic genious.

2007-09-08T06:15:00.001-05:00

How many of you know this gentleman?

Mr. Wole Soyinka. Would it be surprising, to call him the most largely known African in the world? Undoubtedly - the most largely known African writer in the world, and one of the few African Nobel Prize Winners (1986 Nobel Prize Winner in Literature).

My first encounter with the creation of Wole Soyinka was on the first year of my studies on Warsaw University's Instutute of African Languages and Cultures. We thought (along with a female-friend called Milka), that we might persuade colleagues to set up a theatrical circle, and have fun showing some African drama, and as we needed a play, I begun to translate "Swamp Dwellers" into Polish.

It didn't come out anyway but, at least, I started to take interest in Soyinka. I returned to the plays on the third year. I borrowed Collected Plays 1 and 2 and begun to read them:

Surprisingly, (as always, surprisingly), Wole Soyinka was not at all popular at our faculty. Some scholars even mentioned something about the "soyinka schizofrenia". Nobody would read 'em, nobody would wright about 'em. Indeed, a sort of "schizofrenia", if you consider, that Soyinka was the best you could ever get at our faculty... Well... Anyway I must say the reading was not too easy.

The first few plays of the "Collected Plays 1" were difficult, but amazingly beautiful and inspiring. But then it came "The Road". And I got totally stuck. You know why? Because of the language... Wetin be dat? Dat be pigin man... Na wetin be pigin? Pigin be wey dey african tok! Almighty! Dat be dificult tink.

It took me almost two years of daily work to translate those pidgin phrases from "The Road" and other Soyinka plays partially written in pidgin - into English, and make a sense of it, so I could finally understand its content. I finally graduated on that issue, making a dissertation about "Pidgin English in the literary output of Wole Soyinka".

If you will ever face similar problems with Soyinka, now there is a solution. Visit:

Pidgin English in Plays of Wole Soyinka

It is all there, already translated, so you could save some precious time.

And if you are interested in Wole Soyinka, you can visit:

Wole Soyinka. All You Want to Know About.

An obvious work of my love for books.

Cheers,
Raphael G.

The longest books I have ever red: "The Holy Bible".

2007-08-28T15:23:00.000-05:00

Probably, I should not ever write any article about this book, since I fell that my reading of it is not sufficient. But how to write a series like this, and not to mention:

What is more, if you live in a country where more than 95% of the citizens are roman-catholics, you are being thought religion since the primary school, and as a kid, you go with Mom to the church every Sunday, it is very easy to get confused about The Bible and its contents.

The Bible is considered by many people all around the world to be the only book worth reading, and indeed many people still treat it like that. I might agree with that, but... I'm The Reader. I read everything... in a way, of course. As far as I consider it interesting.

Interestingly, returning to The Bible, among those 95% catholics in Poland (or more, like some sources state), you wouldn't find as many passionated Bible reader's as you might have expected. People tend to base their knowledge of The Word on: religion classes (thought since the youngest years - most of all in form of stories about events from Old Testament) and from the church (in form of "The Reading" - fragments of the Bible red by the priest during the mass). And that might be confusing. You might find out, that most people do believe in something, and they can what they believe in, and even name the most important people involved, like:

and the others, and they know their stories as well, but they lack the understanding of the details. Even the intellectuals. Not naming the young generation, who very often choose the comfortable mask of secular humanism, or even worse... Of course, it has its negative influence on Polish tradition, and there are some sings of its degeneration... But this is not the case.

Besides, I'm not better. But I believe. And I know, that Believing in God is an important element of Happiness. And I got the passion for books. Yet, reading The Bible is always for me an amazing adventure. And it is not easy to evaluate, what is exactly the influence of reading The Bible on my life. But maybe it is always like that with The Bible? And, yet again, maybe all the books all over the world are The One? And once you read the one, you read them all? Or maybe, all the books are just The Book in it's numerous permutations? After all, isn't "biblia" the Hebrew word for the book? Never mind. I have probably gone to far fantasizing, but what is the real truth? And where you can find it? Well, there is no doubt, that The Bible is the right place to search for it.

The difficult part of reading The Bible is not in what it is, or not, for you or other people, but in that it is indeed an ancient, historic treaty, full of difficult, and often misinterpreted metaphors. I like to say sometimes, as a self-invented metaphor, that "it is not enough to buy a book, you have to read it too". In the case of The Bible you could say it the other way: "it is not enough to read The Bible, you have to 'buy it' too..."

What is a Man?

2007-08-20T23:25:00.000-05:00

What is a man?
I have searched long and hard for this answer,
my travels have taken me far...

I asked the great mountain,
but the mountain was quiet and strong...

I asked the trees,
but the trees could not answer
for they were fighting the storm.

I asked the stones,
but the stones could not speak
for they were too busy resisting presure from above and below.

I asked the sun, master and ruler of the sky,
but the sun could not speak
for he had too much responsibility...

I arrived home defeated to the smiling face of daughter,
"What is a man?" I did not expect my answer...

In the gentle voice that only a child can possess she said "my daddy"

I wept...

The longest books I have ever red: "Yoga Dipika" - The light that shines on and on.

2007-07-27T15:21:00.000-05:00

Everybody reads books. That is true. But there is something about them, a secret, which doesn't reveal to everyone. Most people think, that once you buy a book, start a book, you got to finish it, and that one is over. You start another one. But what if a book has more to read, that you can manage in a year, ten years, or more? Exists a whole species of tricky books, which, for some reason, take hours of your precious time, day after day, year after year. BEWARE!!! I will share with you some of those which I, personally, consider the most dangerous.

The very first one - the magical converter of lifetimes - I wanted to present to you, is "The Light on Yoga" by B.K.S. Iyengar. Probably the most famous yoga text book in the world.

My first encounter with that book was about eight years ago. My yoga master (guru) Marcin Hawryszko presented the book to me, since I was his best pupil, and he came to persuade me, to take off his shoulders some of the responsibility for handling some classes. I looked inside the book - what I've seen got struck me completely amazed and enchanted:

And so I thought: "Gosh! I wanna do like that guy!" Then like a spell - be extremely careful, the magic was very strong - I was displaced to a completely different land, and my life have changed for good. I begun to read the book. But it didn't contain to much of a stories, most of all some decent pictures and instructions. Once I've started to read the pictures of practices (asanas) and instructions how to do them - I have had to change almost all of my life habits to adjust to them. Still, after almost eight years of daily reading, day by day, few hours a day I came to reach, more or less, the middle of the book. And the further you get, the more difficult starts to be the reading. But I do learn form the tortoise... And I slowly advance. My ambition to read it all has got to be fed completely - before I die... Amen.

Her

2007-06-29T23:15:00.000-05:00

So I'm sitting at the airport waiting for my flight.
I have my headphones on...
then she comes and sits across from me...

I'm sitting right across from you,
you'd slap my face if you only knew,
but you don't know I make advances,
through the rims of my dark sun glasses...

I don't know anything about ladies shoes,
I only know that they accentuate your skin tone...

You can't see my eyes dear,
that's why you don't even care,
that I'm scoping out your masses,
through the rims of my dark sun glasses...

I turn my head slightly to appear as if I'm staring far off...
Your legs are beautiful and shapely,
and as you cross your legs,
you let one shoe slide off your foot a bit...
I am no longer myself...

You can't tell I look at you,
because my eyes don't show through,
looking hard and making passes...
through the rims...
of my dark sun glasses...

I move up over your body,
admiring your curves and features...
Your lips are maddeningly beautiful,
I am lost...

On the downtown streets on Saturday,
at the theaters after matinee,
I check out all the lovely lasses,
through the rims of my dark sun glasses...

As you get up to leave,
your presence stays...

It is a ghost,
and it torments me...

For My Father

2007-06-16T23:50:00.000-05:00

It is difficult to express the significance of your presence in my life...

For years I feared you, but it kept me in line

For years I hated you, but I was immature

For years I avoided you, but I was avoiding myself

Then, one magical day, I delivered a life into my world...

And I was unprepared for the power she had over me

And for years I have run to you for knowledge and comfort

For years I have turned to you for support, the ever steadfast champion of my causes...even when the world thinks I'm wrong

And now as an adult I can look at you as a man, my father, and say thank you for remaining firm when I needed it, gentle when I didn't understand, and a believer when I could not believe in myself.

You are, as you always have been, my gravitational center,

And a mark for me as a father, and a man...

Into the Abyss

2007-06-03T14:02:00.000-05:00

I have known him all my life, and as friends go he has been my best.

As boys we talked and laughed,

And ran under the eyes of the endless sun.

But he has been poisoned against me.

Not by words, not by deed, but by a vile liquid that turns man to beast.

I do not recognize him,

I do not know him.

He descends into the darkness where only despair and misery awaits.

He wants me to follow...

I am resolved, no matter what this mass of flesh says to me, he is not my friend.

My friends was murdered and replaced by this shadow.

I must now turn my back,

And walk away...

Majestic, Gentle Sands...

2007-05-08T23:21:00.000-05:00

I found myself far removed from my desert home.
Many miles away an unfamiliar environmental aroma engulfed me.
I could no longer see the sky.
I could no longer bathe in the sun.
I could no longer hear the stars so they could whisper me to sleep.
But there was the sand…
The edge of the world my ancestors would have called it…
To me it felt like standing on the edge of forever.
The great ocean, powerful and merciless, was a paradox,
For her song was a gentle ebb and flow that lulled me to sleep…
In my dreams I stood in the water.
I did not know where I was,
But a presence called to me…
It was my uncle, now dead, who beckoned me back to the sands to sit and talk…
We laughed.
We talked.
We walked together as friends along the sand…
He then turned to me and told me to send his love to the family…
And to my sadness he continued to walk where I could not follow.
I awoke to the sun, unusually bright for this land…
His final gift to me, it made me long for my home,
And the majestic, gentle sands and the endless sun.

2007-04-23T23:47:00.000-05:00

More? Visit The Photoholics Anonymous

Or Check Out
Sun Up Till Sun Down

I hope everyone is doing well!

Saludos Fitness Club...

2007-04-01T05:17:00.000-05:00

Pictures of me and my friends from Rickard Fitness Club, from our latest photo session...

Fore more pictures and movies from Rickard, visit: www.rickardfitness.blogspot.com

Among the Ashes

2007-03-13T22:12:00.000-05:00

In the pyre I send my friend. His time has come...

But I will find him among the ashes...

His spirit will flow to the wind...

His words will whisper in my dreams...

His touch will find me in the rain...

His smile will come with the morning sun...

But he will be among the ashes...

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust...

A part of him I will keep forever...

Before it I will kneel...

Before it I will pray...

Before it I will laugh...

Before it I will cry...

For he is among the ashes...

Forever committed beyond this world...

Where ashes are reborn to whole anew...

Metamorphosis

2007-02-19T04:50:00.000-05:00

I am no longer in control...

There she is...the last time I saw her I drew my hand across the small of her back that was exposed by her shirt...she rose up on her toes slightly at my touch and quietly sighed...

My calm demeanor betrays the raging fire beneath the surface...

I debate with myself but can a man convince a hurricane to be calm and steady? No, he cannot; and neither can I quiet the storm within me...it has a will of its own.

They say that love is the strongest emotion; but love will only purify you for the next life...

Equally, hate will poison you for the same...

Happiness brings stability and calm...

Sadness...melancholy, depression, and non action...

But lust...

From across great oceans and across deathly terrain men have ventured...

Armies have met on the field of battle and lay ruin to each other...

Great nations have shook and fallen by its hand...

The power of lust is like no other in this life...on this world.

My mind is no longer my own...my will enslaved...

She is gravitational, I feel myself falling to her...I do not wish to slow my decent.

Beast I am, Beast I become

I will take her...I will feel a pulse of terrifyingly powerful pleasure that will start at the point of contact and wrap around me through my skin from my head and toes, while simultaneously moving through me to the very center of my psyche...It is a feeling I know well...It is a pleasure so powerful that it shatters my consciousness and strips away my humanity and reason with an electricity that leaves me a savage...primordial.

I will forget who I am...only where I'm at...I will drive myself and her until we are utterly spent...only then will I return to myself...the man slowly returning, as if from a dream...or like the fog giving way to power of the sun...satisfied, the beast will sleep...

Night Sweats...

2007-02-05T23:40:00.000-05:00

It was truly forbidden...

I didn't mean too but I've watched her for so long...my love, happily elsewhere...was quietly and slowly put to sleep...it was a transformation.

Over time my guilt faded. She was in our group of friends...I tried not to look at her, but her skin was taunting me...and she knew it.

...Her nails dug into my scalp as she pulled me close to her...then on top of her...I felt like Rabbit getting pounced by Tigger...except I didn't complain.

She always dressed provocatively...and as I looked longer and longer...her clothes became more and more revealing.

Her body was hard. She always made a point to hug me, and slowly draw her hands across my back as she pulled away. I would then spend the rest of my night trying to deescalate...as if I had chased a suspect down...it was truly thrilling...

We would barely let each other up for air...our embrace was so tight...in a single move she took off my shirt and then hers...

We finally got to a point where she would stare back...and smile.

Her hands were all over me now...no more clothes.

Then one day, she mouthed the words..."I want you"...

We met at her house shortly after that...I walked to her...she smiled and walked back. She fell back on the couch and pulled me with her...

I was lost...her body was incredible...her hands and mouth all over me...our sweat causing our bodies to glide over each other...

Then...Ecstasy...

I woke up...I didn't know where I was. I looked over and next to me lay reality...sweat dripping down my face...

I got up and went outside to watch the moon...I could no longer sleep...

Looking for Inspiration

2007-01-21T12:30:00.000-05:00

As many know, the art of writing is like any art...it requires inspiration. As I sit I can feel an emptiness fill my brain...it begins to choke me and I can hardly breath.

I stare at the page before me. It stares back..."Well?" it asks...I do not have an answer.

Finally, in frustration, the page jumps out from the computer and sits on my desk and lights a cigarette.

Page: "Listen buddy, I don't have all day. Write something or turn me off."

Me: "What do you care? Its not like you're going somewhere or have something to do. Just sit and wait and it'll come to me."

Page: "Oh, so I'm just some mindless forum for you to spout that psycho-crime babble to? Do you have any idea how many people actually write on a daily basis? A whole lot. And, unlike you, they have talent."

Me: "You don't think I have talent?"

Page: "Sure. If you call giving people nightmares talent, then yea, you've got it."

Me: "I write on other things besides crime! You can't just say my work is exclusively creepy..."

Page: "Yea...sex. That's what everyone wants to know about you..."

Me: "But I know those things well...I've gotten some good responses from people."

Page: "They're probably afraid of you ."

Me: "You're an asshole."

Page: "I'm going now. I'm going to find someone with real talent. Not some freak who sits in the dark thinking about sex and violence all day long...(laughing)...creep."

The page put his cigarette out on my hand and jumped back into the screen, but not before throwing me a finger...

From a Distance

2006-12-28T23:15:00.000-05:00

I saw you today. You don't who I am and I don't know your name but you moved me...

I learned your name today. I went out of my way to walk into your office, using some poor excuse as an explanation of business...your eyes were enchanting...they pulled me deep into you, and called me further.

I sat and talked to you today. Your voice was sweet as a summer breeze and I forgot who I was.

I walked with you today. We talked and laughed...about nothing...and everything. Just to hear your voice say my name...that would have been enough.

I took you out today. My mind raced with hope...

I kissed you today. Your lips were soft. I don't remember much after that...I awoke in my bed late that night...my blood burned...

I fell into you today. I haven't walked past the gates of heaven as yet...but if I did, I'd swear I'd be back inside you...I kissed you down your spine...felt your skin, and you took me away...I still burn for you...

I fell in love with you today. It wasn't our friends, our laughing, your smile, or the way you feel when you're wrapped around me. It was the way the sun ran across your face as you closed your eyes while bathing in its rays...

I married you today. Your dress was flowing and your hair caught the breeze. You purified me and made me anew...

I stood in confusion. You walked away from me and in flash I am back on Earth...your skin no longer touching mine. You didn't mean too; you were standing next to me.

I am watching you walk away...I will follow.

Finger Tips So Gently...

2006-12-16T00:21:00.000-05:00

My friend was shot today. The entire Area Command was in chaos. Our commander was stressed...

Good news is that my friend lived and the suspect's in custody...I'm dissapointed he's alive.

It was a pointed reminder that life can be short. And it was a point that my wife made a connection with...

My wife...what she does to me. I remember the first time I saw her in her entirety...a purple shirt and black skirt...her skin drove me crazy even before I felt it. I just knew.

I arrived home from a day of complete emotional turmoil...if my friend had died, he would have been the forth officer to die in our city in less than eight months. We waited on edge...

She saw it on me...felt it...and as she always does she took me from a place far away, to a place far away with her...a place only she can take me.

With a soft devilish smile, and few words, she kissed me deep and passionately. She brought me to her and bared my skin so it could touch hers.

I fell into her, as I did six years ago, and swam in her passion. Her love purified me. The fear and anger faded from me and all that existed was her.

With her finger tips on my skin and our bodies fused she spent me like only she can...her soft breath and gentle kisses lulled me even further into her as I lay next to her...her fingers still caressing my skin.

She made today ok...and she made me able to face tomorrow...

A portrait of the Self-Claimed Poet. The last trials.

2006-12-09T06:22:00.000-05:00

Welcome friends,
for the last time. My story has finally come to an end. The inspiration which fed for years the home-keeping creation of The Self-Claim Poet (as I called my previous self), begun to expire much much earlier. I still don't know why, what to do... Did the volcano died out, or is it just sleeping? I still have general plans of new projects, which some seem very exciting to me... But I cannot push them through my emotional up to the hands... I think that the problem might be the lack of adecuate education, creative techniques... Maybe bad karma...?

Below I present you last two poems from the group of four, which have been last four pieces I have ever written... I think it was about 2002, but they lack dates...

„The poems are hiding”

The poems are hiding
Inside closets like rats
The poems are hiding
In wardrobes
Like stocks of clothing
They quail in fear
Down cope in the bedroom
The poems
Reek maggots in the corners
And blow off the candles of new poems
Like death

Tłum, Rafał Gadomski, 03-11-2006

“The aspects of defeat”

Mines of uncertainity under the walls of your city
Bombs of uncertainity droped all over your city
Automobiles full of dodgy prisoners,
Taken on uncertain warfares,
Your city full of prisoners…
And candour
Audacious
Innocent
Picked over in the wardrobe
In fugacious colours
Frigid, possesive, unmannered…

Mines of uncertainty under the ruins of Your city
Bombs of uncertainty on the ruins of Your city
No left prisoners – uncertain
From Your city – into the captive…
Will tremble Earth – Your city will tremble

Tłum. Rafał Gadomski 03-22-2006

Those pieces talk for themselfs. Were is war and death, and defeat, there is no space for poetry.. I guess I wasn't to strong but, I have to admit one thing... This writing has changed my life for good, and in positive sence. Only take into consideration the fact that today I'm sharing all those with you, which I wouldn't consider a few weeks ago. One never knows what the future will bring...

I have one advice for all fellas who feel the inspiration. Never be afraid of writing, and write as much as you are able to... Improve you're technique, and sensitivity.

Big thanks to CSOMETIMES... Your invitation was for me a chance to dig into my memory, and revive some old feelings which I thought had felt asleep forever... Thanks C...

And I still don't say the last goodbye... I still owe some stuff!!! While studying economy (have had to change to cultural studies because of statistics and math which kicked me off), I've been spending most of my time in the Warsaw's School of Economics cafeteria, writing short stories. I have four of them, still not translated, and it seems really a huge project to rewrite them into english. But I'm thinking, I'm thinking about it...

So friends, no goodbyes...

I'LL BE BACK!!!

The Fires of Conservation

2006-12-02T13:57:00.000-05:00

We are the bane of your existence...

The keepers of great lies...

The bringers of great destruction,

The harbinger of pestilence and misery...

We pray to thee God...

We pray for your soul

We pray for inspired wisdom on your behalf

We pray for your eyes opened

We pray for ours, shut...

We pray for your containment

We pray for your judgement

We pray for your pain

We pray for your death...

So saith the Lord...

From my forked tongue I will lash at thee

For you shed light on my "truth"

From the tip of my sword I will bleed thee,

For your wisdom weakens me...

My rifle is ready...through my scope I can see thee...

I will be God's hand...

Amen

"Dreams and Expactance". Another chapter.

2006-12-02T07:05:00.000-05:00

Hello there.

The story of The Self-Claimed Poet is slowly comming to an end. For unknown reasons the source of inspiration within, which have fed his expierience thtoughout the past few years is slowly expiering. Within the two years time, he doesn't write anything. Yet in the 2001 surges another project of his. It is called "Dreams and Expactance", and its clue is to describe some of the dreams he have had and he had considered important throughout his live. The dreams are about nothing, but many people still consider them important, or even being the roadsings for the living. So did The Self-Claimed Poet, and this is the way in which he tells goodbye to some of the major roadsings of his. Not all the poems from this output are translated. This is, again, a selection:

The child of Yours (?)
Have rushed to me this one more time
From the chamber of Yours,
Through the lobby,
That may this one more time get ensured:
“Tu mama
tiene los ojos mas bellos del mundo”*

*”The mom of Yours
has the most beautiful eyes in the world”

trans., Rafał Gadomski, 03-11-2006

II.

I will stand and await
For You on the crossing,

Hopeful that you will come
And hold out both your hands to me

And we will freeze like this one more moment
Hopefully

May once again
Look straight into each others eyes

Therefore will arrive one day,
When I’ll be there, in Africa,
Engaged
With my own work for my money.
You'll arrive,
You travel around for your own money.
You'll stand
And you will stay.

Trans. Rafał Gadomski, 03-11-2006

Note, that the violent tone of the expieriences written down in the first collection, has vanished completely. This looks very positive to me... And it still looks kinda trivial. Just like the dreams use to be... ;)

I'll be with you the next Saturday, to finally enclose that adventure, with one last article about my past expieriences. See you then, friends...

RG

For continuation see:

A portrait of the Self-Claimed Poet. The last trials.

An Inconvenient Truth

2006-12-01T20:59:00.000-05:00

Here is a few more pictures from my natures wallpaper site.

Here is the movie An Inconvenient Truth. Watch it while it lasts they have already pulled it from google video once. Please let me know what you think...

I Feel Christmas

2006-11-30T15:31:00.000-05:00

A poem by a fellow member of the Wole Soyinka Society - Folu Agoi.

I FEEL CHRISTMAS

I feel Christmas in whispering winds
Thirsty winds bathing homeland with gold powder;
I feel Christmas in gold-washed homeland.

I feel Christmas in chilly breeze
Freezing breeze breathing fresh mist
Mint mist venting piquant scents
Spicy scents stifling stale sweat-stained scents.

I feel Christmas in heat haze
Hot haze scorching spent beings
Bent beings bowing slowly
Slowly yielding life to virginal seeds.

I feel Christmas in furious gales
Fuming storms fanning forest fires
Irate fires swallowing squalid lodgings
Sleazy lodgings shielding feral creatures.

I feel Christmas in trustful toddlers
Trusting toddlers stalking sauntering Santas
Strolling Santas sowing hope of bounteous banquets
High hope heightened by blank carols
Bare carols blazing round famished Santas.

I feel Christmas in treasured homeland
Forested homeland of immortal hope.

– Folu Agoi

"On the road to...". High times and beyond.

2006-11-25T07:00:00.000-05:00

Good morning.

Althought it is already midday. Today, just like promissed last week, I will continue the story of The Self-Claimed Poet enclosed on the pages of his self-issued book with poems named "On the road to...". As far as the first part of it was self-depicting, the second one is rather disturbant... Why? It is not hard to guess, that even The Young Guy has gone through what our (western) culture has got to offer to young people. And what it has got to offer, then? Drinks, drugs and dame... Fuck that. Eventually, the strong will not get cought.

I will release my objection today, and show you how The Self-Claimed Poet struggled to not to get nailed into the trap of three dimensional living (existence), to be strong...

This first poem that I wanted to quote today has no title, and it talks straight about this struggle of the self-claimed poet to escape from a world, in which he is submerged since his return from Caracas, which is the world of emerging vogue for consumptionism, and even relishing with consumption of a western kind, consumption of everything, which of course in most cases affects mostly that of a lower kind.

* * * (07-02-1998)

I run away
I run away from my Morrison

He overtakes me
He overtakes cuddles lets go

And he sings
He sings “Moon of Alabama”

Look
Look left lonely sexy mama

Eat it
Eat it
Eat and smoke
Eat and try

Ignite yourself
Burn

“..I tell you we must die…”

trans. Rafał Gadomski, 01-11-2006

And if you have had any doubts about, if american way of live affects the lifes of the citizens of newly westernized states of the old communist block in the worst way, you don't have to burden. The dissease spreads easily, along with McDonalds restaurants and shoping malls...

The second piece is something a bit more personal. It is, I guess, a picture of some mental sickness or degenaration, caused by this style of living; parting, smoking, drinking, clubbing, chaos... But today I feel that this was not only my sickness, but the social one, which of course has got to be cured, and I consider this piece very rewarding. I wouldn't remember those states of mind today, I would forget...

* * * (17-03-1998)

i revive only while i’m transforming
from fluent state into liquid
and liquid to wash and conversely
it’s too much of this
dream
wakefulness
not dream
dream wakefulness
it’s to much to dimly

i revive only when i’m befalling
not myself maybe her or else neither
and conversely
very not different then yesterday
not appointed not wanted
most often inside a bus
once in tube, in state of vigil

i revive only while considering
that it’s now it’s time it came it will be
i revive like right about now
and conversely…

Trans. Rafał Gadomski, 01-11-2006

And the third tune for today is a little bit more intense, but it talks about the same problems, just seen from a different angle, from the point of view of a witness... Have you ever killed a mosquito, or a spider, a fly, whatever? Everybody kills mosquitos but, are you aware that you kill while you do this? For some people killin' a mosquito is something like checking the hour on their wrist-whatch...

* * * (19-02-1998)

i’ve waited for the bus today
i’ve waited…
i’ve waited…
and i came by at least
they arrived two at the time
they will go different routes, but they will stop were they are supposed to
in the place where i’m living
i don’t mind…
i don’t mind…
i have taken place
i see, a gnat flutters somnolent
at this season he is a spinaker
the mob gathered round
why does he fly so slow? maybe he is drunk?
(yes, he was drunk a little)
is he drunk? maybe a junkie?
(yes, he was bit stoned)
yes
yes
and bechanced the execution
bang death
five rifles on one soldier have become
what has been done?
what has been done?
it has resorbed and that’s what has been done
it’s become
dead

just maybe
just maybe
just maybe he was herold of the fall
whispered the innocence
in fine it’s the end of february
no…likely a drunkard
no…likely a junkie

laugh though o laughers
the spring will come anyway
and fulfill its obligation
will increase the rats
will increase the cocroaches
will increase the mosquitos
will increase the expectance
expectance
laugh though o laughers

trans. Rafał Gadomski, 02-10-2006

Well, was I the witness, or maybe it was me, the mosquito? I still bethink this one today...

And the last one for today, is something which goes beyond that chaos. I think that, for this collection it is a kind of a road sign... It has no date, suprisingly, and it was the penultimate piece in the album.

* * *

I’m coming back to home
Where the sky is navy blue
And the grass dulls during spring
The oranges grow at the Christmas tree
And they astride with the orange all the other sweets
Where every television set is in colour
And the songs are sculptured in the vinyl
Like the smile of Beethoven to the dimension of rustle
Wind is singing the moods
And the sun delights at autumn the pastel coloured leafs
Every wander is
The wood
The wall of Citadel
Or a wondering puppy
Where our settlement is round and it rotates around the sun
And all around it rotate the galaxies
Where candies sweeten
And the sea is salty and it licks our heels
Where I am a sphere
And where we are all rotating round the Sunday dining table

Trans. Rafał Gadomski, 03-11-2006

And that is how this chapter of the story is closing. The self-claimed poet finally is on the road... He have set, left his friends, and beauty quenns from his area, empacked his papers and gone. Where will his road lead to? Hell? Home? Maybe some other area? Who knows...

I will be back next week, but this time I want to tell you a different story... See you next saturday then... Bye.

RG

For continuation see:

"Dreams and Expactance". Another chapter.

Update

2006-11-23T23:42:00.000-05:00

Here are a couple pictures I have posted recently at Natures Wallpaper. I also started a group for Photoholics Anonymous for anyone you would like to join.

My recommended viewing, please take some time out and watch the video, it is amazing that these scientists will put their face on camera...

Tainted One

2006-11-22T21:09:00.000-05:00

I will do something very unusual and turn away from the topics I normally address and post some of my writings...

This psalm called "Tainted One" is one I wrote when trying to gain insight to my own life...I was in a state of anger at the time...enjoy...

With the anger of my life I have tainted my soul. It is the impurity of anger that weighs heavily, and to again breath, the weight must be lifted. I turned to the Sun, the father of sight, to show me the path. The Sun became brighter than my eyes could stand and an image of me was burned on the ground. I sought mother Moon and asked her to hide my anger, but my anger blacked out the stars and I could no longer find my way. I turned to the Mountain, the silent guardian, for the answer. But my anger was so heavy, the rocks beneath me crumbled even as I climbed to the answer. I stood in the rain, hoping that its pure waters would cleanse my spirit. The rain could not wash me, my anger was too dry to accept the water. I went home defeated. I stood in front of the mirror and confronted anger. I complained to anger that he was too heavy, and commanded that he leave. Anger then responded: "Release me".

"On the road to...". The beginning.

2006-11-18T04:36:00.000-05:00

Welcome friends.

The series about the life and inspiration of The Self-Claimed Poet continues, as I promised last week, it enters today a new stage...Within the scattered and loose pieces that he composes, many still are dull and of no value (at least for himself), but then there are more and more pieces among them, which he begins to consider important for him. And there are enough of them to make a selection. Today I don't remember, where this idea of gathering the few poems into a compilation came from. But I still remember the keynote of this book. It was, of course, describing myself. Released (xero-copied) in "very limited edition", it was eventually given as present to a very limited group of friends and familiars...It contains 14 poems, which are ordered in a way that best fits its goal.

I don't want to present all of them, (and I've translated only some of them), but I still have to divide those into two tematic groups. This first one I called it "The beginning". It describes well the principles of the self-claimed poet...Today I see them as the routs of a beautiful tree which is growing until today, and eventually bares fruits...

The first piece with no title, is the one which opens the collection:

* * * (01-02-1998)

Write out all your letters today
Dispatch the heart
And all the kisses
Tommorow is hiding past the moon
And the moon behind your window
When you have had the morning shower
Another of the good men
Took his pill for the eternal
Enternal is a dread fever…
Weep out all your tears today
Only Earth goes crying…
Have an ample supper
Drink some good vinous…
And if you will wake up tommorow
Write out all your letters today
Dispatch the heart
And all the kisses

Trans. Rafał Gadomski, 29-10-2006

The second piece is very self-depicting:

* * * (07-02-1998)

it’s so few that i possess

a few words
some sounds
some of the colours
insidious flavour
and the dewy morning
wind blow on my cheeks
comfortable longs
with two trouser pockets
myself

it ain’t many, just this one world as demesne

my own stars
the moon
streets full of nightmares
on the private fall
the rose that I’m loaning
my own three side-tracks
and my own fires
between the two temples
in me

Trans. Rafał Gadomski, 30-10-2006

And it continues with this third piece:

* * * (01-03-1998)

the clouds
my ambassador nowhere nil
the uniquely…
a straw helmet
a steely sombrero
cap with feather
the play
in two acts of infiltration
a classified message about a childbirth
coder of each moment
for several
all museums of everything
for every
overhead and around
beside the speech
and beside…
the barnacles of the clever eye
my ambassador nowhere nil
and beside…

Trans. Rafał Gadomski, 31-10-2006

The piece below is very beautiful (at least I stil consider it so). It is called "The letter", and it talks about something which is common to every man, which is the quest for love, the one and only...

„The letter” (25-01-1997)

I seek you…
I seek in an opened book
And in the aureate droplets of cofee gamboling on the table.
I seek in the intense notes,
Putting out to the air idely with a stream of azure tinted satin
From the exhausted trumpet of an old gramophone
And in hand,
Stretched out at night-time for the welcoming of the brand new day.
I see everyday into the heart of an old wall clock,
Which murmurs low voice in the corner with unbroken bas.
Maybe you sit there,
And you row with the cuckoo that the time does not live.
I once have waken up a lamp, which slept in the corner,
Looking for you one at a time
In tones of the cigarette smoke,
Which sauntered around below the lampshade philosophizing in silence,
Tightely wraped in the starry robe of the midnight.
I’ve quested on and on…
And I got so tired with the seeking,
That it was sufficient that the dream have pulled me softly
And I rolled into his warm opened-arms.
But I’ll start to seek again tomorrow,
As soon as I will wake up…
I do promise…

Trans., Rafał Gadomski, 01-11-2006

And the last one, indicates something which is common to our modern societies...Sites full of passersby...And it has no date. Pobably something about 1997-1998.

* * *

people people

in me

to me

seer off me

beside me

good morning

or then less likely

do i meet them

or maybe i only omit them?

and well what for…

actually?

Trans. Rafał Gadomski, 31-10-2006

Within those pieces, I still find today elements which are characteristic of my personality today. Is that because there was some of the truth in them, or I just long to be somene like him...? I can't say...Of course almost everything changed since, but not everything. And, of course, that is not yet the end of the portrait...Expect continuation of "On the road to..." next saturday...See you then...Bye.

For continuation see:

"On the road to...". High times and beyond.

Chasing Coyotes

2006-11-14T22:27:00.000-05:00

I stare at the map almost in a mindless haze...I do it every day. I know instinctively that the dots represent, not just a crime, but a victim. But there's something else...

The dots...are you agitating my dots? No, actually I'm attempting to understand the dots. The dots talk...

I come to realize that the dots are more than dots...each one is its own life...coming together with all the others to form a single large life. It grows, it changes, it begins, and it ends. It is ever evolving...

What is it? I don't know exactly...maybe I'm catching the face of insanity. But it has no face, it has no name, so what is it?

In our world where the sun beats down the weak and is survived by the durable and the intrepid, there is a creature that fits such a description...he is a paradox...he is a coyote.

The Native Americans call the coyote the trickster...he is the bringer of chaos and fault in man. The trickster plays with my mind...I know it is the coyote in the great map but I cannot see his form...

I hear the coyote crying in the wind...but the tears that flow come from the victims of chaos and disorder.

The coyote, he moves...I can see his tracks but I cannot find him...

Ultimately, I can only beat the coyote by playing his game...I play tricks back...and take little pieces of him away. I will beat him at the great game, one piece at a time...

A portrait of the Self-Claimed Poet. The emerging beauty.

2006-11-11T06:10:00.000-05:00

Dear Friends.

I did promise to continue the story of the Self-Claimed Poet, the story of my own inspiration for the poetical trials, of a path which I followed in the search for my own self, which eventually led me to... And here I am though.

I called this second chapter of the story "The emerging beauty". It regards to this part of the process of forming conscieusness of the self-claimed poet, in which he begins to develope certain aesthetical skills. I guess every man owns this kind of sensibility, some fully discovered, some waiting for a revival... Just recall the primitive paintings from cages in southern France, or the Venus from Milo sculpture... The man is an artist, you just need to give him a chance...
Thus the self-claimed poet improves his techniques through the process of purgation and, at the same time, his sensibility is improving... Still he writes many pieces, to cover and archive his impressions about the being, but among them some are more interesting, then the others...

This first piece that I wanted to recall today, tells about a misterious adventure with the being, expierienced by a young man, which is something that I don't ever go through today with all my schedules, duties and faked promptness... But still recalling this expierience pervades me with a sense of something more than just "life sucks"... Nothing happens twice, Guys...
And take notice, from the technical point of view, at the changes in the tempo of this little piece.

* * * (03-03-1999)

the city runs
i run faster then the city
i dive into the flood of sidewalks
i spread involuntary pidgeons
i curse the red light
and invoke the God of double-deckers

but the bus is not coming
it disinforms with voices
of the risk of fancy
disarranges

the world swells and bursts at seams
and time blows up the narrow cage
point B zooms out from point A
and dissapears far beyond
horizon of my daily schedule

and again
i observe well known places in search
of the unknown
(i mix with it descretely)
and apparently by accident
i come across people admitted defunct

Trans. Rafał Gadomski, 28-10-2006

This second piece talks about the rising sensitivity for beauty of the self-claimed poet... The beauty, the national culture which he begins to aknowledge, through reading, listening... Just enough for a sensitive student...

* * * (11-06-1998)

between Chopin and Szymborska
i light
the first cigarette of tomorrow
jamed into a backlash
and wraped
i copulate with a fresh piece of paper
redolent
teared into half-tones
i’m sinking
rarefied
i begin and i end
smoky i adore
half a second away

Trans. Rafał Gadomski, 27-10-2006

Copulating with a piece of paper... I guess it is the quintestence of all this adventure of the self-claimed poet... :)

And the last example for today. There is something else about the Self-Claimed Poet, which I still didn't mention which, of course, is very important... The writing is rarely enough for him... The fire which burns within him is just to big... Writing isn't the only bull that he takes by the horns... He tries to draw, paint, but most importantly, he is fascinating with the music... He studies music, and he spents hours practicing on his favourite instrument... And he listens...

There comes this piece, entitled (!!!) "MILES"... Don't have to explain this title, cause the piece talks for itself... I don't know how will this translation, but I still consider this one of the most beautiful pieces I have ever written during that period...

„MILES” (27-08-1997)

the trumpet
penetrates with a dream
into unscent
passageways
and it propagates silkily
a cold metal
but it burns
and it gilds pearly
like a drop of honey
on a spoon of crockery
it’s that motive
from air foundry the bull
from the spanish circus
served on tray
like spinnaker
steals air from the breath
and it wants
that the sound does never die
and the day it never comes

Trans. Rafał Gadomski, 27-10-2006

The beauty which begins to emerge from within those pieces of paper which the self-claimed poet encovers with his writing, is transforming the world around him into a better, and more beautiful place to live... But here is when the problems begins. Well guys, don't be to hypocritique, the world is not the perfect place to live... And here starts the challenge which I want to tell you about next week... The challenge of a young man, conscious and sensitive, in search of love and his own space within the corrupted society... And this is the one which does not sieze until today...

See you next Saturday friends,
RG

For coninuation see:

"On the road to...". The beginning.

A stain of honor

2006-11-10T10:00:00.000-05:00

My brother and I stood silent vigil as life slipped from his body...With tears flowing down, I stood at attention. My father had to leave the room.

It was a cloudy, stormy day when our boys...his friends...landed in France to face the Great Evil of Our Time. He was lucky, he arrived three days later. Still, under one George S. Patton Jr., General of the Third Army, life would not be blissful for long. For they were tasked with entering the lions den, and pushing the bloody sword back in its sheath...

With a 70% casualty rate the Third Army boldly attended to its duty, smiting the enemy with cruel steel and small points of lead. Outside of Germany on the French boarder my Grandfather was wounded doing his duty when his friend stepped on a land mine...I keep his Purple Heart. He didn't know it at the time, but his grandson would be serving in the Third Army 50 years later.

My father and I followed proudly in his foot steps, giving three generation of love for our country through the United States Army. There are many paths of patriotism and national pride, but we chose this one...it is in our blood. Every morning when I checked my uniform, my Father and Grandfather would greet me in the mirror, I would feel their strength, and their love and pride for yet another generation standing on the alter of freedom.

I was 19 and in the last week of Basic Training when the Gulf War began...I trembled to my bones and called to spirits of my father and grandfather that have remained in the Army (every soldier leaves his spirit, its why we are strong), to give me courage that I should not falter in face of my enemy...I was lucky, I was never called upon to perform my duty, but I would have...I would have...

I love you Grandpa and I miss you...thank you for your service...
I love you Dad, you have been an inspiration...thank you for your service...

A portrait of the Self-Claimed Poet. Awakening consciousness.

2006-11-04T05:38:00.000-05:00

Hello Everybody!

Finally I managed, to translate those poems I've been promising earlier into English. There are about two dozens and only chosen ones, so I must publish in footage, though they form a certain story, that I wanted to tell you. It is a story of an inspiration of unknown source, and of insatiable desire for creation. It is a story of the Self-Claimed Poet. But first, who is a self-claimed poet? Lets define the frames of this idea. It is a person who without any plan or outside persuasion, starts a long-going process of creation of an artistic (ideological) kind, making progress and aknowledging self, who's unique fuel is the fire that burns within, the unknown source of inspiration. Being this a talent, a gift, an alien radiation from outa space? Whatever...

It has all begun at 08-03-1996, with a philosophical motto, and a poem named "The Rose". Was that march or august? I don't remember today... Then it was dozens of poems. I still have them all stored but, they are not too interesting. First one which riveted my attention, while revising the notebook in search of candidates for the translation, was the one below. It is interesting. Althought a cripple from the technical point of view, it contains those germs of awakening self-consciousness, which is one of the most important features in telling a self-claimed poet from a versemonger. Suprisingly, this one has a title (most of the later poems does not).

"A Fairtale about an old man", 22-12-1996

on one sunny day
i came along a little stream
and i glanced at my reflection
carried with the lively current
in milions o copies
like a warrant of caption
which the live has sent after me

painted with watercolour
on a lacklustre canvas
an old grey-haired man wearing rags looked at me
you could tell he knows about life
but a little’s what he lives
curved around with his own beard
like with chain of past expierience and nightmares
which constrains him
suffocating eyes it steals his breath
he looked just puny

fed two times a day with daily handful of illusions
he have barely had the force to think
therefore the thoughts of his
sailing high like kites on the wind
dirty they were and exhausted
like himself he was
and their weight didn’t ever let any of them climb high enough
to flash in the sun for the solace of an old heart

i took out a small copper box
and i scarfed the old man straight in his face

perfect rings have spread effulgent on the surface of the water
tearing it to hundred pieces
and the current duplicated in milions of copies
the message about the birth of a new man

trans. Rafał Gadomski, 25.11.2006

If you wonder what was inside the small cooper box, it was the one in which i stored my weed. And of course it was pathetic, but i still think it is pretty Buddhist like. Don't you think?

This other one tells a little bit about the way that this strange poetical inspiration worked. That's why I consider it important. And, of course, it has no title.

* * * (18-12-1996)

it usully acts at night
when i lay quietly
and think
and the words flutter around like little birds
sometimes one of them knuckles down
and begins to peck his name
with white syllables
in the navyblue mistness of my mind
sometimes
they knuckle down a few
and then emerges a poem

trans. Rafał Gadomski, 26-10-2006

This one that I present below, is a characteristic piece of something that I would call a separate stream in this early output. It was connected with some psychological expieriences concerning females. None of flash, just the hadache. This one is, I think, the most elaborated.

* * * (30-12-1996)

prostrated in half
and the strenght sets off me
like from a broken bottle
it is berely enough
to write down incrimination
against myself
formerly the owner
today i only rent
this house
set upside down
paying a steep price
in tears
which flow like waterfalls
inside my head
spreading havoc
and tearing out all
priorly planted trees
along with their roots

trans. Rafał Gadomski, 26-10-2006

This one has no date (another exception), and it is preety pathetic too. But it reflects again that element of will and conciousness, which emerges slowly from within the other, not important works, and is so important for a self-claimed poet.

* * *

i am looking straight
my eyes are horizontaly
it is me who burns
it is not the shrubbery
i stand and brace myself
i’ve chosen
certain standpoint
i’ll be whom I want to be
the world is changing
when we are missing

Tłum. Rafał Gadomski, 26-10-2006

In the poem below, we can observe another interesting process in the work of a self-claimed poet. His technique is improving. Nobody is reading his poems, and he barely receives any feedback. But he reads himself. That's how he improves his outcome and, at the same time, he improves himself. He is the writer, but he is also the reader. He can improve what he does not like in what he reads. This influence that he has over his creation makes him improve, and eventually, develope satisfaction.

* * * (11-02-1998)

i’m a drop in the ocean of needs
a drop of insatiable desire
to be
a drop which could appease
somebody’s else desire
a drop of chance
within chance
and by chance
in the chance ocean of another
drops
an ocean which parry
by chance…
divine…

trans. Rafał Gadomski, 27-10-2006

And the last example. Take notice at the elements of humour.

* * * (27-06-1999)

first star
what am i about to ask you for first star?
first star
don’t fulfill my desires, please
(they tend to be to greedy)
shine
let me know you
point direction south
let me love you
first star
perhaps you’re just a communication satellite
signed with a serial number?
it is so hard to tell you both these days…
shine
first star first satellite
shine
on the road…

trans. Rafał Gadomski, 28-10-2006

Awakening consciousness of self, through writing, and reading, and writing again, and reading...
It is a very long process. But it is worth. Eventually, from the mess, a new beauty is about to be born. But this I will tell you about next week...

See you friends

For continuation see:

A portrait of the Self-Claimed Poet. The emerging beauty.

Ifa oracle diviner

2006-11-01T08:59:00.000-05:00

Have you ever heard about the african oracle Ifa? I find this blog, made by my college from Wole Soyinka Society Toyin Adepoju very interesting from the artistical, philosophical, and poetical point of view...

I met a man who wasn't there...

2006-10-25T21:21:00.000-05:00

I remember many things from my time overseas...Great beer, adventure in a foreign land, unusual food, interesting women, the thunderous sounds of our war machine, and some of the best people...

But what would the light be without the dark? Time to turn off the lights...

I stood at the grave in awe. A giant cement slab on the ground whispered the single most punctuated statement of who this man was...is?

Amid the quaint cobblestone streets of Kitzingen Germany is a cemetery that holds a secret...Vlad Tepes...Vlad the Impaler...sleeps. Is he hungry? is he tired of sleeping? Is he even in his grave like a good little butcher? We don't know, and we don't dig to ask...

It's truly a fascinating place to be. His grave is sealed with gates that have a skull with bat wings as its crest...

The blood is the life...

My dear Vlad...what have you done to warrant such a response from your fair citizens? Why do they fear you so?

You drank your enemy's blood...you butchered your own citizens, put them on stakes, bled them, and dipped your bread in their blood...

You tore at their flesh...burned their skin...pulled out their eyes...

Your enemies feared you...they mistook your killing fields and staked bodies for a forest...they ran when they were close enough to see what you had done...

Then you wouldn't die...they had to burn you, stake you, behead you, and cement you into the ground...tsk, tsk...you may not come out...forever.

A requiem for unwanted songs

2006-10-24T15:43:00.000-05:00

I was about leaving my early times, and submerge into reviving wide-spread fields of my memories of past poetic (or maybe quasi poetic) creation during university studies in Poland. But I can't leave without saying a last good-bye, to those unwanted songs, crippled songs, ugly songs, inept songs, which were not much appreciated by the members of my band, most haven't ever been recorded, and majority didn't even have music composed (which I, at that time, noted as simple bars on six-lines tabulature). Unwanted why? Some where my personal favorites... But this is the life of a song... It is for people, not for it's composer. Here are some of the very losers, but does the good mother love less an inferior child?

First of all, the song which was about to be recorded at the band's unique studio session, but have lost at tip of the nose with the earlier "Edge of the needle" (and because of its musical flatness):

DOLL ON THE CHAIN

living half of life
cheap days, cheap nights
it's hard to be a man
being a doll on the chain

have some friends
for the rainy days
but i have no freedom
i'm a doll on the chain

you have the sin
of being born
you can't taste sweet, only sour
you're a doll on the chain

he won't ever see
the face of God
dull live dull death
of a doll on the chain

even have no wish
to find a key
prefer be nothing
be a doll on the chain

07-20-1994

This one below I consider very beautiful. Don't know why we haven't ever rehearsed it. Guess it wasn't to grungy... Or maybe december and cold weren't a perfect match for a song of a Venezuelan band.

CANDLE LIGHT

december noon
the cold is cutting through my body
fire went out
alone in empty, empty house

ch. who's gonna light the candle?
who's gonna close my eyes?
who's gonna cover my wasted body?
who's gonna break the ice?

i felt it
her shadow on the avenue
it fed my hope
a fresh felling, but I don't know what to do

ch.could you light the candle?
could you close my eyes?
could you cover my wasted body?
could you brake the ice?

december noon
the cold is cutting through my body
fire went out
still alone in empty house

06-03-1994

Well this song is very simple in meaning, but while reading it again, I feel something of a compassion for the sensitive youth. And you know what? I work now in a building wich was named for that planet. A coinsidence, or maybe - fate?

STARS OVER SATURN

in my dreams i see the sky over Saturn
it is black and full of moons and shiny stars
with my wings i can fly as high as no one
and get back to quite world of fantasy

in my dreams i used to see the planet Earth
she is black with her lust and self-destruction
with my wings i wish to fly as far as i can
and get back when the fate will be white and clean

04-10-1994

And this last one, hard core stuff. I wonder what will crime analyst say about it, but I swear that the inspiration for the song came 100% a posteriori.

INSTINCTS (MURDERER'S MIND)

step by step i get closer to you
my thoughts my dreams are dominated by you

it seems we're both marked with the same sign
it's our destiny, i can read it in your mind

!i need your blood!

that night i saw deep in your eyes a request
you don't know it, but you asked me for this

it won't be easy, but i'm prepared
in spite of sweetnes, i guess i'm scared

!i need your blood!

i step always behind you, you should feel my breath
i'm the deepest shadow, don't show me your back
i'm dreaming with your heart, beating in my hand
i'm your hidden fears, i'm your aching death

it won't be easy, but i'm prepared
in spite of sweetness, i guess i'm scared

!i need your blood!

10-10-1994

And there were more but, to say the truth, some seem strange to me even today... Maybe I just need more time to understand myself better, but I have to deny that this digging in my past artistic trials, brings a lot of light on my zerking youth. Thanks, will continue soon...

RG

On A Lighter Note...

2006-10-24T12:40:00.000-05:00

The Budding Rose of Sharon (More Pictures)

October Mum's (More Pictures)

My Recommended Viewing (Facing Mass Extinction)
(More Videos)

Philanthropist @ Heart

2006-10-23T21:35:00.000-05:00

So a while back

I had this idea to start a multi-gendered personals site and make a whole buncha $$$ :)

So I spent a whole buncha $$$ and created a site...

But since it's not really making any $$$ I've at times considered trashing it...

So I trashed the idea of trashing it and instead decided to let go of any expectations of income through it.

I think it's way more fun of an idea to just offer it as a "gift" to the world.

No advertising, fees or dues.

If it can make even just a few lives happier then I will have achieved a success after-all! :)

So if ya know anyone who may be interested go ahead...

Make my day... :)

Pleiades-Rising

I love You, I'll Kill You

2006-10-22T11:51:00.000-05:00

A relationship begins as all do...a look, a smile, and a slow exciting progression to the first touch...and a rush to ecstasy.

All is well for a short time...lover's talk, sweet serene inner beauty, and burning passion. Burning...within one of the pair is a festering pain that burns the heart and mind...it will stoke itself to the inevitable glowing, radiating, brand of jealousy and control.

You belong to me...I possess you...I cannot live without you...and I won't let you live without me...

It's a whisper in the dark...a cry into the void. He will be coming...

The female is tired. She can't have friends, can't dress up...she can't go to the store. If she wears make-up she's a whore. One little, two little, three little black eyes...

She's tired of lying, tired of crying, tired of placating the beast with soft words...walking on broken glass...and giving sex to man who has no interest but his own...you will do this for me...

But there's something else...her courage to break this nightmare comes, not from herself, but from the arms of another man. A kind and gentle man...one she knows she deserves.

He pleads, reasons, negotiates, and finally admits his wrong doing. He's sorry...or is he? No, he just wants his control, she won't give it to him...and the fangs begin to drip with saliva generated from the hunger of violence.

After bothering, brooding, analyzing, the obsession takes over...and I'll never hurt you...turns into I love you, I'll kill you...

He enters the cool house that he no longer lives in...but it's mine...Late at night, she hasn't changed the locks...from the heat outside he feels comfort in the familiar cool air in his former domain...

She's asleep...she's mine...he walks up the stairs...to his-her-room...pushes open the door...he can see her figure in the pale moon light...my god she's lovely, she's mine...he pounces, takes her, but something else is happening...

She felt different, he has no control...over her or himself...the visions of other men inside her rise to the surface...he no longer controls her and he hates her for it...

His hands go to her neck and he begins to choke her...he salivates with hate and satisfaction...he cannot stop...her eyes turn red...and its over...

At the foot of her bed he pulls a gun...places it in his mouth...and pulls the trigger...

In control at last...

Reviving memories

2006-10-21T05:54:00.000-05:00

Hi Guys. When CSOMETIMES send to me an invitation to contribute to her blog, I thought that it was a cool idea. Now, I feel really excited. I considered translating some of my old poems written in Polish into English but, when revising my old papers, I found this, covered with a carpet of 10 years old dust. My old songs I've been writing during my college times in the capital of Venezuela, Caracas, for my band "Desnudez Publica". And guess what? What a coincidence, most of them are written in English (most Venezuelans don't speek Polish either). Here are some of my favorites, and I'm sorry that you can't listen to them, but the band was really teririble (althought I still like it's kinda grungy style):

This very first one, which was like a stone, which released the avalanche, was ment as a parody of Nirvana style, which I detested, as a Pearl Jam's newly ignited fan:

I DON'T LIKE MYSELF AND I WANT TO DIE

i don't like myself and i want to die
i don't like myself so i want to suicide

ch. so you kill me X 4

i'm totally useless, and i don't like to work
i need a woman, but i look like jerk

ch.

tommorow i won't exist
you'll see me in my bath, with a razor in my fist
so shake my hand and say good-bye 'cause
i don't like myself and i want to die

04-1994

This other one was my definite favourite, because I have had to improvise on the guitar while singing, Jimi Hendrix style:

BUTTERFLY

that place so far away
can't even use imagination
i should have known it, but i forgot
forgot the child-dream with butterflies

ch. above my head, before my eyes
the butterflies of the garden of Eden

shallow recollections, like
frail wings of butterfly
can't see, can't feel, can't touch it
i've lost the child-dream with butterflies

20-06-1994

The below song, like I've realized many years after writing it, raises that same question as Weiland's (STP) "Where Do the Rivers Go". I can only add, that now I know where they go ;) .

RIVERS

she said, she saw the water, running to the source
she felt the lust, burning like the fire
she've heard me, screaming, through the fields of mud, and

ch. she thought it was the end, but it was the day, she was born again

she stood on the bank of a big red river
she swore, she've tasted it, and it've tasted sweet
she kneeled, and started asking God, 'cause

ch.she thought it was the end, but it was the day, she was born again

rivers X 4

i'd like to send my picture throug the river, for him to touch the fate
i'd like to swim together with the river, to discover
where do the rivers go

she said she saw the river, falling into the see, and

ch. she thought it was the end, but it was the day, she was born again

rivers X 4

23-08-1994

And the last but not least, my another favourite. Inspired by my Sugartooth's record, the song have had a hard core extra doom grungy musical wrapper, which I was extremely proud of :)) .

EDGE OF THE NEEDLE

misty sight
i don't wanna know, if the snow is white
i don't gonna go anywhere, world is wild
i'm just livin' on the edge of the needle

on the edge of the needle X 4

i can't see the light
why haven't it lit in the dark of night
when i couldn't see, how the God was like
i'm just livin' on the edge of the needle, the edge!

on the edge of the needle X 4

the edge of the needle now my life is suspended
the edge of the needle now i must surrender

ch. and the edge of the needle enters slowly into me
penetraiting my blood
and goes deeper and deeper to get to the bottom
release her deadly charge

now i have to fight
you can't even breathe, if don't have the might
screaming bullet is your only right
i'm just living on the edge of the needle, the edge!

on the edge of the needle x 4

the edge of the needle now my life is suspended
the edge of the needle now i must surrender

ch.

i just release the drug, to fly away, to touch the sky, to speak with God

i release the drug X 4

ch.

17-11-1994

All above where recorded by "Desnudez Publica" in Estudio Morrocoy, CCS, at 20-01-1995

Cheers,
Raphael G.

A Nightmare, Nothing More...

2006-10-20T14:11:00.000-05:00

It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. Being that this is my first blog on this site I wish to discuss my entries as you will read them. They will be dark, some will be disturbing, however I would hope that they are also enlightening.

I am a crime fighter of sorts. I spend my days analyzing crime through the victimization of others. I see crime through numbers, maps, reports, theories, behaviors, perversions, needs, desires, and finances. I do not receive gratification through the discharge of a weapon and the destruction of vile flesh...nor do I feel a sense of satisfaction for placing handcuffs on a suspect and placing them in confinement. No, I sit in a well-lit office...in the shadows of my mind. I try to understand the why, the when, and the how soon...

You will have to excuse my cynical nature, and my, at times, inappropriate humor. It can be truly out of place. Just know that I can't release what circles in my head in anyway gratifying except for on these pages...and other more private ways...but I don't write about that...usually.

I look forward to your comments...

Shift of The Ages

2006-10-15T23:10:00.000-05:00

a friend just sent me this link...

i like it and so here i share it with you... :)

Shift of The Ages

Trying to Change the World, I Could Use a Little Help...

2006-10-15T14:14:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Csometimes for inviting me to this blog......
You can see more of my work at
natureswallpaper.blogspot.com
overheating.blogspot.com
humanelement.blogspot.com
easygrowhouseplants.blogspot.com
Stop by and leave a comment if you wish.

My Recommended Viewing

Zhang Huan- featured artist

2006-10-15T13:35:00.000-05:00

By Roselee Goldberg

Pilgrimage to Santiago, 2000

ISBN: 84-453-3162-0 84-607-3005-0

Interview with Zhang Huan

Zhang Huan and I are sitting side by side in my New York office. Mathieu Borysevicz, who will translate from English to Mandarin and from Mandarin to English, sits opposite. At the start, this triangulated interview seems that it will be difficult. It will require work. It will require concentration to cope with the lapses between speakers, to keep a particular train of thought moving steadily from one to the other and back again. I ready myself for the effort. But quickly the sound of Chinese takes over. It is a different Chinese from the one we think we hear in New York. It is soft, seductive. It is mesmerizing. The two men speak at the same pitch, with similar cadences, lots of swish sounds. It's like humming. Now and then Zhang Huan rises from his chair, back straight in the air, head pitched forward so slightly as though the top of his skull is waiting to catch a ball, or as though staring down a Kung Fu partner.

One time, he moves the chair, lifting it gently and putting it down a few feet behind us, creating a space for himself next to the bookshelf. He crouches between our legs, talking all the while. He shapes a small box around himself with his hands. He mimes the action of pulling a lid closed, over his head. He ducks to show how tight was the space. His eyes widen. His voice indicates panic. He rocks frantically. He points at the phone on the desk, trying, impossibly, to propel his body over to it. He grunts. His breath is fast, faster, and then slow. He is exhausted. Then he breaks into a smile. He is rescued.

I am not sure if Mathieu translated the story or if I imagined it. It was about a solo performance in his apartment in Beijing; he made a box just large enough to climb into and sit cross-legged, he became stuck, his friend was out of town for several weeks, he made the biggest noise he could. He was terrified. Luckily, neighbors heard him, or his friend might have come home to a terrible smell.

Zhang Huan has just returned from Japan where he went to look at the site for his next performance, in Yokohama. He opens a manilla file-folder and shuffles through 4x6 photographs, as though through a deck of cards. He points to a photo of a small pagoda- a pavilion.

ZH : The pagoda's blue, in faux marble. The other part is introduced by several men wearing suits, like serious bankers, who will carry a sculpture of myself in the nude, made from polyester resin, which is in the shape of a calligraphy brush. This piece is a quite special for me, because it talks about the things that China and Japan have in common. Japan is newer than China, but they share many things, and I have mixed them together in this work. The pavilion image is from the former Imperial Palace in China- The Palace of Peaceful Longevity- and the carved floor is from the Xishang Pavilion, which is in a city named Shao Xing, where my wife grew up. The city is a famous calligraphy center, because there was a big master who lived there. Every spring, there is a very popular festival in this place, which attracts many calligraphers from around the country, who come to write and read poems. They also clean their brushes in a special ceremony. I have notes that I made from those visits, which describe a cup-floating canal in Xishang Pavilion. Wine cups would be floated along the winding 10 centimetre deep canal, cut into the rock floor during the festival, meant to cleanse away evil influences. This work will be different from my previous performances because I shall leave behind the sculpture of myself. It will hang from the center of the pagoda, after the performance, and will remain for the three month duration of the triennale. The sculpture tableau will have a continuous stream of pink smoke coming from under the canopy. Pink for me represents Japan, while China is red. Pink has less presence, but it is also sexy and more modern.

The original idea, Zhang Huan tells me, was to have two teams of Kung Fu fighters, one Chinese and one Japanese, engage in battle in front of the structure. But then he went to China and met martial arts instructors at the academy, who told him such a flight would be hopeless, because, they said, even the lowest level Chinese martial artists was superior to the highest qualified Japanese fighter.

This would become a pattern in our discussion; all performances have a Plan A and a Plan B. The first, the grand vision, is a fantastical expression of desire, a visual spectacle, reaching for the impossible, no limitations. Plan B is the performance that actually took place. It is the very essence of the original idea, distilled, made literal, made possible. He describes the two as part of a thought process, a series of mental sketches that incorporate physical longing for flashes of colour and countryside, a grandmother's story, an outsider's attempt to harness a heap of sensations, and make them beautiful. In his earliest performances, in China, the choices were entirely his own. Nine bodies on a mountain top, forty people in a body of water, a single seated figure in a latrine. Sometimes, as in the case of a work entitled Rubens (2000) he asked the curator Jan Hoet to choose.

ZH : Jan Hoet invited me to make a piece in Gent, which is not far from Antwerp, the hometown of the painter Rubens, This was very interesting for me since I had a special connection to the artist. When I was a nineteen years old student in He Nan, my art history teacher told us that Rubens had created the most wonderful red in the whole world. Ruben's red, he said is the most powerful red in the history of art. Later, when I became a teacher, I showed my students reproductions and said, "This is Ruben's red; the most powerful red in the history of art". Ruben's red, I told them is layered, it has many dimensions. Chinese red is flat. This is what I was thinking about in Gent.

Plan A was for the piece to take place in a large courtyard attached to a church, to cover the floor with hay, to have chickens and ducks running around, and for me to sit at the base of a large column, with a newborn calf on top of the column. Plan B was the Ruben's story. This was Jan Hoet's choice. It involved 60 people, all wearing 17th century clothes. Ten horses, ten riders. It took place in a huge barn adjacent to the church. In the beginning, all these people were behind the scenes. Then 20 people dressed as monks entered, each person holding an empty red clay pot, their heads bowed. They were accompanied by Tibetan folk music, which almost sounds like speaking.

In the background you see two couples being married by a priest, and at the same time ten horses gallop through the space, disrupting the ceremony. Two horsemen take off with the brides on horseback. In my mind was Ruben's painting The Rape of the Daughters of Leucippus, 1618. The performance was based on my impressions of Rubens and his many assistants. Everyone wanted to wear grand clothes from the period, but I wanted to turn Rubens into a pauper, to tear off his clothes. I also wanted to present a feminist reading of Rubens. For his wife, the models, to pull off his clothes and take revenge on him for all the rapes depicted in his paintings.

The hour-long work ended with Zhang Huan dropping from a central beam, onto the stage, wearing clothes from the period, which he removes. On a backdrop of white canvas, he drew an horizon line, and wrote in red and black, Chinese and Roman characters, the words from Tang Dynasty poet, Li Shang Yin: "Sunset is so beautiful, but it is close to dusk. A very famous poem in China", Zhang says. "It's about getting older, about beautiful things ending. It's very sad".

Zhang Huan's recent performance are visually stunning and rich in content. They are filled with his past, in China, and with his present, in New York or Gent, or wherever he may be. What does it mean to have grown up in a communal society in rural China? "Twenty years in the countryside", he said, " are inscribed in my bones". Born in An' Yang City, He Nan Province, in 1965, Zhang Huan spent his first eight years living with his paternal grandmother in the countryside, as did his three brothers. His grandmother had a small parcel of her own land, about a half hour from the house. At eight years old he re-joined his parents in An' Yang City, a teeming metropolis of almost five million people with a history of 3,000 years. An' Yang used to be one of the seven ancient capitals of China. "I was a wild child in the classroom", Zhang Huan says of school in An' Yang. "I couldn't stay indoors. I wasn't interested in the subjects, I was always asked to leave the room. I drew all the time". His father had an elementary school education, as did his mother. "At the time, if you could write a letter, or read the newspaper, that was considered respectable", Zhang Huan said. His father became an accountant at a factory. His mother taught elementary school and later became a guard at a factory gate.

ZH : My America (1999), initially entitled Hard to Acclimatize, was based on a small Indian sculpture (a twelfth century Jain Relief from Rajputana) at the Seattle Museum, which I wanted to reconstruct in some way. A three-tiered scaffold to resemble the three rows of figures in the sculpture was built. Then fifty six naked Americas of various ages and backgrounds were invited to participate. They were given twelve instructions, such as Lie Face Down on the Floor and Do Not Move, Act and Sound like Animals, or Climb the Scaffold. There were many references in this piece- to Tibetan Buddhism, to Tai Chi- and the work was about the contrast between ancient spiritual practices and the spiritual poverty of modern American society. The daily monotony of going to work, making bread, and the pointless of it all at the end of the day.

Spirituality in China? Wasn't it outruled by Mao during the cultural revolution?

ZH : During the cultural revolution, you could not engage in religious ceremonies publicly, but such activities continues inside the house. Spiritualism was acted out in various Chinese festivals and ceremonies. Every year for example, we would make an altar in the home to honor the New Year. We would light incense, paste prayers in the form of posters on the walls of the house, take a meal to the graves of our ancestors. Most small towns had spirits which were worshiped. You might go to the mountain to pray for a son to be born. Actually, I come from one of the highest areas of Buddhist concentration and my biggest spiritual influence was Tibetan Buddhism.

My America was Zhang Huan's second live performance in America. The first was included in an exhibition of New Chinese Art at P.S.1 in Long Island City, New York in 1998, just two months after he arrived in the United States. A solo work, it took place outdoors in a courtyard. Pilgrimage- Wind and Water in New York was, in many ways, "very Chinese", An ornate throne- like bed was its center- piece, the sound of Tibetan gongs was its musical accompaniment, and Zhang Huan's hands, pressed together, his flowing orange trousers and his shaved head, gave the work a Buddhistic air. Except for the dogs of course. Ten different breeds were tied to the bed where Zhang Huan lay prostrate, on blocks of ice. The imagery, Zhang Huan Said, was about coming to America. The dogs were a way of acknowledging his new situation.

My America was Zhang Huan's first piece made entirely in America, and its confident title, given to the work by the dealer Jeffrey Deitch, belied its more disturbing aspects which dealt with the difficulty of integration. Hard to Acclimatize, the original title, was a more accurate description of how the artist felt about his status in America. It was also considered too American by some critics, no doubt because of the implied criticism of the artist's host country. In this aspect only, it resembled Joseph Beuys Coyote; I love America and America loves me (1974) in which the German artist and a wild coyote shared a room in a New York gallery for one week, as a symbolic protest against the treatment of native American-Indians by early settlers on the continent, and the continuing disregard for this group. How differently Zhang Huan's work might have been received if all participants were Chinese; it would have appeared as an exotic important, an elegant tableau of entirely foreign bodies. By using Americans, as with Beuys indigenous coyote, both artists created a superior vantage point from which to condemn certain moral and cultural practices in the United States. Both live performances were radical in the way that they expressed the artist's disapproval of a range of behaviours in this country. Each work instantly raised the artist above their "outsider" status.

Without saying so exactly, My America was Zhang Huan's way of protesting the racism that was frequently directed at him in the States. He told a somewhat oblique story as to how he decided on the final scene of the performance (but which made his feelings perfectly clear), which involved all 56 participants hurling loaves of bread at his head.

ZH : Up until the day of the performance, I hadn't really figured out the end. But I recalled an incident in New York when I first arrived. I was walking near Penn Station. I remember my wife was pregnant at the time and a perfect stranger offered me some bread. I suppose the person thought I looked hungry. I was really shocked.

My America and subsequently My Australia (2000) and My Japan (2001), show an artist on the move, far from his own culture, his homeland, his mother tongue. Marco Polo in reverse. The artist as outsider, attempting always to find a way in. But Zhang Huan says he was always an outsider: as a country boy in a city school, as an applicant for college, when his "backward" background made it difficult for him to pass the required entry exams, and, in 1991, at age 26, when he moved to Beijing, abandoned traditional painting and began solo performances that were executed in the nude and frequently involved extreme endurance and danger. Before he moved to Beijing he says, he was quite a conservative artist. Once there, he changed completely. He met artists who had lived abroad, he read articles and books on avant-garde art in New York and London. Chris Burden- I loved the extreme risk of his work; Laurie Anderson, I love her work because it is so intellectual, and because she always dreams of the future. Marina Abramovic and Ti-hching Hsieh, with their extreme acts of endurance and self inflicted wounds (in the case of Abramovic) were also important models. He learned about New York's East Village art scene, so that when he joined a group of artists who lived in a run-down area in West Beijing, they changed the sign on the road-way to East Village, and, in 1993, he met Gilbert & George at a museum opening of their retrospective exhibition at the National Gallery in Beijing. The British artists would later visit Zhang Huan in his apartment studio. Suffice it to say these things together electrified him and inspired him to confront his world from an entirely new perspective, in performances where his body was prime material, and where the social and political environment of China was the very matrix of his work.

Zhang Huan's early performances such as Angel (1993) , in which he emptied an urn filled with red paint and doll's body parts over his head (a reference to the frequent abortions of many young women of his generation, who were forced to take such measures), 12 Square Meters (1994) in which he sat in a filthy latrine for an hour, in silent protest against the fly infested public toilets in Beijing, and 65 Kilograms (1994), in which he suspended himself from the ceiling in his apartment, and slowly dripped his own blood into a metal bowl to concentrate the blood and spread the stench, were shocking for their masochism and for the harrowing daily experiences which they implicitly critiqued. No one can escape cruelty, neither myself, nor the audience, Zhang Huan says. Once the audience members step into the site of the performance, they become involved in the reality before their eyes. They have nowhere to escape, just as they have no way to escape reality. To Add One Meter to an Anonymous Mountain (1995) or To Raise the Water Level in a Fishpond (1997), on the other hand, were quite pastoral, even literary. Executed in the countryside where he was most comfortable, they would be his final performances before he left China for good.

ZH : The early works- from conception to execution- were so simple. They didn't involve any people beside the participants, and the feeling was one of great freedom- to be able to make such pieces in a situation where there was so much pressure from all around. The body performances were a necessity for me. The mountain and the pond pieces were also a necessity- they came from my need to be in the countryside. Making the Anonymous Mountain One Meter Higher was inspired by an old saying Beyond the mountain, there are more mountains, which is about humility. Climb this mountain, and you will find an even bigger mountain in front of you. Raising the Water Level of a Fishpond was an extension of this idea. It's about changing the natural state of things, about the notion of possibilities.

Since coming West, Zhang Huan's performances have become far more layered, and are composed of several parts. He says that in the early days, a performance would be a single action, whereas now he is more likely to combine seven or eight such actions, so that his most recent performances are a sum of several parts.

ZH : In China, I was doing things for myself. Now people invite me to perform, to become a cultural event. I have a job to do. I try to understand each new situation. I combine impressions of China, with local culture, what people call glocal. It's about going from one place to another, and bringing what you have to offer to each new place. Sometimes I understand the experience, sometimes not.

Zhang Huan's recently commissioned performances are each a vehicle for him to become engaged in any given geographical location. He is the consummate traveler. As soon as he is invited to present a work, he begins his research and visits the new site armed with information. He then starts to make plans. On his visit to Santiago de Compostela last fall, he video taped the medieval pilgrimage town, with its 40 churches, which he would take back to New York.

ZH : When I visited a church there, a very formal and serious ceremony was taking place. I had never seen anything like it before. I was struck especially by the incense balls carried by the priests, which flashed by so beautifully. I became obsessed by the idea of incense burners, and decided to immerse myself in a giant one, made of bones. It would be a way to cleanse myself of all iniquities, and to attain a new body and soul. It will appear as though a Buddha is sitting inside the incense ball of Christianity.

Zhang Huan describes a work that will be both awesome and interesting, and imagines a totally new experience awaiting him, when he performs it amongst hundreds of pilgrims. My responses are instinctual, everything emerges intuitively Zhang says of his creative process. Sometimes I think I was born into the wrong era. Making art is a primitive act for me, Zhang adds, suggesting that his is an unfiltered, visceral response to places and situations. It is not the primitive act of a Paul McCarthy, whom Zhang Huan finds too American and too obsessed with seeing humanity at its most abject and dejected, but a primitive born of responses to physical and emotional settings that he translates into visual tableau, relying on his background as a traditional painter for compositional and aesthetic direction.

Zhang Huan' s solo exhibition in New York in 1999 comprised colour photographs of performances he had made in China over the previous five years. Boldly framed, larger than life, head shaven and naked, he appeared front-center in most of them. The blues (of water, of sky) were a powdery turquoise; the pinks (of flesh), peach pink. Also available for viewing were cleanly edited, straight-forward video tapes of each performance. The stories behind the photographs. They were devoid of spectacle or any particular grace. They were documentary back-ups, background information, to the moment captured in the seductive surface of each finely produced image. The photographs on the other hand were instantly iconic. Indeed, Zhang Huan's pictures- especially the image of forty men and a baby To Raise the Water Level in a Fishpond which appeared on posters and catalogue covers for the Inside Out exhibition in New York- became visual headliners for Chinese art of the late nineties; they declared the emergence of a new, globally savvy and socially aware generation. They were also original and potent calling-cards for the artist. Zhang Huan's large photographs are objects unto themselves, carefully designed containers for huge amounts of information, on China, on the biography of the artist, on humanistic and universal value systems. Any suggestion of time passing, of process, of the ephemerality of an event, has been completely edited out. Instead, these photographs are the objects of performance, and as such are evidence of the artist's visual strengths, of his background as a classically trained painter with a passion for Jean-Francois Millet and Rembrandt, and of his desire to compose emotionally evocative pictures that echo thematically and visually, the impact of such masters of form and content.

That Zhang Huan's art straddles several worlds at once is an indication of his talent as an image maker, and the intensity of his character. In conversation, he is deeply focused, lyrical and buoyant. He exhibits a fierce awareness of the moment, yet seems always to be measuring it against an under-current that connects him to his past, other pasts. There is an acute awareness of the dailiness of life, which he examines within a larger Buddhist like mindfulness. His dream, he says, is to take humanity's problems and clean them up. Such is the inspiration for his most recent performance in Santiago de Compastela. The poignancy of communal ceremony- people arriving from across the world, bearing incense and wishes, to gather in a mountain city of 40 churches- really moves him.

For today, Zhang Huan has one last story. It's an old Chinese story- How Yukong Moved the Mountain- which was used by Mao to explain his land-ownership policy. It's about an old man, and how every time he wants to go anywhere, he has to go around the mountain. He decides to get rid of the mountain, no matter how long it takes. This story is the grain of a Plan A project; Zhang Huan would like to move a mountain from his home town in China, to somewhere near the water, to Europe or the United States.

ZH : I'd like to take it apart, piece by piece, and reconstruct it elsewhere, in a different material, like steel. I would write the story of How Yukong Moved the Mountain, on its surface. It's about the spirit of conquering the unconquerable. I want to make work so people can be moved by a sense of the possible.

interview found at: http://www.zhanghuan.com/text/interview/Roselee%20Goldberg.htm

a little painting

2006-10-15T01:59:00.000-05:00

this is a painting i produced in college as a part of their annual "minumental exhibit" - prerequisite being that nothing submitted can be larger than 2x2x2 (that's inches, folks!) i sometimes use it as a logo.

c.

Vulnerability…

2006-10-14T21:38:00.000-05:00

Vulnerability…

Spilling my heart into the sand.

Baring my chest to the passion,
And pain…

Like a ship aflame, in the wind of my soul.

Wind cutting through,
Cuts through,
Like ice through my flesh.

Spilling my heart into the sand.

i
n
t
   o

      t
        h
         e

s a n d

i
t

                       s
                         p
                           i
                            l
                             l
                              s
                               .
                                .
                                 .

join in on the insanity

2006-10-13T15:29:00.000-05:00

here's something i stumbled on that's just crazy enough to be fun.

the object of the game is to write a book in 30 days without any planning beforehand.

i've signed up, despite the holidays, the fact that i'm moving, and that my other projects take up all my time. why? i guess it falls into that category of why man climbs mountains for me.

if you're interested in joining, click on the link above (the title) and it will take you to where you need to go!

enjoy,
c.

Welcome to our community

2006-10-12T15:05:00.000-05:00

this blog has been created to feature artists, writers, anyone creative with anything to say. to show off your work, to bring attention to others, to share ideas, to show talent, to explore what may be perceived as impossible, to be in touch with your peers, to get honest and supportive feedback on your work...a safe place to learn and grow.

we currently have 3 contributors and welcome anyone with honest intentions to join.

this is the beginning of something that could become very beneficial to all.

thank you for looking and if you know of anyone who might be interested in joining our efforts, please let us know.