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...

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...

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

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!

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.

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..."

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.

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

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...

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...

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: "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

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: "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..

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...

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...