the floating bridge of dreams

and off into the empty sky

2013-05-14T21:20:00.000+03:00

you will be able to see more photos from my travel to Japan on the new blog that i have created for telling the story of my trip:

and off into the empty sky

spring cleaning

2013-04-25T21:23:00.000+03:00

and what if the oldest shoes are the dearest?

with more precision and more truthfulness than our memory, they keep track, in each crack and dirt mark and dust-blackened spot, of what we have learned to call "our life", "our past" - though nobody knows exactly to whom this past, this life, belong.

with tenderness, the old shoes stare back at us, while we, gentle hypocrites or simply forgetful, unable to glimpse beyond our self-woven illusions, never take notice.

lurking, waiting for spring

2013-04-14T22:34:00.000+03:00

this year i have found myself lurking in the darkest of shadows, waiting for spring, hungrier than ever before. yet the deeper, the more painful this hunger grows, the more aware i become that, when i long for spring, i in fact long for a complicated and tumultuous mixture made out of the springs i have lived through, bits of them scattered throughout my body, springs i imagine to come, springs as i want them to be, floating memories, disconnected from whatever might have given birth to them in the first place (if such a birth has ever existed), hues, words soft like silk, which i tend to taste on my tongue, while all along believing that i lurk, waiting for this spring which has to come now, which has already come, unique, pure, simple and raw.

don't let the photograph fool you: she doesn't make this mistake. yet.

as spring approaches, on my street

2013-04-07T23:56:00.000+03:00

right before the spring's glow,

let us enjoy the gray once more,
and the hues of the monotonous hour,
and the low tide of the lonely,

unredeemed hope -

of windows and curtains

2013-04-01T18:34:00.000+03:00

my new windows-blog

now

2013-03-28T22:21:00.001+02:00

It's entirely conceivable that life's splendour surrounds us all, and always in it's complete fullness, accessible but veiled, beneath the surface, invisible, far away. But there it lies - not hostile, not reluctant, not deaf. If we call it by the right word, by the right name, then it comes. This is the essence of magic, which doesn't create but calls.

Kafka

Es ist sehr gut denkbar, daß die Herrlichkeit des Lebens um jeden und immer in ihrer ganzen Fülle bereit liegt, aber verhängt, in der Tiefe, unsichtbar, sehr weit. Aber sie liegt dort, nicht feindselig, nicht widerwillig, nicht taub. Ruft man sie mit dem richtigen Wort, beim richtigen Namen, dann kommt sie. Das ist das Wesen der Zauberei, die nicht schafft, sondern ruft.

however futile

2013-03-19T19:34:00.002+02:00

go to: however series

ten little spells to conjure my colours back

2013-03-11T17:01:00.000+02:00

*from the Chinese Garden in Berlin

the imagined spring

2013-03-03T23:34:00.001+02:00

our broken circles
our tears
the spring we had

long imagined

now there is only stillness
where green should have thrust
its light, with a shiver

the waves

2013-02-18T22:23:00.000+02:00

_ _ _

are we so made

2013-02-06T00:19:00.001+02:00

Has the finger of death to be laid on the tumult of life from time to time lest it rend us asunder? Are we so made that we have to take death in small doses daily or we could not go on with the business of living? And then what strange powers are these that penetrate our most secret ways and change our most treasured possessions without our willing it?

Virginia Woolf, Orlando

but with a tearing flutter

2013-01-24T00:50:00.000+02:00

if my thoughts could turn into ravens

fly i would whisper fly

(it is not with a whisper, but with a tearing flutter
that they will settle, laying the night
upon your white body)

however eager

2013-01-17T23:46:00.000+02:00

she was set on sharpening her pencils
this time she had decided never to stop
until she had all the colours, all hues ready
to get the big task done
the task for which she had been preparing
as long as she could remember:
to make the rainbow, though not just the image of the rainbow,
the whole rainbow, the real rainbow,
blossom on every sky.
she just hadn't expected so many colours,
it was simply maddening.
so busy was she, fidgeting on and on
that she failed to notice she had shed an eyelash,
and that the eyelash and the rainbow
had become, from a certain point onward,
indistinguishable.

go to: however series

the quiet forest

2013-01-10T23:49:00.000+02:00

on a tide of time

2012-12-29T21:47:00.000+02:00

I’m so conscious of the evanescence of experience, so conscious of the fact that everything we do, everybody we know, is carried along on a tide of time and will disappear, that I have a strong sense of wanting to pin experience down before it disappears.

Frank Auerbach

nothing can be pinned down, though~

after christmas eve

2012-12-25T22:54:00.001+02:00

i woke up in the middle of the night and, unable to go back to sleep, i went into the living room. after candles had been lit, presents exchanged and candidly opened, wishes made, laughter heard, candles blown out, doors shut behind, everything lay now before me, left to itself, in the quietness of another life, unseen, unknown.

this is what the christmas tree - what everything - looks like when photographed in the dark, camera held tight against my chest - our real nature revealed: light.

under the tree, there lay the puzzle we had completed together, before going to bed. i could have thought of some symbolic meaning, the setting was right for such deep, important visions. yet all i could think of was how beautifully the world glimmered in the dark, and how dangerously frail its unsteady contours appeared - dream-like.

there i found her shoes, too. she had insisted to wear these ones, fond as she was of the little white stars on the straps. you cannot see the stars now - but this is how it always is with stars, perhaps. they are never to be seen, only to be imagined, especially at night.

these are the rail tracks of a train which never stops running, even when bridges between here and there have broken down.

later, when she finds out that all trains eventually stop, she will hopefully have a friend to sing for her: When darkness comes / And pain is all around / Like a bridge over troubled water / I will lay me down / Sail on, silvergirl / Sail on by / I’m sailing right behind / Like a bridge over troubled water / I will ease your mind / Like a bridge over troubled water / I will ease your mind.

for now, she and her best friend chilly willy are still unaware of the big, important task which lies before them (and at which they will fail, i know. i would like to believe, as some say, that failing is part of the music, but here - i honestly don't know).

things have been falling apart, recently, and how quickly. and now, i wonder at how still and poised they are, peaceful, unto themselves, unaware of grace and falling, all these things that we don't know how to look at.

you called me the other day and told me that my voice - you had always said about my voice that it had "the sound of bells", and i would always laugh about such silliness - puts you at peace with the world.

i remember how, every time emily left, bagpuss and all the others would wake up. yet here, things hadn't come to life, they were motionless and quiet, as they always were.

still, among them, in the dark of the night, some stir of life, slight as the drifting of a curtain, came into being. perhaps it was i, and not things, that was coming to life, unawares.

and the whitest of orchids

2012-12-17T21:50:00.000+02:00

no matter how - and the whitest of orchids is ashen cloud against my glow -
no matter how warm, how bright, how pure -
i have failed. one always fails. i have asked, just once, just this time, for a different law: that i might be allowed to cross the bridge. that the radiance of what i am, the entire constellation of what is called, i suppose, "myself", could reach you at the other end, fill you like a beam of light. you, shattered with recognition, my orchid thrusting its roots into you, growing out of your mouth. the only possible path for what is, and cannot be any other way.

no. the truth of a person cannot be lifted, as one would lift a piece of luggage before a hasty departure, cannot be transferred and placed into another, to grow there, quietly, like a seed. one flower, and only one, carried within, inscribed into itself, from the beginning. the truth of the seed cannot be broken, cannot be warped into anything else. yet no matter how i hurry to reach your arms, the one who looks at me from there, invented by you, grins back, her face an ugly, pitiful mask.

there is nothing more treacherous than bridges. they give one hope, one ardently takes one step after another only to find oneself, at some point, suspended above the abyss and the other waving welcome, just one more step and i will catch you, i will hold you, beloved, unaware that the defilement is already at work, in each word, in each gesture, that the fall into time has already begun.

more flowers of snow

2012-12-13T22:43:00.000+02:00

by unfolding my flowers

2012-12-10T23:30:00.000+02:00

they had promised there would be snow the next day.

i woke up and ran to the window, to no avail. so i had to let my flowers rise and take over the grey, indifferent expanse. iridescence of snow, even on my skin. i knew you wouldn't notice them and yet i was longing to hear your steps, crushing them on your way to me. in the end, though, i also painted a green rectangle in the snow, perhaps i meant it just as a reminder that i should invent you like this, ruthless steps and all, every time i would be tempted to think that i could keep, by unfolding my flowers against the world, grief at a distance.

however frail

2012-12-09T00:22:00.001+02:00

go to: however series

the "i" removing itself, step by step, from the world

2012-12-01T23:37:00.000+02:00

...

2012-11-23T02:20:00.000+02:00

both

2012-11-17T19:49:00.001+02:00

there is an autumn of luxuriance, of soft colours, deepened by rain and mist -

an autumn which is but a different kind of spring, making me unsure of how time flows (and returns, always, to the same point).

and there is an autumn of austere moods, of slow fading back to the roots of formlessness (except that there will always be, somewhere, quietly pulsing at the core of unadornedness, the blood of berries - even in the snow its pulse will go on, a steady reminder of the same return).

i am both autumns.

lightness & laughter

2012-11-12T17:04:00.000+02:00

floating, she used to whisper ~

no weeds would dance more freely than her hair,
when the floods come to wipe away
every sin. no breath caressed the skin
~ or so she had convinced even the most indifferent lover ~
more ecstatically than her own
(more tenderly, when the moon was right).

when she was finally ready to see
that the sweet virtues of lightness were still
a lie, it was already too late:
they had all been fooled.
the lovers, even in the most ardent arms,
would still remember her breath and even the flood,
she feared, would carry her away with more grace
than a tree.

it was too late to protest, too late to explain:
quietly, she sat down in a corner
and burst into laughter.

tomorrow, and tomorrow

2012-11-08T00:38:00.001+02:00

time, of course, is nothing to her. "let's do this tomorrow", i hear myself say, and she asks quickly: is today tomorrow? before running away to play with the dog. and forgetting. i imagine every child has asked this question, i myself must have asked it a thousand times and then forgotten about it, until one day i could not forget any longer. i suddenly feel ridiculous, with my bittersweet knowledge and my clear-cut needs ---

(and what with my unredeemable past)

(Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death)

on the table, the wasps are busy, between the yellow of a lemon slice and a sudden pouring of light.