Three..
sit on the highest floor
in the highest tower..
two thistles and a flower..
three..
on stairs where people flee
fires, and aspire
to touch tree tops, roof tops
and clouds that extinguish
yet another sun
that sets on their captivity..
three..
souls bound to silence,
their love, their hate and their violence,
unspoken is stored..and ignored.
Imprisoned in deceit,
their eyes never meet,
and when they do,
one retreats and hides,
as two cracks a joke
and three takes a smoke
and sings a song that goes along
with that thought that was caused
by the landing of a bird haphazardly on some tree..
three..
letters that none have read..
books whose pages are only covers,
friends..foes..lovers
three..
wells of uncried tears
and silent music that never left a throat
or reached an ear,
a mystery
three..
prisoners of freedom;
freedom from fear
of what freedom may bring
Mar 30, 2009
Mar 21, 2009
Tears
I found my feet taking me to a familiar place, over dirt and grass and 3-leaf clovers. A place that has stood witness to a life I seem to have to call my own. Lonesome steps I took, for though I am called by many, lonesome is my name.
There, old rough wood, some steel and some paint that have seen too many winters so cohesively insist to sit high on that retaining wall overlooking hills, valleys and a castle. And a sky, that has just bid its sun farewell in songs of deep red and serenades of orange.
Falling apart, I sat on that bench that seems to just be able to hold itself together through winters and springs and sunrises and sunsets.
They came with ease this time, the songs and serenades of farewell to a sun that made this winter warm. Without wishing this time, without trying, warm and saline they came, and with them and stream of emotions left unfelt for too long. Love, happiness, communion, acceptance, doubt, guilt, regret, peace, pain, sadness and sweetness…they all came and settled.
But they overstayed their welcome. Now they tend to spill with every thought of setting suns, with every hint of motherless children and childless mothers, lonely lovers, floating bodies with spirits sinking, bleeding, aching. Why oh why? Oh the pain and the yearning, does anyone hear these unspoken words? They sit there at the top of my stomach, all jumbled together and they settle.
Why does it have to be this way? Why?
There, old rough wood, some steel and some paint that have seen too many winters so cohesively insist to sit high on that retaining wall overlooking hills, valleys and a castle. And a sky, that has just bid its sun farewell in songs of deep red and serenades of orange.
Falling apart, I sat on that bench that seems to just be able to hold itself together through winters and springs and sunrises and sunsets.
They came with ease this time, the songs and serenades of farewell to a sun that made this winter warm. Without wishing this time, without trying, warm and saline they came, and with them and stream of emotions left unfelt for too long. Love, happiness, communion, acceptance, doubt, guilt, regret, peace, pain, sadness and sweetness…they all came and settled.
But they overstayed their welcome. Now they tend to spill with every thought of setting suns, with every hint of motherless children and childless mothers, lonely lovers, floating bodies with spirits sinking, bleeding, aching. Why oh why? Oh the pain and the yearning, does anyone hear these unspoken words? They sit there at the top of my stomach, all jumbled together and they settle.
Why does it have to be this way? Why?
Mar 14, 2009
Portraits (01)
Silhouetted against a whitish cloudy sky and the grey floor of his seventh floor balcony, a dark figure, clad in black sits on an office chair of similar color. Even his face is covered with a generous growth of black beard; as if it were his intention to completely stand out like that. But it wasn't.
In his hand, one of those long sandwich wraps called “saj” is halfway through its unfortunate fate while another waits in agony on his lap. He chews mechanically, with every sense of taste entirely absent from his consciousness. It is a tedious and uneventful process that he would gladly resign but for his diminishing figure and his need to survive. As his teeth grind bread, chicken and onion into tasteless paste, something strikes him as familiar. He sighs as he realizes that his days these days are just as mechanical, tedious and uneventful as his lunch.
Those who know him can recognize him from afar because of the way he walks. He tends to walk only on his toes, like one walking barefoot on a cold floor, his heels never touch the ground. He gets up from his chair and takes two of those apprehensive steps and leans on the steel handrail that has long stood between balcony-goers and their thoughts of suicide. His eyes restlessly roam the distorted skyline of a city that he calls his own. He longingly recognizes every street and café where his feet have trodden and still tread in their most unusual manner. But his thoughts wander to a warmer place where the lazy ocean hugs the shore and tickles their feet as they stroll together on the sand. He and she, together under the stars. Icy, eye-watering wind jolts his mind back to the seventh floor where the dreams that seemed so real are just out of reach.
His lonely lunch hour is over now; he drags the swivel chair back into its natural atmosphere of desks and computers and dreams dissolve into monotonous keyboard taps and mouse-clicks. Perhaps enough taps and clicks can one day bring his dreams of Saabs, sweet-smelling summer nights under the stars and beach-strolls on soft sand a little closer. But they seem just out of reach.
In his hand, one of those long sandwich wraps called “saj” is halfway through its unfortunate fate while another waits in agony on his lap. He chews mechanically, with every sense of taste entirely absent from his consciousness. It is a tedious and uneventful process that he would gladly resign but for his diminishing figure and his need to survive. As his teeth grind bread, chicken and onion into tasteless paste, something strikes him as familiar. He sighs as he realizes that his days these days are just as mechanical, tedious and uneventful as his lunch.
Those who know him can recognize him from afar because of the way he walks. He tends to walk only on his toes, like one walking barefoot on a cold floor, his heels never touch the ground. He gets up from his chair and takes two of those apprehensive steps and leans on the steel handrail that has long stood between balcony-goers and their thoughts of suicide. His eyes restlessly roam the distorted skyline of a city that he calls his own. He longingly recognizes every street and café where his feet have trodden and still tread in their most unusual manner. But his thoughts wander to a warmer place where the lazy ocean hugs the shore and tickles their feet as they stroll together on the sand. He and she, together under the stars. Icy, eye-watering wind jolts his mind back to the seventh floor where the dreams that seemed so real are just out of reach.
His lonely lunch hour is over now; he drags the swivel chair back into its natural atmosphere of desks and computers and dreams dissolve into monotonous keyboard taps and mouse-clicks. Perhaps enough taps and clicks can one day bring his dreams of Saabs, sweet-smelling summer nights under the stars and beach-strolls on soft sand a little closer. But they seem just out of reach.
Mar 1, 2009
Entanglement
I am awake around 17 of the 24 hours. I spend 10 hours of the 17 at work, and i need about 2 more hours to get there and back plus getting ready and un-ready. I spend most of the 10 hours sitting in a chair inside a circle of less than 2sqm. I occasionally get up and walk around a distance of some 40 meters, but always within the same 200some sqm. I've done this 5 days a week for the past year.
This is not about numbers if that's what it's beginning to look like. It is about entanglement. At work, all our computers are linked together in a network. But that is not all, it seems to me that each person is linked to all of the others with a certain network as well. Like water that has travelled the same path so many times and turned it into a channel that now imprisons it; so are the words and gestures and connotations. And think on this one a while because this is what i'm trying to say here.
This all takes place in a very conrolled environtment of a constant temperature that is warm enough that it feels like you are inside a womb. And the air is never changed that by the end of the day the same air molecules you inhale have been inside everyone else's body. The light is also always constant, apart from when you happen to look outside of a window to catch a glimpse of the everchanging sky.
The first step i take out into the crisp cold my old friends "weather" and " open space" slap me in the face. And i wake up. The cold stings whichever part of my body is protruding. And open space diminshes the size of my thoughts and desires and attitudes to insignificance. Everything feels real and fresh again. This image would be perfect if i lived somewhere on an isolated hill outside the city to which i travelled through forests by bike. Then real stinging would take place. But unfortunately enough i walk some 1km through car fumes to the nearest bus stop.
But whatever. The world is bigger than the 200 some sqm. I wish i could take someone from work with me out to the cold. I wonder if the water would change its course. Or perhaps all i have to do is open a window and let the cold in.
This is not about numbers if that's what it's beginning to look like. It is about entanglement. At work, all our computers are linked together in a network. But that is not all, it seems to me that each person is linked to all of the others with a certain network as well. Like water that has travelled the same path so many times and turned it into a channel that now imprisons it; so are the words and gestures and connotations. And think on this one a while because this is what i'm trying to say here.
This all takes place in a very conrolled environtment of a constant temperature that is warm enough that it feels like you are inside a womb. And the air is never changed that by the end of the day the same air molecules you inhale have been inside everyone else's body. The light is also always constant, apart from when you happen to look outside of a window to catch a glimpse of the everchanging sky.
The first step i take out into the crisp cold my old friends "weather" and " open space" slap me in the face. And i wake up. The cold stings whichever part of my body is protruding. And open space diminshes the size of my thoughts and desires and attitudes to insignificance. Everything feels real and fresh again. This image would be perfect if i lived somewhere on an isolated hill outside the city to which i travelled through forests by bike. Then real stinging would take place. But unfortunately enough i walk some 1km through car fumes to the nearest bus stop.
But whatever. The world is bigger than the 200 some sqm. I wish i could take someone from work with me out to the cold. I wonder if the water would change its course. Or perhaps all i have to do is open a window and let the cold in.
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