Thursday, September 15, 2011

you – a fictionism for saying... I was still there?

a fictionism for...


Paul Cézanne, Harlequin, 1888-1890



I knew every single time
you unlocked my window
and entered my bedroom
my harlequin,
my real and immediately my creature,
my double, and my path
that you would be the one
I accepted you to be,
the one you decided yourself
to dress up, to then arise
being that strange girl,
who appeared to be another lover,
an extent of mine, a double,
but just one of the same?

A creatureyou!
that wanted to become a creator as well, huh?
Yes, youa real man I asked once
to take me away from my own face…
Yes, youthat young woman, just like me,
as a double, who I allowed to penetrate my realm…
Dressed in blue eyes, in that beautiful unknown face,
and fictioni(li)zed as someone out of patterns, you…
through a myriad of qualities and vests and titles
you never had
you would never wear and be…

I always knew
you were not who you appeared to be
but I have never closed the door upon you
I have never taken back the key
I had given you, remember?
“The key to my heart,”
to my dreams and wild imagination…
I only reiterated that motion of love
when you came to me rekindled in those blue eyes
Oh, and how strongly and deeply
and delicately I loved
your blue eyes, my harlequin
Not because they were blue
not even because they were much prettier
but because they were always your eyes…

In reality, I always knew you were that real
man I intended to cuddle
since the very beginning
and dance with, and pour out to,
and share with and get a hold on…
I have never neglected your presence, my harlequin,
never ever let you in dark or absence
when you seemed to want
more and more, or just exactly in a fair way
from my words to my feelings…

And then, for any reason,
you decided to stop being that enchanted man
to start over by being an enchanted mask
I have never closed my window upon
Yourekindled but one of the same, yes?
Dressed in blue eyes, with all those imaginary
qualities and titles and thoughts and gifts…
but the same man, that same real, no?

I knew by advance that you could be being an attachment,
that same man for whom I had professed a miracle
a miracle of love, of sharing, of living together
Not even from that on,
when you asked for my love once again,
I closed my door for you, did I?
Not even when you came to me
as that unknown person dressed in uncertainty
with a fake voice and another discourse
maybe to impress me, or just to hurt me
not even then I said to you:
“Back off, you are not allowed to enter here as a persona
because what I want is a person,
you as that same person.”

I had ever told you that for me
love passed like acceptance
forgiveness, and movement…
I have always shown you that for me
it was not important that you were a genius,
someone with their abundance of $$$ kabooms,
or just fucked up, off course, some kind…
I admired you and wanted you just as you,
my long-standing harlequin,
wanted to come up with
as if youan architect
as if youa physicist
as if youanyone up to love me…

But then, being the same person,
this or that persona as well,
you seemed to forge a kingdom of masks
designed to hurt me deeply
as if paying me back
for something I never did to you…

If I decided to let you
go on in your deviations, my harlequin,
it was because I wanted you to just know:
“My love is not tuned to a vest
to a sheet of paper, to the color of your eyes
or skin or trips around the world you told me about…
Not even to your mom and dad
extremely powerful and wealthy…”
No, my love was that time bigger and generous
didn’t you realize?
at which point I was willing to let you be
whoever you wanted to
didn’t you understand this hint?

I did it, and you know that,
Mr. Pray in my close language number one…
I expected you not to disclose your blue-eyed fictionism
I wanted you not to tell me whatever
that you were in the position
to pay back some disaffection you believed
some day coming from me
back in the day,
and as you deliriously trusted that time…

I expected you to at least recognize that we fall,
we break down, we love,
we stumble into a myriad of
failure and masks and torments in life
but we are as well up to overlook,
to forgive, to wish a start-over
why not?

What I did was to subtly try to say to you:
“No reason to despair, I am here love, don’t you see?”
“I know you are that same young and magic man”
“Why do you believe so strongly that I did not recognize you?”

Weren’t you up to sense that I was actually
giving us another chance?
dressed in blue eyes, just like you wanted to?
who cared? I really didn’t!

Why did you never tell me the truth
if I always attempted to say
even if it was extremely subtly
to not disclose your secret
to not tear you down
to not bring you much more pain
that I would accept you in my life
irrespective of how real
or how fictionized you were?
Why, Mr. Love?
Why did you close the door upon me then?
Didn’t I chime in with
the creature you designed to
embrace me one more time?
Didn’t I take part in your game
without dismantling
that incredible, beautiful blue-eyed persona
you manufactured to be in touch with me?

What we doubly lived, Mr. Love of Mine,
was but a miracle itself, no?


Sunday, September 11, 2011

In front of the pictures of Diana Nohelová [a multiple beyond-the-lens]

Diana




     “The person, the place, the object 
     are exposed and hidden 
     simultaneous under the light, 
     and two eyes are not enough
     to capture what is hidden 
     in a quick gesture. 

     It is necessary that the magic lens 
     enrich the human vision 
     and the truth of each thing 
     a better and drier truth extracts 
     to allow us to penetrate deeply
     into the pure enigma of the pictures...


     In front of the Pictures of Evandro Teixeira 
     by poet Carlos Drummond de Andrade


     Diana’s picture: Close your eyes till I'm gone





A crystal of time on paper. Photography, weapon of…
Desperately walking. Alone. Down somewhere less frantic or passerby. No light. But a limit to. Your walk? It’s a cherry or some kind far, that red vivid seed you decline to tear down. [Un]Fortunately? A path. Your route. Off most of the time. But within. And made of… Black-and-white, hmmm. Nausea? Dreams? Failures? Man after man, and you – alone? What about? And ahead. What… Lead you through the streets? These empty streets? 

Where are those reminiscences you drew so carefully and kept close back in the day? Those drawers stuffed of non-power but with so many reminiscences forward you captured from The final hiding place, a red road encapsulated in yet apart from your miserable transitory life? 

Dangerously speaking any nonsense through many cross-roads. You – voiceless. The streets – most of them empty at first sight. But full of forged colors and phrased-words towards insane messages. To break you down. No flowers budding from the same concrete pavement. No red eyes to embroil you in such a mystery. Only that. This empty place. You – into your Mute fairytale… 

To that point then… Here and there, for some reason, ranging from shock to wonder, you grow stronger. The more you…, the more yours… There are flowers. Nausea but flowers around your desperate dizzy path. Dance yourself to the end of shine – why not? What you see is this same beating-chord End of the road

Dedicated to photographer Diana Nohelová, whose pictures not only depict but also smell, sound, and shine. Photography – a weapon of love! Thank you so much, Diana, for giving me permission to cull my words on your intriguing, terrific images. I’m honored!


Friday, September 2, 2011

simply dot [what has conked out within?]

dot

dot the same dot step into a hall of t(r)ick-tack dot tuck-torments dot in sane opps from dot  any any any where and dot dot – what’s the name? this dot making you be dot decked out with dot your own dot mishap dot misanthropy dot misplace and finally dot you dot again dawn upon dot such-like counterfeited pictures at dot despair dot no resolution-deceit dot and dot you – wow! how dot you so much, dot? sound you! no then dot? dot go – why not? ha you and dot me after all dot ha my tricks dot your distorted dot image – ours dot ha your dot red herring and my dot dot dot no dot from dot you? dot along a dot fictionist? to pretend that one – dot picks up dot stuff-dot-long stem dot-roses while you or dot they? you dot after dot stones in the middle of the dot way dot and a scent – grisly environment – dot dot dot all those kennels of limit to a dot behind me dot and you ahead and dot? you and me – sorry? how to cope with dot our dot crudeness-dot? my imagination dot it can’t dot but pours out flowers – dot? blooms of nausea dot of exasperation and where’s? the bagman? the drummer? dot you dot dot I dot – why we dot? have to put up with this nonsense?



dot the same dot
step into a hall of t(r)ick-
tack dot tuck-
torments dot in
sane opps from dot
any any any
where and dot dot
what’s the name?

this dot
making you be dot decked out with dot
your own dot
mishap dot
misanthropy dot
misplace
and finally dot
you dot again
dawn upon dot such-like
counterfeited pictures at dot
despair dot
no resolution-
deceit dot
and dot you – wow!
how dot you so much, dot?
sound you! no then dot?
dot go – why not?

ha you and dot me after all dot
ha my tricks dot your
distorted dot image – ours
dot
ha your dot red herring
and my dot dot dot

no dot
from dot you?
dot along a dot fictionist?
to pretend that one – dot
picks up dot stuff-dot-
long stem dot-roses
while you or dot they?

you dot after dot stones
in the middle of
the dot way dot
and a scent –
grisly environment – dot dot dot
all those kennels of limit to a dot
behind me dot and you ahead and dot?
you and me – sorry?
how to cope with dot
our dot crudeness-
dot?

my imagination dot it can’t dot
but pours out flowers – dot?
blooms of nausea dot of
exasperation and where’s?
the bagman? the drummer?
dot you dot
dot I dot – why we dot?
have to put up with this nonsense?



Image credits: Jackson’s Pollock “Number One” [or How Can We Be Abandoned and Accurate at the Same Time?], 1948.