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Thoughts flowing in space

June 1, 2008

This post might be yet another lyrical endeavour; however, as I have been pondering about it, this post shall become part of what I aim to think of today.

We already have one – or more of them. Aristea is writing about it in her thesis, Sam, her and I have one on top of this one, I even have several linked up somewhere in this worldwide community of text, sound, vision, sensuality and memory. It’s a blog.

If one thinks of the world wide web as a seemingly indefinite entanglement of words created over years and years by people (and possibly machines and systems) sitting in front of their computers, one can barely imagine the vast inheritance all of those people have left to those that are browsing the net day in day out.

As I am writing today, I am, again, contributing to the vast universe of words to be left in this virtual space. And yet, this post is still alive with all of the contributions on this specific mediajuice.wordpress.com blog. But – for how long? And what happens to it once we’ve left this space? Once there is nothing more but our thoughts and passions about each of our topics? Will it become like a treasured diary, once written in teenage years, put up in the attic when we moved out of home and to be rediscovered years after? We will sit in this virtual attic, smiling, wondering and grateful for our common memories. And yet – it is no diary. It is not stored somewhere only for the writers to read in. People will stumble upon this blog, hopefully while it is still alive (and yes, I am referring to this blog as something living…).

I have started thinking about it when recovering one of my older blogs earlier last month – thoughts, fears, a lot of excitement, memories are hinged together in singular posts that have been left untouched in over a year. I am fearful to delete it, as it has been part of me once. And yet, I cannot continue writing in it. I have left that place a long while ago. It is like a monument, telling me of old times, who I used to be and what I used to think some time ago. I cannot close it, I cannot store it away somewhere – it will never gather dust, it will forever be here, in this virtual, sensual space, joining all of the other more or less intimate blogs that have been written and abandoned at some point.

What will happen to them, I ask? What will happen to mine? Is this the heritage we will pass on to the next generations? Or will they be lost at some point, as a stone falling into a very deep lake, disappearing quickly and not to be found again lest someone remembers the web link to this so personal and yet so public space.

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We’re all made of star dust

May 26, 2008

Du bist vom selben Stern

wie ich.

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Hello world – my fundraising page!

May 2, 2008

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the spitting image

March 29, 2008

of those that wipe their mouths with white tissues. crazy in their own honeysuckle and further and down the road. voulez vous? when again? and how? yes, how. how. how. how. and after we have heard enough, there is nothing but silence. breath. breadth. vastness. the essence and tears of you and me. tears that are dispersed and disturbed by the noises outside. is it christmas yet? will we ever sing again? yes, we will sing. we will stand on a mountain, clothed in gold and silver and sing till our voives drop. of war battles, of feathers, of the pavement. that we walk on. of course, what else would we walk on when we have never worn any other shoes. shoes are made of leather, of silver patterns, sometimes with names stitched onto them. and symbols. the symbol of your voice is that of a swan lifting off from a lake in the cold morning. you can see it floating, then spreading its wings and cutting through the breeze. can you smell it? the grass, still wet from the night and crying over the departure of the moon. same thing with me. every once in a while i walk not on the pavement. i walk through the meadows collecting the dew drops. they stain my legs, they stain my trousers, they stain me. and i walk up on high with a fox under my arm, talking of the day before. my friend, the fox. there’s a house, too. there’s always a house. with lots of people, tall and small. sometimes it has towers, high up in the sky, sometimes it has cellars, deep down in the ocean and i will meet tilda and i will meet tori there. have you known them? have you heard the bombs going off in the silence? when we stop breathing, there is nothing but silence. hold your breath. and tell me what you see when silence is covering the sea around us. see the waves, the sun, the beauty of a seagull. concentrating again. never stop writing, just keep going. whatever comes out of it will be written down for all times. it’s your legacy. it’s my legacy, my inheritance and all of it is going to the poor house down the road. the poor house with no windows and a tiny entrance only, shabby and run down. we should get some carpenters to do it up. once we have stopped breathing. that will be the case, easily. we can start again just after a few seconds.

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have good faith in them

March 24, 2008

whatever comes to mind first is free writing. taught by a young teacher in the US named Miss Sheheane. Married a pastor, became a patriot and had several kids. lost contact with her as I was criticising US foreign politics. hopefully, she is in good health.

so much for an intro. the moon is not shining tonight, looks like the trees are falling in. when zone free coffee enters the house, everything is possible. as is when she is lovely, stevie wonder will free those people across the zambian border. whenever a lack of freedom is in the air, that’s when the hormones kick in. and the voices. the voices that will relentlessly tell you of their latest casualties, their former relatives and their future cast members. however, cast a shadow onto this table and the wolf that will come howling out will be covered in honey and smell of trees and unicorns. he has something to say, no matter where he has come from. so let him speak and wipe off the excess honey that he caught hibernating in a bee hive. he is one of a kind, a russian descendant and future governor of kyrgysystan. what else! what the hell! skin on skin, fur on fur, over all of my clothes, it’s a cat. it’s two cats. and it’s a thought of savages. of the wild, the free. of a goldcrest singing, filling my body with every golden bit that there ever was. shining through and through. feel incredibly heavy and laden with it. feel completely full, the heart bursting with coins, notes, and the humming of those that clear off the streets so that we don’t have to walk through the dirt. met a few of them, one used to sell old clothes in frankfurt. big beard, talked of the issue. soldier during the war of secession? what is it, anyways? secede, succeed, success, excess. excessive reading, excessive listening to music from it all, through it all, through the very head and bones. lick the legs of the chair and tell me what it tastes like. will you? and don’t get your tongue caught in a splinter. will hurt, let me tell ya. crazy folks out there. crazy folks in here, whenever you look into the mirror. looks like you’re being followed, wherever you go. won’t be easy to escape. a jump into a big pot of honey will do. i’m sure. and then up to the moon who has finally decided to show up.

the end

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blood flowing through our veins

March 22, 2008

“Dear God, let us be aware of our own death so that we may become wise.” My mother read this out to me this morning as we were talking about bringing an abundance of life into life. Blood keeps it all together. Blood is the juice of life, love and sorrow. Blood pulses, pushes, pinches in our bodies, it is constantly flowing from head to toes, it circulates, it vibrates, it gives and takes lives. Blood clots sometimes, sometimes it decides to flow new ways, different ways, sometimes it is me. It shines from within towards the outside, it pulls the outside back in and makes sure wounds heal. People have called it blue, denoting a class position. People have called it a stain when it flows outside of our bodies. People have called it red – red is what emerges from our bodies, red is what pushes our hearts when we are in love, red is what is comical, theatrical, musical.

Blood is what lets us blush, blood is what lets us rush. And, listening to divine music, blood is what makes us hush.

– thanks to Dvorak for his Slavonic dance No. 2 in E minor op. 72 –

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The “bee”

March 21, 2008

I have decided to celebrate this moment of joy. The hedgehog.

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