Sunken*Portraits*In*Evolutionary*Waters

Suddenly, from all the green around you,
something-you don't know what-has disappeared;
you feel it creeping closer to the window,
in total silence. From the nearby wood

you hear the urgent whistling of a plover,
reminding you of someone's Saint Jerome:
so much solitude and passion come
from that one voice, whose fierce request the downpour

will grant. The walls, with their ancient portraits, glide
away from us, cautiously, as though
they weren't supposed to hear what we are saying.

And reflected on the faded tapestries now;
the chill, uncertain sunlight of those long
childhood hours when you were so afraid. -Rilke



You are walking down a cobbled hill in Kiev where fresh portraits of archaic faces with royal fabrics draped over their immortalized bodies line the pathway along narrow curving streets of tall green oaks and petite Martini cafe’s. You look up to your right and see Rastrelli famous Baroque church adorned in green and lustrous gold, grounded like a masterpiece of consequent adoration. You look a little further into the clouds and feel a strange breeze whisp past your face, feeling your body trembling with a new fear for a pending knowing. You look down at your feet and see a river flowing silently and invisibly through the thick cracks of uneven cobble you’re balancing yourself on. You look up the hill a little bit to pinpoint the origin of



water, but there is none. It seems to be spread out everywhere you look, only catching a glimmer here and there, as they separate on a hard edge, but reconnect at the bottom of each rock to continue as a whole once more. You smile to yourself feeling all of the water in the city interconnected, and now you somehow in on their secret as they share their existences through one movement, with the hot sky ready to crash through, onto the anticipating bare earth you stand on, you are a part of a conscious thought bubble in the universe that is about to pop and happen!



Portraits of faces, from lost era’s and fallen empires now watch you as you walk past them, in a living silence. You are alive in this moment, and once the rain comes you will remain alive, while their faces will bleed like ink, through mazes of cobble down to the golden beaches near the river where their colors will run and topple over each other in a race towards immorality until they reach the shore, and then be swept away by the inhalation of a sharp new wave, where they join the wheel of evolution, and wait for their souls to shower upon us once more, wetting our minds with the possibility of their company and inner presence.

Black*Cat*Purple

A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:

just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.

She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once

as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.

Rainer Maria Rilke

Munch*On*Me

There are deep channels to cross
With Youth on the prow
and Pleasure at the helm
Choice is the very marrow
of every boned existence

My wrists are rivers
My fingers are words
I lean as close to you with my words as I can
Mine is the touch of
A thousand suns that brand
their imprint
Upon the caul of soul
Dissecting
The sacred skin of
Your fecund mind
Sowing the seeds of a new reality
Reaping it all ecstatically
We clap with one hand

The universe sputters and rages in these veins
My lips are every prophets prayer answered
In the red dust temple of the profane

Just relax and open wide
Let my senses be your guide
I have pitched my tent inside you

Waiting for the puppy dog moon to emerge
Wagging his cosmic tales into songs of romance
Your body will become my fortress
Guarding this
our precious chance

One flesh
The feral caged
With a carnal freedom
Sailing past the vow of Now
Our bodies emergent
Deliciously alit
as we burn
The ephemera in
Our streaming transcendence
Riding the evernight
Poised on the edge
Our backs to the solar winds
basking in Love's immortal shadows



Gracias Lori Gomez :)

Mary Katrantzou

Inspired by René Magritte and the surrealist masters, the young designer’s collection “Ceci n’est pas une chambre” (This is not a room) is an amalgamation of fine art and fashion creating a surrealist haven in the form of avant-garde couture. Katrantzou’s fascination with rooms transforms itself into the central theme of this season’s work, her vision stemming from graphic sets of Helmut Newton and Guy Bourdin’s fashion shoots. The Greek-born designer is a relative newbie to the fashion scene, but in just a few years Katrantzou has situated herself as one of fashion’s biggest up-and-coming starlets. She is well known for edgy creations featuring graphic, colorful prints that have prolifically gained popularity since the inception of her brand.

Simple window frames become the central focal point with sleeves that appear like curtains on structured, angled, colorful frocks that are swinging with modernity. They are feminine in their chassis, creating wearable visual snapshots—a woman, her body becoming a room of its own. Katrantzou has been quoted as saying, “With this collection, I wanted to put the room on the woman, rather than the woman in the room,” and she does this ideology justice.

-Soma Magazine

Drowned* Kitten* Not

kitten almost drowned in my coffee last night
poor little thing
almost didn't make it
from the overdose of
caffeine

i lit him a menthol
one for him and one for me
that totally evened out the clouds in mind
long lost friend, nicotine

i lent the poor wet thing
a towel
to dry
and he just sat there
chattering
pulling
the cigarette deeper into his life
deeper into the living thing

i leap across my apartment
searching for a canvas,
to paint a newly inspired visual in mind
it’s not about what i knew, but always about
what i could find

I find the right size,
and peel the plastic
breathing in deeply

intoxicated with its fresh smell
running my hands over its stern frame
that would soon melt and dry into my story game

next I find a black pan
and layer a few
reds
yellows
greens
and blues
they look like little homes
nested
on a ashen volcanic shore.

then I go in search of some newspapers
that is easy since it has been
the same news
the same drama
and same characters
repeated in different ways
for the last 50 years if not more…

some but not all are messily stacked underneath my dying rose of a vase
for these occasional...ohh...brisk wakings, from deepsleepppps.

i lay everything out neatly.
run for my brushes in the kitchen
wish Rupert my neighbor
a good sundown
opening my balcony door
and letting some of his babies
who like to roll around on my carpet
while I paint…..In

i allow this
as long as they promise not to get angry
and shatter…..
being leaves as they are.


i make it back to the centre of my living space
where natural amber light is streaming in from the rise
of rises of hot apple moon

everything is beautiful and perfect
the moments before I wet my canvas with paint
and still have nothing in mind.

there is silence
and this whiteness
that soothes
that makes everything okay
until it's not anymore
and you're not afraid to break it
because you discover
there is nothing that can be broken
only curiosity awoken once more.

i prop the canvas
go into my stance
with politics, carnivals
and important moments in history laying bare before me
and make my first mark
watching intently to make sure that it does not reject the color

at this moment an unexpected golden
stream of light catches the royal blue
and i get a sense of direction in which to
......... curve it

i paint softly like this for a few minutes.
taking little hints. making different points
smearing them when I like them to be smeared
driving full speed with one color across the canvas
suddenly stopping,
picking up with another one,
make illegal U turns,
switching lanes without checking blind spots,
never stopping with reds,
and not always continuing with greens
just flashes and flashes of reality dance before me
giving me pleasure to break them
in my own little secret cove.
in my own little secret way.

then I have a moment where I kind faze back into myself
and suddenly feel everything about my body
it becomes heavy with thought
and straightens out from the impression of being watched

i look around and try to figure out what brought my attention back soo fiercely
this whole time when i was standing there
with my feet
3 foot widths apart
wearing nothing more than
a soft pink cashmere sweater
i didn't realize
that was just enough visual space
to squeeze in
my dear of a friend,
Nicolas Sarkozy who I find
smiling
in between my legs.

they suddenly become even more aware of themselves
and slightly loose balance
i lean over to take a closer look at this funny man
and decide that everyone is allowed to have a good morning
only as long as Clara Bruni isn't on the same page.
no, she's a few papers down, sullenly strumming on her guitar
at the back of a midnight cab
making her way through paris...
obliviousness keeping her warm.

kitten jolts up from his place
where he was leaning against the coffee cup he almost drowned
in, chain smoking my cigarettes
and springs towards the canvas
with a french mustache manner on his face
jumping into my pan of frying colors.

give him a closer look, he tells me
go on, no one will know.

i don't tear my gaze away from him
as i proceed to get down to my knees
and lay my canvas
flat on it's back
ready to continue with ourselves.

but as I lean over its provocative body
my hair tumbles
picking up different stray moments of color

i draw back for a second
watching them climb up
like little monkey's or pirates
with knives and grapes
fruits and dangers of gold and rum, jumping
back aboard their ship.

i take a fist full of hair,
and smack all the color
back onto the canvas
creating a rapidity, a plot line
the works first - verb!
my initial vision returns to me
now in tango with my new one
that I want to return too

I rinse our my hair,
but those bloody monkey split some good rum
I pull as much of it as I can
back into a high bun, securing it with a black rose
and return to now an unrecognizable flesh of work
which depicts an adventure
of a wild cat
that has jumped onto the surface of a chessboard
with the intention of arousing a suppressed memory
of ……… in a woman's past,
bringing it to the surface of her expression
written in
verbs
adjectives
declaratives
and superlatives
curling into
a face
of a boldness
of a rouge smirk

where did you find that?
kitten looks back at me,
"it's in your eyes" he replies.
"but you can't see them, can you?" he pushes

i stand there, and feel hot and cold at once
turn my head to the balcony door
where I catch myself in one gaze, twice
past the black velvet night
and brick golden leaves taking their last flight
in whimsical fury of interest,
before each and everyone
they scrap the pavement one by one,
before melting in the melody of Lacrimosa’s steam,
vanishing forever into their last dream,
they pray for one last powerful wind to stir,
the memory of past,
to never
reoccur.

"it has gone. many more have come," I tell him
"what you found in my eyes tonight, is what once was
the remnants of a reawakened dream
that I don't want to remember you so?
that has already changed me
become the make-up of the present me!"

I walk to the carpet,
pick up the remaining of leaves
and let them out on the balcony

but instead of falling downward
towards the pavement……
they get picked up by some strange
plain of wind carrying numerous leaves!!!!
parallel to the ground!
across air !
across land !
sea !
and
sky.

Catching,
jumping from one carpet to next! I think.
Another plain of existence exists!
…..where they are to loose it all,
and in themselves
be found
when their season is to visit
once more.

i step back inside now shivering
and close the balcony behind me.
kitten has lit up again.
hands me the light and I do the same

“so what I have seen was wrong" he asks
“no, not wrong, just not there anymore,” I reply
we're both sitting across from the canvas now,
leaning back in our chairs. In silence we’re found
“let it be white again”
“hmmm?”
“White.” I repeat

.....the red traffic background
will just look like veins
.....the strange blueness
becomes the background of an ocean
.....the little black pupil
a pirate ship
......the Iris
we will make a wheel of time!
brown with carved golden….ancient zodiacs! not hours
then we need a woman
.........rising from underneath the eye
with green rings and bracelets
sitting on dark earth gypsy skin,
just her finger
lightly pressing on the wheel
as if the whole picture were her face
and the wheel her cheek.

.....wiping eyes of laughter
in years long past and clean
of days of tiredness and sleep
of dreams drifting like boats
across places where rivers will never meet
but then they do!
where lovers never kissed
but now that's all they do!
where owls never slept
just watched us and "awooood"!
where hours don't stop for you
just as they don't stop for her or him
just as this canvas now hangs on my wall
because my mind was able to change
because my will is more powerful than word
because my mind is sharper than sword
to tear through all imposed deception
to tear through dream boats of recollection
to compose melodies when
hearts and minds, feet guts and guitar are in sync with desires
to produce words of walks of works of art, that burn in blazing eternal fires!

For the one who knows her best his heart with SOAR. PUN!

Ding! Ding!

Ding! Ding! Ding!

Kitten feed me.

Kitten feed kitten

Meeow

Meeeeeeow!

shhhh.

In silence

they dwell

now.

leaning back once more


It was last night he drowned

When the dream boat tipped over

When my mind got wet with colour

When I painted through the prayers

of a friend, now buried

we lean back

and in silence we dwell

I m touched by the story of a friend I never knew

A blank canvas he is to me



A black canvas I touched,


you see?

Dear Sveta: Where Do I Begin To Thank You?

Love,

Nastia

Karoleva*Gimnastiki = Svetlana*Joukova

Colours Blend* Hearts Mend* Friends Bend

Nastia*E*Rosa

Edgard Cayce Linda Mills Reading

Like most young girls, Linda Mills wanted to fall in love with a wonderful man, have a family and live a rich, full life. When she met her future husband, she was genuinely attracted to him, though she knew he wasn't everything she had dreamed about. She especially didn't like his tendency to make decisions for her. Nevertheless, their love for each other was strong and they felt a deep mutual attraction. An added joy was that they were quite comfortable with each other around their friends and family.

They married and had two daughters. For Linda, the first daughter was a joy. Throughout the pregnancy and after the birth she and her new baby were very comfortable and happy with each other. They spent many wonderful hours together nursing and rocking while Linda softly hummed lullabies. But life with her second daughter was quite a different story. The pregnancy was uncomfortable, filled with sickness and stress, and after the birth she and the baby just never seemed to get into sync with each other. The baby didn't seem to enjoy being held or rocked like the first child and breastfeeding was a battle. In fact, the baby developed an allergy from the breast milk, and formula had to be substituted. Only the father's touch was comforting to this little one, and as she grew up her preference for him became even more evident. She was clearly "Daddy's little girl," while the first child was certainly Mommy's.

When this family received a past-life reading from Edgar Cayce, the cause of many of their present feelings and actions quickly surfaced. Apparently, Linda and her husband had been husband and wife before, but in the incarnation just prior to this one, they had been father and daughter, respectively. His tendency to make decisions for her and control her life was a carry over from being the father. In that past life Linda had been a rather wild and rebellious child. This was due in part to her resentment that the man who had been her equal in many lifetimes was now her father. It was a difficult life for him, too. Raising her was very hard, especially after the death of his wife in that lifetime. Naturally, all of these feelings carried over into their present life and marriage.

As for the children, the first daughter had been Linda's close friend through many lifetimes, bringing this love and friendship into the present life. In their most recent past life, the first daughter had helped Linda deal with the problems Linda had had with her father (Linda's present husband), and now as their daughter she would do so again. Now the second daughter had been the father's lover in many past lives, so you can just imagine the mutual enmity this created between the mother and daughter in the present. Linda's milk wasn't all the baby was allergic to! Neither did she want Linda's love and comfort as much as she did her father's. The father and his second daughter would have to learn to love each other in a much different way or break one of the strictest taboos, incest. All of these feelings were occurring subconsciously, of course, subtly affecting the conscious life.