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.

Hot*Red*Style*Lab

I C The Way U R

Caramel Macchiato vs. Hot Chocolate

Amazing Photographer **Evens Belleus**

Bringing Back The Funk At The Style Lab Event

Eye* Fucked* You* Last* Life

I ran into three vampires on my way to Etobicoke today.

As I was descending down the escalator to get to the subway platform, I spotted three very attractive individuals, moving awkwardly within themselves, waiting, unaware they had caught my attention.




One was dirty blond with half her hair secured by two dangerous looking chop sticks, crossing in an X. The other half falling loosely at the back revealed the fragile ness of her beauty which was as fair as her face. Thin lips, beautiful eyes, the mind seemed wiser, along the curve of her cunning smirk. There was an edge. It would be her words not her tongue, for her voice was soft, and I could barely hear her speak. Her body was thin and a Black mid-calf leather trench coat accentuated her broad shoulders. She’s was a woman, out of a Milan Kundera Novel.





The second woman had such a small face the wave of velvet black hair wrapped her like a curtain on an unusually bright morning, being unveiled by maids in a princesses chamber. The eyes were so small but lashes pompous. It almost looked like she had a birds nest in each eye. The nest of a Raven mother. She was wrapped in black. And had a cold beauty. There was a distance she held. Her distance created a coolness about her. And between her and your interest in her, there was a walk accompanied by a cool breeze, an invitation into the unknown. She was hard on the outside, but in her soul I could image a
paradise of cashmere cushions and a tangible softness. She took good care of her inner world and all it’s creatures. She didn’t let invaders in for the experience. And my favorite part, her lips were outlined in that shade of light between dark and bright Rouge. A feast of blood, a greed for passion, composed neatly and frankly on her face.





There was a man, standing in between them. I would call him a boy. He couldn’t be older than 25 rotations, but he looked lethal. Straight blond hair to his shoulder blades and a strong face. His position is what made them interesting to me. For he was like that tip of the triangle, in control of the shape of the threesome, always moving forward, but without moving at all. He was also all in black. His skin had a healthy bronze to it and his eyes sharp, but intention soft and practiced. Precise, and relaxed.


I sensed some sort of unspoken bond moving between them. The energy around them was controlled and cool. The contrast of Red Black and White moved me, because their speach was brisk and soft. They weren’t trying to be heard. Their appearance was as they were not, but at the same time, simply were. At first I thought they might be prostitutes. High class, Dark, Discrete. Second I thought they might be coming from Prague or Bucharest, lost in the unfolding subway tunnels of Toronto. Third, I didn’t know what else to think. The doors opened. The people who had reached their destination got out, and a new batch of people trying to figure out where to go, got in.

We entered the same cart. I decide not to watch them and choose my favorite seat by the window, clicked my cowboy boots together and opened up my Statistics textbook. Next thing I know, I feel his arm sliding past my shoulder, as he’s stretching it around the seat of one of the woman, as we are now sitting back to back from each other. I can smell her, even though her smell is tasteless. I can feel something shift, inside him. And know it is for me. He knows I’m there, even though we don’t yet exist for each other. They are still silent for a while and I feel the dance in the air as his head slightly shifts to catch a glance at me. I ignore him and don’t pay attention. A few second passes, and I get the first answer. The first and only answer I need to provide the curiosity that was unfolding into pending
questions.



“Do you know where this place is?” Velvet asks
“Somewhere around College and Spadina,” Bronze answers
“I used to go there all the time, using the Bathurst route” adds in Chop Sticks in a typical girly 20’s voice. Sans accent. Sans sex. Sans fun!



And this lady’s and gentleman is a demonstration of what appearance, color, strength, length, and visual abilities, are capable of doing to a mind like mine. A story is born with every curiosity that holds my attention. And I have to admit that being wrong did not disappoint me, because there isn’t such thing in this world.

I still don’t know where they were going? What brought them together onto the same platform and rushed us into the same subway cart tonight. Where their lives have taken them, and where they are still going? What kind of party they were attending and why those woman decided to piece themselves together the way they did, earlier that day, only for my brief encounter with them later that night. That overwhelming wave of peace that envelops your body when you feel that you and others are one, you are alive for each other, and all is alive to move you!




They returned to their mumbles. I reached St.George, packed my books and got off without a second glance at them. I saw a stream of people making their way downstairs to reach the Westbound trains, just as I heard the warning alarms for the doors closing behind me. I decided to turn around one last time, and observe them. Velvet was positioned parallel to me. I looked straight into her eyes.



She couldn’t understand. Could not move. But the seed of curiosity was planted, the spark flickered in her eyes, as her head made the slightest tilt to the side. She wanted to know more. Her train was moving away. I could stare at her as fiercely as I wanted. She was becoming afraid. Her lips parted as her eyes narrowed at me.We were alive for each other in that moment. For our eyes, and concentration and being were fixed, as her being was slowly being pulled away into one direction. I smiled, for she held my gaze for as long as she could before her body was rushed back into the tunnel. Back into the course of her life, and I to the course of mine. Our questions for each other left unanswered. The train rushes away and lightly picks up my hair with the friction of wind in the tunnel, as a last farewell to the role it played as the stage. I take a step forward. Satisfied with what happened. Satisfied that I will never know. Exactly what occurred and what could of. It was perfect, in so many ways.

For I know I was meant to know them, knowing them not at all.....

Keys and Voices

Look around, just people, can you hear her voice
Find the one who'll guide you to the limits of your choice
If you're in the eye of a storm, at the tail, pray for the lonely dove
The experience of survival is the key to the gravity of love.

J. L. B

"Who dwells in a realm, magical and barren… Without a before, or an after, or a when...To be forever; but never to have been."
– Jorge Luis Borges, The Enigmas

Am I....sure?

Is it life, or my idea of life that brings me happiness?

The buddha told the story of a merchant, who went away on a business trip and left his little boy at home. While he was away, bandits came and burned down the whole village. When the merchant returned, he didn’t find his house, it was just a heap of ash. There was the charred body of child close by. He threw himself on the ground and began to weep over his body.

The next day he had the little body cremated. Because his son was his only reason for existence, he made a beautiful little velvet bag and put his ashes inside. Wherever he went, he took the ashes with him. In fact his son had been kidnapped by bandits; three months later, the boy escaped and returned to the home. WHen he arrived, it was two o’clock in the morning. He knocked on the door of the new house his father had built. The poor father was lying on his bed crying, holding the bag of ashes, and he asked, “ Who is there?” It’s me, Daddy your son.” The father answered, “That’s not possible. My son is dead. I’ve cremated his body and I carry his ashes with me. You must be some naughty boy who’s trying to fool me. Go away! and don’t disturb me! He refused to open the door, and there was no way for the little boy to come in. The boy had to go away and the father lost his son forever.



After telling this story , the Buddha said, “If at some point in your life you adopt an idea of a perception as the absolute truth, you close the door of your mind.”

Attachment to ideas, views, and perceptions are the biggest obstacles to the truth.

This is why we must learn to ask ourselves, "Am I sure?"

Light Feathers---Heavy Dreams

She had come to him to escape her mothers world, a world where all bodies were equal. She had come to him to make her body unique, irreplaceable. But he,too, had drawn an equal mark between her and the rest of them.....

She would dream three series of dream in succession: the first was of cats going bersek and referred to the sufferings she had gone though in her lifetime; the second was images of her execution and came in countless variations; the third dream was of her life after death, when humiliation turned into a never-ending state.

The dreams left nothing to be deciphered. The accusation they leveled at Tomas was so clear that his only reaction was to hang his head and stroke her hand without a word.

Dreaming is not merely an act of communication, it is also an aesthetic activity, a game of the imagination. a game that is a value in itself. Our dream prove that to imagine- to dream about things that have not happened- is among mankind’s deepest needs. Here in lies the danger....
If dreams were not beautiful, then would quickly be forgotten. But Tereza kept coming back to her dreams, running through them in her mind, turning them into legends. Tomas lived under the hypnotic spell cast by the excruciating beauty of Tereza’s dreams.

“Dear Tereza, sweet Tereza, what am I losing you to?” he once said to her as they sat face to face in a wine cellar. “Every night you dream of death as if you really wished to quit this world....”

It was day’ reason and will power were back in place. A drop of red wine ran slowly down her glass as she answered. “ There’s nothing I can do about it, Tomas. Oh, I understand. I know you love me. I know your infidelities are no great tragedy...”

She looked at him with love in her eyes, but she feared the night ahead, feared her dreams. Her life was split. Both day and night were competing for her.

- Milan Kundera ++The Unbearable Lightness of Being++

Face.Your.Dream.Self

The way a dream is broken
The moment the sleeper knows he is sleeping.
-Jorge Borges

A dream does not like being controlled
It has the temperament of a child
Just like man doesn’t like to be veered
Into a sphere of emotional discomfort
Where he is unable to coexist
With his suppressed fears
Therefore he expresses them
Therefore he is eaten
No longer himself
But still walking in his body
Writing in his body
Making love in his body
He is unable to reconnect with what he loves most in himself
And is therefore forever lost
At the coordinate of stubbornness
aligned with webbed beads of tears
He stands-
found.
With his back
to the potential
of his
dream self
he starves alive
his knowledge
his only pride
unable to fall into the trance
of dream
where life comes to life!
dream comes to dream!
self comes to self
and like attracts like.
- Just Be.

Burnin---' S.u.n. f.l.o.w.e.R

ocean of shifting symmetries. butter fly by me
parallel realities, scorching desert sands, infested by collapsing rains
that sprout that rose of truth
among all those grains of sands
lost in time
lost where I was, with you
all those pages we’ve written for one another...... are quickly tucked underneath our covers. excited we forget, sink into blue waters of yellow dreams, and by the morning our childish desires renewed with a fresh steam. I keep the flame of writing alive, by feeding the fire my work, for the passion to exist and burn within the dark eyes of night. Where it goes after ashes blend with sand....i do not know. But what I know is they always return.
these pages, stories me and you blush upon, eye's widen, and all matter of heart suddenly becomes serious….shall we tango, to the song we have written and forgot to sing? The walk we have stripped of pride and ego we emasculated with a smile, spinning all into a glorious dance of laughter and forgetting. unanswered by the strangest stranger of all things strange. arrange my steps. trapeze down paved paths we call streets by names mispronounced, on lonely continents....their plates shifting, hands of lands intertwining, beneath the surface of off things that seem.
Twin to my soul. You walk not to far behind. I am not always aware you’re there....its the credit you are teaching me to take, without doubting what’s mine, is already yours.
She snuggles into my shoulder, and releases all passions, left victims of their own burning flame of power, resting like yellow seeds, against the black petals ......of a gloriously.....burning .......sun-flower.

S.P.L.I.T S

Noun: The physical structure of a person or an animal, including the bones, flesh, and organs.
Verb: Give material form to something abstract. 

"Athletic Dance"- To bend and break your physical body….held by your bones, masked by your flesh and operated by your organs….into structures rhythmical movement of thought forms that give rise to some epiphany of compound emotion down the road of your life's purpose that you carve for yourself second by second in your abstract mind. And in the midst of questioning….does the mind make sense of the body, does the body make sense of the mind…. or is everything you think, not a reaction of actual thought but flesh.
"You're cold hearted." I might say….But no!! its actually my heart that's cold when i think of you. Okay….but what about her? She's hot….smouldering in blood and agony that can never choose between short term pain…or long term pleasure. In competition with oneself. What a sight! To gain some ground on your own battle field, and gain a loss that will never be forgiven.
The battle is over. The sight you longed to see in vanishing beneath the sea swelling in your eyes, like time running, sprinting through your fingers. Into a hat of folded paper with answers to all that is more to come. The shores are calm once more. The sea in breathing. Your eyes fly open and blink to see the sun blinking back at you in pure delight.
Its a new day. Its a new morning. I hop out of bed. Out of some reminiscing desert of blood and sand of a dream now a mere speck of dark depth, growing shallower, being pulled into the distance without the minds interruption. I swing my leg up backwards to to kiss my Achilles, and arch into the interior city of splendid doll. A bad dream cannot erase my need to remember, Cool....I've still got it all!

"It is death sweetly bluish, like non-being. Because nonbeing is an infinite emptiness and empty space is blue, and there is nothing more beautiful and more soothing than blue. Not at all by chance did Novalis, the poet of death, love blue and search for nothing else in his journey’s.The voyage of variations leads into the other infinitude, into the infinite diversity of the interior world lying hidden in all things." - Milan Kundera


Without weight, there is no color there is no radiation, rainbow or variety, temperature, emotion, height or its symmetrical depth. Memories and people attached to them loosen and loosen shape, loose importance, influence & communication with your soul, therefore your soul looses direction, nostalgia evaporates, steam releasing anxiety and disorder. What you were/are once, will not matter twice. The mountains, meadows, sunrises, the stench of lavender on my shoulder from sleeping upon rows and rows of smiling flowers........ and hurricanes of streaming fabrics of warring colors, russian poets lost in duels for love, their poetry, my pottery, his cat, her blue tongue, and even the color orange...even the color orange blends with the rivers of galaxies emptying into vacant pools of ink. Collecting stars, shimmering into throbbing white clusters -----all smooth out onto one plane, of 2 dimensional simplicity. take the canvas, and put it out in front of you. Now try to find your fears? Your doubts? Your sadness? Your shame? Your pain? Your game? Your loss? Your scar? Your cigarette tar? ..........Elements of hatred towards yourself? Memories and yearnings. Dreams distorting perception and the seconds in your life you spent caring about becoming someone other than who you already are, those seconds of bending over backwards into negative infinity. Where are they! Show me!.........do “they” even exist....who are you? Where are you?..... Or are we all just lying hidden in all things, swimming in an ocean of blue electricity, living inside a resonating seashell..... like a mollusk... where every whispered word, and thought calling to our attention, reverberates, swells, into multiple unending echoes, rebounding only off of ourselves, and the protection we have built around us, believing we are all that exists......Growing into our belief’s. All wanting to be different. All wanting to be crazy. All wanting to be beautiful and talented. But afraid to stick out our tiny little heads into the abyss, holding on with our lives to the floating bubbles. Of thought, Of shell, Of disappointment. Of the concreteness of being this and that......abstract. we live. All afraid to be eaten, by what we belief in most. Ourselves.

The.Way.Me.Drug.Me

CONT'D

“Wait! What do you mean it has left? You just called us!" Montreal demands, hands flailing in disbelief, her last breathe handing on shedding chord.

“Boarding time was over a minute ago” say’s Warsaw

This is when you realize that someone is playing a joke on you. Toronto is thinking to herself

“A minute ago?!" screeches Montreal

“Yes! A minute ago. You two lady’s were sitting there chatting for the last 15 minutes. You had enough time to get up and board your plane!” spites back Warsaw with pompous vulgarity.

“But where are we to go now?” asks Toronto, her passport in hand now violently shaking from 'fear.'

“Up there” Warsaw points lazily with one finger at the Marriott rising above the airport. Its purpose for being built, now growing more obvious by the second.

Toronto looks at the Marriott and realizes for the first time how close her dream of staying a few extra days in Warsaw was to becoming true. “Life plays jokes. But actors play out the fun dialogue.”

Montreal has had enough. “Stop with this bullshit! and Stop the plane! Now!

Warsaw’s ego shrunk to the size of a pea, and scrambled to make phone calls and stop the plane immediately! Montreal was standing there with one fist on her hip, and Toronto as usual with the biggest smile on her face. The doors that were permanently closed to us, only a few seconds ago, were not swinging open, and sucking us into their vortex of motion and commotion. That....annnnnd.....my kidney’s just dumped a generous donation of Adrenaline into my nervous system!


It took those 2 stubborn ego’s guarding the “forbidden” door exactly one second to open it, 2 seconds to dial the plane, 3 second to reach an available shuttle boy and 4 seconds to mutter their last words of regret for doing so! And that lady’s and gentleman is how 10 seconds can change your life, and the debt on your Visa. Im telling you now, I have never seen a NO switch so quickly to a rampant YES! One second it was ‘please check into the nearest hotel’, the next second we were running down 3 flights of stairs with bags in hand, were literally tossed into the shuttle, and burst out into hysterical laughter every time were almost scraped the belly of a plane and were thrown to the front of the bus.

But truly....the “Royal” moment was when we watched the long white shiny stairs being attached to the plane once more, just for us, so we could hurry up and seat our little inattentive a**’s down! And remember all those people that were “starting to get antsy, pushing, pulling, name calling, bugging each other in line, kindergarten style??!” well we got to see them all !!! Neatly sitting in rows, their faces burning with disapproval as we got the honors of walking all the way to the back of the plane, not missing a single glare......or occasional smiles...and winks....and lustful gulps too! ;)

So instead of booking into a Marriott and rebooking our flights. We were now comfortably seated in a metallic bird that was ready for take off to the Black Sea. But when I sat down, I couldn’t stop thinking about all the happened. My heart was beating through my chest. My feet with jumping as if ready to break out into a dance, or run an marathon. I had been drugged by my own body, with a drug that’s used for “fight of flight” purposes. The plane was already zooming on the runway and then it hit me! “We had to fight to catch our flight!” What perfect sense it all makes. The crazy interconnectedness of life’s spirit! What a wicked nature!



I pulled out my Ipod. And just as the metallic bird lost contact with the earth. Celia Cruz's voice smoothed over my jitters with one wave . A woman whose voice I probably recognized before my own. A truth I knew, before I could speak. And this truth was...is...and will always BE for those who believe, search, laugh, and play with the light of night, and dark of day that life...mi vida.....tu vida.......su vida.....nos vida......La Vida Es Un Carnaval

The. Way. We .Drug. Me

"Whenever we sense danger or confrontation-be it real or imaginary- our adrenal glands situated on the kidneys release a mixture of chemicals commonly known as ADRENALINE.When something unpleasant happens that -we don't expect- adrenaline is dumped into the bloodstream in one go so that we enter a type of "overdrive state". It is our misinterpretation of our body's natural defense mechanism that confuses adrenaline with fear. If we look at the dictionary definition of fear we find fear to be 'A feeling of distress, apprehension, or alarm caused by impending danger, pain, etc.' , we have been brought up to think of fear as something tangible, as something experienced by weak people when in fact fear is only a description of the symptoms of adrenal release. 
We are often told that if we have these feelings it is a sign that we are scared and weak when in reality we are becoming Fassster, Stronggggger, Pain Resistant and EXPLOSIVE!!!!"


My journey to Ukraine began with Eva Green. A week before my departure I rediscovered the eccentrically serious and extraordinarily self confidant French actress, who began her career with a magical performance in Bertolucci's controversial 2003 film, The Dreamers. A tale of incest, cruelty, erotic conflict and teenage experimentation,set against the background of 1968 Paris student riots. The film being fueled with psychological games revolving around the three characters obsession with Nouvella Vague Cinema, provided an opportunity for each scene to be sculpted in favor of elucidating a moment in art history. I knew the film had reached its artistic peak, the moment Isabelle (Eva) resurfaced from the shower with nothing more than a bath robe around her waist, her arms cut off from her flesh as if she were made of stone,hidden by a dark pair of satin gloves in mergence with a black background, stoically standing at the door way, portraying the famous Greek statue of Venus de Milo.


A hectic week of making deadlines, celebrations, and “packing-time” followed, leaving little time to further my new fascination with the actress. But....’Because I Believe everything in life is timed to the second, everything in my life BECOMES timed to the second....because of my belief in life! (Belief->Faith->Becomes->Through Time...) Anywayyyys....on a short stop to purchasing a few european power adapters before going through customs, I spotted the girl who I’ve been meaning to speak to for over a week now (geeez!), squished between Ms.Vogue, and Marie Claire on June’s cover of BAZAAR,
there she was waiting in WHITE HEAT miss eva green! Truly destiny. I boarded the plane feeling great at the prospect of finally having eight empty hours ahead of me- first in many many months. I pulled Eva out, put her on my lap, and there she was posing in an Yves Saint Laurent silk crepe dress, her marble arm gentle resting on the cascading mane of a resting lion. Avant garde ain’t avant enough! I read the first line of her interview “I gave birth to myself yesterday.” That was it! I’de had enough of convincing myself she didn’t exist! I finally found her! The psychotic twisted dark existential wandering artistic soul twin I was always abstractly in search for. Though really.......did i find you?....or you find me? nah.....we just kinda met. ;)


Speaking with Eva is like jumping from one iceberg of tangents to the next. Her thoughts are slippery, sliding, moving from right to left foot. Humor balanced, lightly joking about her lack of sanity when making important life decisions, interspersed with occasional burst of dark humor. Temperature of speech hot, hard, erratic, one moment solid and clear like a block of ice, the next vapor! shifting between states of matter, matter of importance, importance of time, need, emotion, and sensitivity towards all aspects of progressive self.

I don’t know weather it was the bold mindedness, or absentmindedness.....or the sugar rush i got from both eva and the mini bowl of Sour Keys i devoured before landing, but I was feeling quite invincible. When I touched down in Warsaw, an hour wait in line followed to scan the luggage before being able to board the next plane to Odessa. I noticed a thought kept on creeping back to me, one I had created back home, “Wouldn’t it be.....kinda...maybe...sorta...worth staying an extra day or two to explore a piece of Poland before doing Ukraine for the next month.” Hmmm. Always worth paying attention to those thoughts that seem to run by your radar far to quickly. My mother told me there was no plane leaving the following day. So I let it go.

During the hour wait -all of us being on connection flights- people were starting to get antsy, pushing, pulling, name calling, budding each other in line, kindergarten style. Closer to the front of the line I met an older woman, that was on the same connection flight as I, so I thought that if I stick with her, I would have a lower chance of missing my plane, and a higher chance of finding it to begin with! We walked through without any problems, found our gate, they weren’t boarding yet, so we grabbed a seat on the side....and “nachili baltatt” began to talk. She was also from Canada, ukr-born, living in Montreal with her son. We kept on talking talking periodically looking over to check when boarding would starting, continued talking and then mid sentence she hears her name being announced. We guess they were doing final boarding calls. Pick up our bags. Grateful and happy we walk to the gate, pull out our passports, and come face to face with 2 woman who had something rather important to tell us......

“Boarding time over. Plane has left the gate.”



TO BE CONT'D

Always Enjoy.

Why can't I hit my egg against the table?

.......or mix the wet dough I am stirring in a counter-clockwise direction, or openly smile to myself when I am walking down the street, or cross the road without believing that someone will actually run me over and drive away..y?y?y?..because I am in Ukraine!!!

The land of old culture, superstitions, little laws, little penalty's, wild party's, home made Samohonka, half built churches, stables that turn into kindergarden centre's, old trees that resemble monsters, slutty girls who write beautiful prose, well kept braids, summer parade's, parades of food food food and relatives relatives relatives! It is impossible to construct a sentence.....if you want to truly describe a ukrainian experience...without having the the words, food( fed) by crazy (relatives) and drunk(lots of drinking) in between family stories of emotional substance. This isn't a vacation, so don't bother "trying" to forget your problems and worry's, because here you will be reminded of Who you are. Where you came from.....and in rare cases Where you are going, by people who have known you......for your ever. (forever)

Heading back to Ukraine is like heading back to the birth of my soul's landscape. To a place where I had existed before I was even conscious of my existence. I have always been so curious, like those scientist that attempt to calculate that strange substance that existed before The Big Bang, the birth of our universe, but really a birth in general ....down to the seconds! What i've always known....is that i've always been on my way to coming back. Lucky me, the summer before university, the commencement of a new chapter in my life, like the foreword before a Novel, I have returned, only to learn, I never left.

In a way it's like entering the laboratory where you were created. Who created me...well.....the dear parents that sent me back to the laboratory instead of having to explain it themselves. Those are the big facts. The big evidence. But what about the little things like..." Who named you?" For me is was my father, about a week after I was born, driving me and my new earth mother home from the hospital for the first time to our home in L'viv, my grandmother posed a very smart question. ' Well....what are we going to name her?" My father replied Nastya (Anastassia), before my mother could say Julia.....and so she became....who named her first. :)

When I am back home, I am busy with getting ahead in life. Figuring out what I want, going easy, going hard, going with the flow, or stopping, and changing direction. Its all about movement....not so much about the object that is moving. Aka. The Mover. Everyone has a deeper nature. A nature that has ability's innate to the creature it governs. It is very rare to be given A TIME to slow down your pace.... A PLACE to take in your surroundings AND PEOPLE to reintroduce you to yourself. Listening to stories and flipping through sewn together photo albums of: my grandmother, her brother's, their wives, their lives, their children, my mother, her father, my grandfather, his father, their father, my father, me and my brothers, our lives, their lives...ETC. made me realize how much we're all sewn into one other's destiny.

When I came here I did not know anyone I was about to meet. My mother finds it tedious to explain who everybody is, i found this attitude very shallow at first, she always told me "One day you'll go and you'll see" ( in a very long drawn out, go away voice. :P) Well now I am here and I see, and it's because "everybody" means...a lot of interesting "US" that is not easy to sum up in words alone. No residual "uhhhhs!" at my mother. I understand her now.

But many residual "uhhhhhs!" at myself. I should have stuck to writing when I was here. So I m reopening my blog! More to come.

Always Enjoy ;)