These Two Women II

One turned out to be a liar

One turned out to be true

She was the one who stood the test of time

The other was emotionally blue

The Guerrilla Writer

Write. Don't think. Treat it like a war. Dive in. Battle with the world and empty your emotions. On to the blank space in front of you. Spontaneous and passionate. Let it flow through the pen. Whatever you believe. In ink. On paper. Forever etched into the grain of the page. From a spark in the mind. The stem, the root, the beginning. Birth. Beautiful baby. Don't make a plan. The execution of a plan is never the success you would hope for.

Write for you soul. For cathartic waves. For the exorcism of it all. To repair past pain. To justify yourself to nobody. This existence. That summons so many questions. To mind. Free yourself of all the reasons and write. Just write. For a song, for a poem, for a world, for nothing at all. All is just a dream.

I want to be a guerrilla writer. Write in the eye of a storm, survive. Then disappear. Fight and demonstrate what I believe in. Some things, worth fighting for. Worth spilling blood for, for the eventual value. The meaning. How symbolic. The struggle, the tragedy, the result, the history of events. The turmoil. To write. With a pen in a hand and a connection with the paper. Sparks. The greatest battle. To make some sense out of everything and nothing. To love and show compassion at every single moment. The impossible. Time and again. A guerrilla heart. Never stops, never undoes itself, never truly sleeps.

The nucleus and the vanishing trick.

The Pincer Movement

Render the opponent immobile. What kind of dream has led to this? It brings me here. When attacking your prey, your enemy, you must stun them, you must leave them useless. I awake and immediately think of formation. Pounce. Leave your audience flapping. Lost. If they are powerless to stop you. Maybe they are disarmed through the element of surprise. Once they were unarmed, weaponless creatures, living on farms, in villages. What kind of a dream. It becomes reality. It appears to be my madness. Pin the devil to the wall. In one move. Swift, fluid, with no room for failure. Execution. To perfection. Divine. Poetry. Dark, dark, majestic poetry. Nail the coffin shut. In one move. Two wings. The pincer movement.

Howling At The Moon, Almost Full As It Is

I feel like a wolf at the best of times. And the moon is a pendulum that lost its urge to swing. The disappearing urge. The torch. The spotlight, beaming down. I howl across the town. From one end to the other. I walk home alone, soaking up the streets here in the outskirts of my beloved home in Budapest. The silence of the streets. The rumble of trains that breaks the silent moments. The moon's constant glow upon everything. Following my every move. Kissing my shadow. Throwing another shadow. Shadows chasing me down streets and corners. The effortless night. Alive and magical. I am the wolf, waiting in the wings. Tomorrow I shall have my way. Tomorrow.

An Explanation

Life would seem to me to be all about the gaps, the spaces, the void. With how we fill it, how we see it, how we approach the emptiness, within us, our own selves, and outside of us. Everywhere we look is wide open space. Filled at times by things that seem meaningless, but seldom if ever are. The meditation, the freedom to explore, to roam, to make discoveries. When we are confronted with a blank canvas it is for us to provide a meaning and a context. We can imagine, we can paint, we can become anything. We can grow into beautiful shapes and creatures of endless colour and life.

I ask you to meditate. To ponder the majesty of everything. To question what makes things, why they exist and to challenge yourself in new ways. Constantly. When you hear silence, when you see blankness, when you feel the spaces, enjoy what they can truly give us. They are sent to give meaning to the world around. Our lives. The love. The raging grace of nature. Breathe. Consider the art of breathing. Each moment is a chapter, whether you blinked and missed it or do not seem capable of accessing the magic of what life really is. I don't claim to know, but I sure as hell want to understand and absorb and grow. Like a tree. A solitary tree. In the wind. Blowing, in an invisible force. Nothing else around, just what you can imagine. If you even need to.

When confronted with a blank space, a page without words, a song of silence it is the best of all, exactly what you want it to be. To meditate. To take the time out. For yourself, for those near you, for the world we share as a race. Come alive, do not fear the void, turn it into a forest of dreams. One tree. A forest. Whatever you desire. Imagine. We all possess this power. To unlock the door. We are evergreen.

Meditation

One...

A Letter To Space

I send my thoughts into outer space. What life out there? What chance of reaching out, finding you? This is just a letter for love and hopefulness. To fill the emptiness with something small, maybe even insignificant, but to fill the space nevertheless. To make an impact on the universe. Moving around outside our heads, further afield of our own known space, beyond even some of our dreams.

At times my mind is out there, floating in space with the astronauts and the letters and the stars and Spiritualized on their 1997 record and well, everything. Looking on everything else from a totally new angle. Watching planets shift and spin on their axes from somewhere new. Unfathomably grand, beyond our wildest thoughts, but to open up the mind, to explore, to want to know the vastness of it all. The questions unanswered. Still asking. Still inquisitive.

Maybe I float by in space. Alone. Beautifully moving with nowhere to go. Just for the experience. Just to have something to write about. Just for the hell of it. What is inside the mind and what is not? The universe in my thoughts. Who knows. Somewhere we meet. We share. We love. We unite. Like stars colliding. Long lost lovers. Everything matters. I remember this fondly.

The Polish Train Crash

The horror. Awaiting all of us at any moment. Some time. There. Around the corner. The human error at times. The fallibility of us all. The mistakes await us, sucking us toward them. The Krakow-Warsaw train track. The railway line. The voices. The muffled voices. In an instant silenced. Like entering a tunnel. Never to emerge. Squeezing the life from the tube. Now the tube lies empty. Unnatural disasters. Avoidable and yet wholly valuable events. Sent to give meaning. Designed to highlight human weakness. Mankind's strength. To show where we need to improve. What a cost. Tragedy becomes us.

The train wreck. The mangled bodies within. The emergency services crawling all over the wreckage. (Ants on an ant hill.) Seeking trapped life. The art of the disaster. The broken families. The loss. Like the greatest love. The loves of the century. Two people. Destined to collide. To change the shape of each other's world forever. To make a dent on the face of history. Like two trains in the night. Two vessels. Forever remembered. Locked into infinity.

God bless all those affected. God bless you all.



This blog acknowledges the true events of the evening of 03/03/12 in Poland.

The Girls

Everything in waves. Always this way. The girls have hit the fore. Like a storm hitting. I have never known so many good female singer songwriters all on top form. The songs, the albums, the voices. Stunning and life affirming music. The crackle of intention and the vicious taking of the bull by its horns in the singing and the lyrics and every single molecule of music entering my ears. The girls are leading the way. The boys have been left behind.

Women are often second best in such scenes and are not fully given the same opportunities, or it is purely sexually biased, fuelled by image and blatant eroticism. Now there are many female artists simply writing the best and most challenging music. It forces its way through, it reaches the ears. It satisfies. Nobody can argue. Not with that.

Yes, there are many pretty sweet young things making music, and it doesn't go against them. The power of the music, the messages, the art, the desire behind much of it is what makes it win. I can never hear enough life changing music, beautiful sounds shaping the world around me, but I am fond of these bird like angels filling my senses. Long may they reign. Good work. The girls.

The One With No Name

Oh, the morning. Divine light spilling through my curtains, forcing me to open them, pulling me outside. Into the day. Spring has arrived. It seems. Golden envelope. Seal me inside. Keep me warm.

What of the day? What hope shall bound out of the wings and take centre stage? In what splendid fashion will such feasts greet my eyes? The unknowing. How wondrous. Wishing the world a happy day. Not expecting the thought to really get very far. Thinking it. Nevertheless. Thinking it all the same.

Monologue

There were bodies everywhere. All shapes and sizes. It was horrific really. Young, old, different shades of skin, different languages in the air, all kinds of eyes on faces, people with beer cans and cigarettes on the go. The whole world was here. The whole world was outside. The water was warm outside, the water was even warmer inside, cold in one small bath. All kinds of water splashing the sides of each pool. The people. The eyes. Moving in all kinds of directions. All over other people. Sordid. Dirty. Unclean. Minds. I was watching too, thinking these thoughts. My thoughts. Similar to others, but from  my own space. I was splashing, letting one of the streams of water coming from the wall above the pool hit the back of my head, tossing my hair all over the place, pushing it onto my face, curling long groups of strands onto my face, in my eyes. I was in a daze. For once, I was almost switching off. It was a bizarre feeling. I had been to school and had the usual series of adventure, entertainment and enjoyment in only three lessons and less than four hours at school. The school is special, drifting in and out of my thoughts permanently. I cannot avoid how deeply significant it is in my life. Kids faces, words, laughter, parts of lessons, all appear before me. Flashbacks, fond memories and inspiration for my every moment of daily life. Breathe. Breathe. Press on. Make the statement. Collapse at the end. Always at the end, never mid-song. The songs that make up life, the words, the ideas for lyrics and poems and stories and an endless stream of ideas that may just change the world. Who knows. Something has to come right. At some point. For the man who knows not what works. Follow the heart. Through black. Through tragedy. Through blinding light. I'm the man you think not. I can hear voices. In the walls. A true friend never submerges. Other countries. Moving ever forwards. The delicious food. The message from back home. The lights. The old fashioned metro. The speeding towards death. The beautiful ride.
(the sound of a man panting...)

My Mother and the Invincible Woman (Part Two)

It must be pulling at you. At your siblings. Pulling you apart. Pulling at the threads, opening up the fabric. Watching the stuffing as it spills from the growing tear. Like a broken teddy bear. It must be testing your heart. The patience you have been bestowed is being challenged. Can it cover you in this limbo land? The patience. Is it enough? The weeks drag on. Precious time. Precious from many angles.

Sail out to sea, my darling dear. Be afraid not of the waters, they will hold you and never let you go, take you to far off shores, beautiful places. It will always hold you, pulling you into its waves, its soul. Underwater dreams. Fear not the unknown, for she is the only certainty we truly have.

I can see you. Both of you. In this routine. Beautiful, tragic, trapped in time, lost. Everything exists. Nothing is broken. There are no tears. Only love. Love and all that accompanies it.

I will go even deeper at some point, but I cannot for now. The ocean in this place seems shallower. When I truly get lost the ocean bed will be encased in darkness. My words will create such a space, plunge us into the chasm of sadness and solitude. The home of mourning. The last page of it all. A ray of light will somehow appear and always penetrate this, the gloom. I will turn this into a place where life will blossom and life will bloom.

Step into the darkness and be filled with eternal light.