RUNE I. BIRTH OF WAINAMOINEN (From the first poem of Kalevala) ……. Excerpt of the creation myth: Scarce a moment onward passes, Ere a beauteous bird descending, Hastens toward the water-mother, Comes a-flying hither, thither, Seeks herself a place for nesting. Flies she eastward, flies she westward, Circles northward, circles…
Gawking eyes glaring glances whispers feeding fear “Come and take it, I give it away for free” it says Shouting asking but not yet listening hearing others but not the other “Stay away” fear whispers by selling thrilling treats who glitter But all…
and just like that a glistering grain . . . . fell . . . . and is now landing more will come
Após estar na casa Sisters Hope, vejo que foi uma trajetória mágica. Sai da casa em meio as lágrimas e entendi que estar lá foi uma mistura de realidade e ficção, sonho e medo, sociedade secreta, com sons, regras e segredos. Nunca imaginei ter essa vivência e entrar lá me…
Green hands. The Egg travels through my skin. Water and urin. Flooding. An Entourage. Because of security. Cleansing. Grateful. Always. Got a blessing. Was told by the warmest of eyes that I had big vital energy. And he cast a blessing on me that his fathers, his gods, would always…
At times carefully at time carelessly I gather all the pieces the pieces of something that seems known to me long ago I knew it by heart I put the pieces together mixing them with what I already recalled The heaviness gives me rhythm that pressing bends my bones…
The wake is like a funeral pyre a howling wolf fighting eating empty stomach famishly starved trying to burn light out from the dark “It is a bliss in the deep” it thinks, this creature, while being and wanting to stay a longer while From the deep it thinks “If…
through the dirty windows too soft for their stones tangled bodies find eachother in the candlelights caress a twisted embrace lying on blue carpet shadows dance on the radiator she crawls towards the last cigarette as an almond-eyed python whispers sweetly in her ear “only fur” the cabbage is crying…
and so it is becoming a yearning stroke a saturated membrane riding a wave of amber flowing from bodies overgrown the endless and rapid existing of the hollow house walls entangled in a fossil a slumber of dreams of naked skin and spillage from our time, our songs skin piercing…
She is touched by their voices Closing the eyes to look into one another Adjusting retina, pulse and stories so we can fall deep And disentangle the senses from a big sleep Otherwise they stretch past each other in a dream of silence Drinking off the same caress…
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