this christmas was/is a white and unseasoned season. maybe even bitter, although it does not feel so. it does not feel like anything, really. the snow is crisp. the cold is timely. the moon pours blue light over the silent(ish) city. the room temperature is adequate. when i am not working, doing something practical, i […]

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the feather clouds all spread out like fingers to keep the indigo sky from falling to pieces we enter the little stars of scilla, ink on green all my steps, all your steps coloured a time by the rudimentary snowdrifts, liverleaf anxious to look, to be seen all in blues of breaking they come in […]

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well, it seems i have started drawing thought-pictures or feeling-pictures or those pictures where there is sth of  the other-ness. and this time i have as much clue as to whether that is good or bad as the last time. the change is in the air. have to think of that. meanwhile, here is one of […]

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seventeen – peace

peace sometimes is found in most unlikely places. and the most unlikely place of all is the human heart, ever restless, turbid, unbalanced. and here is the trick: the peace in the tormented heart cannot come from within, but only from outside. and the peace from outside cannot come from created things, as those are […]

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sacirsti ritmi

es klusēšu skaļi kā klusē lielgabali gadsimtu drupās. kā zāle aug, lēni, es iesakņošos starp ēnām, kur lapas trupēs. es elpošu akli kā nenoķerts zaglis nakšu krustcelēs. un kad es sabrukšu kopā ar maskām un ilūzijām, tu mani neatstāj, Tu mani neatstāj.

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the finest time of the year, when the air is so transparent, and the gaze meets all those colours, and there is the freedom of putting down the burden of summer, and feeling light, like the cranes, and the geese, and all those little nameless birds that move overhead, through the night sky calling out […]

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to stand barefoot next to a tree, and extend a hand and grow into the grass and soil beneath, and reach up, out, towards the sun. or the cloudy sky, or the darkness of night, starlit, moonlit, otherwise. to hear the grass grow. to commune with the birds in the branches, as they seek refuge, […]

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the cicada and god

the cicada does not care about the years down underground for those three months of play and an exit, and another world, creation and death – all in one. his song transcends his night and day, weather and sunshine alike, spicing up the moments before all will be covered in browns and reds, and cold […]

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