"Behind every system, behind every rule stands a corpse and laughs. You can't tell me who I should sleep with. I don't work for wages. My life is a revolution... My life is a beautiful life... What you call freedom, I call waste... I will continue to love my own voice. If everyone becomes me, everything will collapse."

Bruno K. Ă–ijer

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Through the Snowglobe Key Hole




A tale about how one was fighting
to keep
All
Unicorns and Ponies
in one peace....




In the land far far away....Tossing and turning in the bed for 4 days in the row. Now. The weirdest and nicest dreams come. Here. There. The land. Somehow I live them too early, every morning. Was never the one to wake up to the sun...but things change, don't they. We discover something in the fountains that one may have seen been left for dead...People are scared to loose their edge. Silly. If you do have one, there is nothing to be scared of. And if you just inherited one, for a moment, for a year - for 5... You need to let it go. It's not your edge to keep. Like a russian doll scattered and opened to 1000 parts, there comes a time to get all of it back together again.



It feels like standing on the cliff somewhere like Berwick and listening to "Fire on Babylon"... Suddenly, at the end of the track you can fly. Meet all the unicorns that they, only offer in chopped body parts. But why one go for mainstream suggestions and labels. So .... surprisingly... Just before you get that haunting last breath, before the take off... One sees that ghostly translucent image. A land covered in cotton candy fluff and marmalaid rivers. When nothing needs explanation. There are no rules or stupid expectations. Just a finger stroke along the spine line. Mary looks at her son with terror. Time is running out. Up. Let's play the resurrection. Morbidity is not the trick. Painting the pictures of lies and ignorance. I will leave you to it.



I guess from time to time the snow globe stops and we are obligated to look at the snowflakes. Like a gun shot residue it sits on the palms leaving slight burn marks. I am pushing the button to rearrange every stocking drawer. The mountains of tapes and LP's. The sea of books and post cards from places far away. Some sent to me, some stolen from a churches. Some given by stranges on the train. Some lost in public toilets. I become a part of it. A part of them.
And through all the cards and leather seats, light crawls in to my overloaded reframed bedroom. Speaking in voices of past glory. Letting go of the past. Calmly watching the present. Have never welcomed mornings before.... Something ends. Something begins. Just this time, there is no self torturing agony. It all evaporated like the moments and the hunting memories. Leaving a trace on the shelfs above the coffee maker and the old bureau desk I fell in love with.





I scattered the snow flake residue on your bedroom floor. With out caring how the univers is turning. The only thing that matters is what flickers at this very moment. And so far, it the light of morning turning in to day, after two cups of coffee, 7 cigarettes and couple pills - it still looks at me from the same angle. Telling all one needs to know. In fake fur of leopard, marching to take over the world. Someone keeps on smiling. No one stands in the corner any longer. 1. 2. 11. 21. 25. GO!





* * *

"And maybe I'll find me a sailor
A tailor
And maybe together we'll make mother well
So I got me some horses
To ride on, to ride on
As long as your army
Keeps perfectly stil
l"




Good night and god bless,
Sonia Dietrich

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