"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. Öijer

Monday, January 30, 2012

Ode to the Visionary Within





‎"You cannot find peace by avoiding life"



And it was here where it all started. Where it all changed. Where all so simple became so very complicated.  I watched the shadows of the chandeliers play with the ceiling all to quiet. Seeing things from a frozen perspective of the own being. Where there is not many options to give out the information hidden with in. And the saddest thing of all, it never comes out right. Perhaps one should give it away in some strange form of yet unknown, unborn monster. To let it go, out of any possible disfunction… You have to let go at times to regain the balance - vise words…. But oh, what is the balance. Life and death is balance. But what else. What else is balance and where to find it. The love, the pain. The lie and the holy truth. Perhaps some of us find balance in disfunction. But in the end of the line all search for same pebbles and landmarks. We read book after book, desperately dry our eyes in front of computer screens. We sit in cinemas watching our lives on the screen part and get glued back together again. Searching. Always searching… for beauty, love, understanding and the holy communion. We crave same emotions and for better or worse, suffer from the same touch. 




Like the feeling you get from gently touching your own palm. This strange sensation and realization that you have A BODY. That strange and fascinating thing. BODY that shrinks in to NO BODY and then into NOBODY. How does it happens. How do one become nobody… 
It's in that moment, and that moment only you leave the BODY. Calmly. Understanding the taste your life is leaving in somebodies mouth. How skin cells fall down and multiply our chances to see each other again. It's that moment, and that moment only that can bring us the lost connections of the past. I embrace the moment. Keeping in under the pillow. 
The day of loss is difficult to describe. It covers you. Numbness. The settle cold breeze inside the lungs. Empty headed. You reach to do something and freeze. Nothing comes out. You settle, flashing pictures appear and you see a coffin. The marble room. The face in the box. People around the box. I could not be there, with them. The funeral. Strange.




In the church light was dim. Smell of candles, boys where cleaning the carpets. Somehow there was no emotional response. Recollection of the last time seen, last conversation. Last embrace, the kiss that was given not to honestly. The words that where suppose to be sincere (sin)... where they? Someone was talking and … the glass had erupted, cover the land with million different peaces. I excepted the difference and the loss. Complicated. It's a blunt object hitting on the back of the knees when you are trying to learn how to walk. C O M L I C A T E D.  How come. Self absorbed. Making things be what they are not. No. It did not work. Out. I … waiting for the …. last train to the seas side. It's too cold, regretting the journey I wish to step back, from the platform. From the oblivion of wires, arguments, flower arrangements on the wreath, last words and he said she said paraphrasing. Cocktail banners and black eye liner. Evening dress, a corset and a hat with a veil. Covering all the unseen. Pre-ordered. The paradox. The body language. Lean forward, lean back. Touch the elbow, the chin, lick the finger. Looking down, then to the side again. Eyes half closed. The stranger in the mirror. Of life. Of coincidence… 



Even when, do not want to talk, you tell me about your day 
You do not know me - I do not understand you
I used to sleep naked, now sleep in my favorite bra
It's my skin under the camouflage blanket - blackened
Afraid of the covers - the bed 
This purple sky of day - It's not their night



I kneel in front of these words. It becomes a ritual. Cold air from the old white windows on the sixth floor is letting trough cold air. The air likes my back. My neck. Little loose peaces of hair trembles with every breath. I touch my eyes. Open them again in write compulsively till words make no sense.  Freedom not too far away. Almost reachable. Almost there. Your shadow is standing in front of me. We do not talk. Exchange smoke rings. They pierce though. Who am I. Who where you. What are they. 





Oh, how funny all this magic. Levitating on the last step. So it is. On different sides we stand.



Good night and god bless,
Queen of Disorder
Sonia Dietrich 

p.s. all images except of the 'Ladder' magazine cover are copyright by Sonia Dietrich 

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