notes: last talk with V. Love her. Bangkok before Phnom Pehn. Emptiness...feeling a bit strange at the moment. More personal notes on "on going project".

notes: very, very few in this huge house; I think there are at the moment as many dogs around as persons. Someone asked me today to be her boyfriend...oooopppsss, I said no (I looked at her a few hours before this revelation and I realize her nice and desirable body...coincidences?). Since then I closed myself in my office hearing some of my best music.
Here is the list ( in alf. order):
Arctic Monkeys
Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band Radio
Cat Power
Devendra Banhart
Echo & the Bunnymen
Egberto Gismonti
Faust
The Fiery Furnaces
Frank Zappa
Gentle Giant
Ghost
Hard Fi
Holly Cole
John Cale
John Mayall
Klaus Schulze
Liars
Lisa Germano
The Lofty Pillars
Manu Chao
Milton Nascimento
Momus
Morrissey
Natalie Merchant
Nick Cave
Nico
Pearl Jam
Peter Seeger
Radiohead
Sartre Ringo
Scitti Politti
Shoplifting
The Smiths
Sufjan Stevens
Syd Barrett
TV On The Radio
Van Der Graaf Generator

Good day for music and thinking in love, friendship and sex...
...very bad day for work ( no work almost at all)

Anyway music is probably my best friend!!!!

notes:Snowing heavily; traffic disruption; but snow is a calming sight. Even if the spring should by around!
My sweet friend V is leaving to Cambodia; i will miss her for some months,until I visit her in July!
image: shaly, other beautiful animal from Petra.

note: north again. my passport gives me always trouble whenever I go. I guess is my photograph and the fact that is a Portuguese passport issued in London. I should never get stamped in European borders, but I do!
picture: the young donkey of my friend Petra training to carry weights.

Apenas um ponto e vírgula.
No azul algo que bate forte
em cinzento de rocha.
Ser capaz é incenso
uma mistura de poder e lágrimas.
Algo linear que sarcásticamente
envolve o doce arredor.
Azul e castanho as cores
azul a cor que domina
mas não conquista;
essa capacidade da impossibilidade
do amor.
Castanho sobreviverá imerso numa
perspectiva com pontos azuis.

O dia nasce na proporção da noite
da fúria e do prazer
de não controlar ser controlado
redondo apenas interiorizo
a tua força.

Gigantes ondas transversando
as paisagens...

sincopado
image
Anne K
Hagesaether

notes: delicate and direct oriental delicassy, your questions are sparks. I feel old and I feel fine.

to W.H. Auden

Scraps of appreciation
on the door of my wardrobe
In my inbox
My outbox.
One winter, after a week of skies like dust,
I nearly traced you on my body,
indissolubly,
across dud-wing shoulder blades.

Last night, even, I found
your shit copied longhand and jammed into
a pile
of ancient birthday cards.
Among postcards from Marrakech,
Stockholm, China,
your poem is breeding -
A printout in Courier,
heavy seam of creasing where it'd been
folded
and pressed tight by hyper-glossy music rags
dating back to oh-one.

You wrote a poem that I married my life to,
My youth, forfeit
in a hasty moment of unthinking passion
to your two-dozen lines
or so.

And of course you've sculpted me,
old man, dead poet.
A child of cutting edges
that trim
and rarefy language,
watching words become antique ornaments,
I smell of you.
sing harmonies of you, behind the anthem choruses
of my rock shows.

You did this,
whose starched collars and bowler hats
would be at odds with the new streets,
squid-inked as they are
and encrusted
with the lymph jewels
of a city's decadence.

But it was your expired wonder
that rattled me
helped wind me,
and steadied my bones, soft,
upon this garish tarmac.

Old poet, dead man.

Light Less Public
Sara Saab

notes: after a talk, in discovering poetry in what she was saying, I reminded a poem sitting in my vault, left there to pay a visit one day...

poets don’t have gender
just faint words embossed on their flesh
like secondary sexual characteristics,
a many-years-old growth of impressions
which is never fully expressed,
shave it off or leave it for its charm?
bearded Hemingway hunts down his death –
a lazy lioness in a broken trajectory of flight
pounces on him swiftly and heavily
like tropical rain after a long drought,
how long did he have to wait for her
hidden, craving,
feeding the mosquitoes of routine with his own blood?!
after all, who has to wait for whom
in this unwritten code of existence
who is hunting whom?
poets don’t have gender
solitude’s hermaphrodites
incomprehensibly wanting every time the other the Other,
in torture giving birth to only themselves
which are repeated,
а repetition of а repetition
repeat please
а repetition of а repetition,
how does one escape these hula-hoops of bodies?
reconciling these differences within oneself
smoothing genitalia,
everything will go smoothly, Hemingway
without any snags,
the last boundaries of self-identification are crossed,
Gordian knots of mutual obligations are hewn,
Sisyphus’ stone of life is pushed from the summit,
genius doesn’t have gender
just a throat raw from shouting
between the legs

poets don't have gender
Halyna Krouk

notes: the words drying, slow direction to
Angkor Wat, silence growing.


When I go to sleep at night my mind
hides parts of my body
in different rooms of the house
so I wake up in the morning
wondering where I am
and how to go about finding myself
Sometimes I decide to do without
an arm or a spine and once
I just left my head
hidden in a box of old letters
on the top shelf
of the bedroom closet
because I never look there

A.Boy
both image and poem

Can you see eternity
in a flower?
The pain the sorrow
the misery
the joy the love
the ecstasy
or does it only ever
equate to monotony?

ao teu post
can't remember the poets name, sorry!

(the flowers du mal are your's!)

notas:

Em Inglaterra outra vez; a viagem a norte foi excepcionalmente proveitosa. Em termos de trabalho surpreendi-me com a quantidade e qualidade de documentos que produzi.

As condições são únicas, proporcionando niveis de concentração e interconexão extremamente elevados.Todos os meses trabalharei aqui, neste espaço incrivel, com algumas das pessoas mais curiosas que se pode encontrar; a concentração e a fluidez provoca um funcionamento cerebral como em nenhum outro lugar em que trabalhei anteriormente.

Em 2007 virei aqui todos os meses por uma semana ou mais. O meu dia de trabalho extende-se das 9 horas até às 22 horas. O meu escritorio é central e funciona tambem como quarto. N&o precisamos de sair deste edifício, mesmo para fazer desporto (saio apenas para jacuzzi, sauna e piscina), uma curta viagem ao centro mais próximo.

No aspecto pessoal, trabalhei todos os dias num dos meus hobies. A mente.

Ao longo dos anos desenvolvi uma capacidade de ler as "vibrações" e pensamentos das pessoas que me circundam; essa capacidade é extremamente valiosa para a actividade que desenvolvo. Permite uma maior fluídez no interrelacionamento com pessoas de todos os extractos sociais e académicos.

Decidi investir muito mais do meu tempo nesta área. Traduzir as sensações em palavras, em primeiro lugar, e desenvolver ainda mais as "ferramentas" que uso; muito simplesmente o poder de acelerar, visualizar e indexar as informações que me são transmitidas pelas pessoas.

Esta decisão envolve diferentes aspectos como dieta mais especializada, desporto, uso de suplementos vitamínicos.

De repente quando chego à meia idade, sinto-me extremamente jovem e leve!

notes: "on going project"
north and not so cold
warm and deep talks
sometimes so deep in the history of our lives
...and i love, really, i love you

a book i'm reading:
Blink(The Power of Thinking without Thinking)
Malcolm Gladwell,
bought in a snap in my airport loved bookshop.
(all 3 books I'm reading now were bought there!)


The killer lives inside me; yes, I can feel him move.
Sometimes he's lightly sleeping in the quiet of his room;
but then his eyes will rise and stare through mine,
he'll speak my words and slice my mind inside.
Yes, the killer lives.

The angels live inside me, I can feel them smile;
their presence strokes and soothes the tempest in my mind
and their love can heal the wounds that I have wrought.
They watch me as I go to fall;
well, I know I shall be caught
while the angels live.

How can I be free?
How can I get help?
Am I really me?
Am I someone else?

But stalking in my cloisters hang the acolytes of gloom
and Death's Head throws his cloak into the corner of my room
and I am doomed.
But laughing in my courtyard play the pranksters of my youth
and solemn, waiting Old Man in the gables of the roof:
he tells me truth.

And I, too, live inside me and very often don't know who I am;
I know I'm not a hero;well, I hope that I'm not damned.
I'm just a man, and killers, angels, all are these,
dictators, saviours, refugees in war and peace
as long as Man lives...

I'm just a man, and killers, angels, all are these:
dictators, saviours, refugees.

Man Erg
Peter Hammill