This Is The End, Beautiful Friend...

So, the end of the year is upon us. This year we died (well, the 21st December came and went and other than the wear and tear of the days we survived once again), we fought, we loved and lost and we found great things, made wonderful discoveries. We kept our eyes peeled and as a consequence they were filled with visions of warmth and true beauty. All endings lead to new beginnings. a time to reflect and analyse where we went wrong, and then... correction, improvement, evolution. Every day is a blessing, whether it feels it always so or not. For the circle of love around I am grateful. For the madness beyond it and how it inspires then I also give thanks. I hope to remember one thing as we embark on the only year of our lives which will end with '13'- to absorb everything around me, in the hope it creates a greater love that I can spread in the world. New leaf not so much, just self expansion in a positive way. This is the end, embrace it, once again, and never stop moving.

A Letter to Santa About Love and Stuff

Don't bring me toys and riches and tangible tricks that are dangled to entice me into false happiness. Give me love. Wrap me up, let me bestow it upon my family and feel it from all directions. The miracle. The baby. The force-field we draw around our festive joy. It lasts forever if we let it, all it has to do is climb right in. The glow from this house, from this room, as seen by outside must be stunning, swamping the early evening sky. The daylight is leaving us, we are settling in to a special night together. Yes, there were many presents, but I know if you took them away the shared happiness would mean it was the best Christmas of them all. This is what it is all about.

So, dear Santa, whatever people believe, whatever you are meant to symbolise, which essentially should just be the spreading of joy and love, all I ask is for people to appreciate each other. For love to take over, as the abiding supreme force on earth. We truly could light the darkest of paths with a little tenderness and thought and commitment to a worthwhile cause. Love over war, as ever it should be. The babies, the kids, all the way up to the oldies, all with hearts pumping inside chests. God bless everyone, on this beautiful day, and beyond.

It Shall Follow Shortly...

You cannot force the best things, they need time to incubate, to truly take shape and form, and arrive when ready. Beautiful nature, you have your way. You follow nobody, nothing at all. You steal the show, every time, and yet still mankind fails to appreciate your glow, your astonishing majesty. Every time i would kneel before your utter grace. Man and money. He has no idea what befalls him time and again. If he would only look out the window, the answers await. Man must see what he tries to hide from, or what he fails to acknowledge at the end of his eyes. To own the key, and have no idea. Tragedy beckons, suffocates our breaths.

Everything will take place, in the stages of its own desire. The background chasing at the foreground, never letting it forget that it's there. Snapping at the heels of. Nature, take it away, you beautiful angel.

Great Souls

Sometimes the souls come together, from out of nowhere. The magic cannot be held or contained, and there are no real boundaries that could be enforced on something so natural, unexpected or not. The soul. So much greater than any other thing, for it is invisible, almost dependent upon the mind and just how free you can be, and how grand the scale you can cope with branching out to mentally. It is a thing of ever blossoming beauty to behold. To float forever as part of everything, etched into the history of this earth. The very way that the wind moves and the stars light up the night sky. I can feel the souls wrapped up in all of that. The way everything has its own voice, the way the days leave us and always come back to find us, and even in the end something new will be formed, with souls drifting forever around and through it all.

The great souls are the ones that keep, the ones that hold all the candles, on a sea of candles, lighting the way for the lost ships, leading us out of the darkness. Just to feel them so near, it all becomes clear.

Baisho Matsumoto

I saw this man for the first time last month. This was some man, middle aged, Japanese, wearing all that he was on his beautiful gown's sleeve. He exuded charm and warmth and brightness, from every pore. He was funny and alive. Just some man, some amazing man. You could open him up and feel the love and passion for what he was doing, for life itself just spill out and wash over everyone there in the audience, and beyond. He was a spectacle. A spectacular thing. An inspiration. A garden of so many plants and flowers and trees. A garden filled with them. His wife was in tow, with her beautiful, strange voice floating over his instrumentation. He played several instruments, the names of which I sadly do not know. I must research this before it slips from my memory. He sings briefly in some otherworldly tone, he plays his instruments with his heart and soul and fingers and mind, all moving in unison. All inside the music, at the centre of the very songs, beating them forth. It is colossal and awe-inspiring. I speak a few languages, nothing special, nothing to brag about, but he communicates with the audience in his native Japanese, and as we are in Poland a lady translates into Polish. Having been here less than one month and knowing no Japanese I find myself in the unusual predicament of understanding neither of the two tongues being licked all over my ears, quite simply I am audibly lost. However, this cartoon character of a man is so literally animated with gestures and facial expressions it is hard not to understand some of his beautiful messages and feelings. It certainly feels like being transported to some part of Japan and sharing a wonderful little celebration of that country's culture and identity. To you, Mr. Baisho Matsumoto, and your wife for her accompaniment, thank you kindly. I hope to encounter your warmth on your travels, or my own, again some time.

The Mouth Says Nothing, But The Eyes Say Something

You can tell it's true. If you just care enough to pay attention to detail, which many clearly do not, it can all be seen in beautiful technicolour. Who cares what the mouth says. The mouths says things that only true love and its actions can back up or defend, but words can come off any tongue, at any speed, for any of infinite purposes. Look into eyes. Feel the force behind them, or the light inside the tunnels they are. You can contradict the tongue, go against your desire to reveal, show everything you long to hold back, in a flash, in a second, and render yourself defenceless. It's kinda funny. Poker faces. Armour. It all falls away sometimes. Some can hide from themselves, but most will reveal secrets without even knowing it. The tongue wagging, the eyes shining, the dog barking, the earth spinning, even as I write, now, out there, beyond your very room.

The Cold

The cold. I feel like it's holding me down and punching me. My ears are the first to bruise. To show it. Then the nose. I almost want to leave gaps in the clothes, at the neck, at the hands, just to see what damage it could do, and how quickly. It is clearly devastating and ferocious as it simply attacks me. Any skin showing will regret its appearance. I can appreciate the total beauty of something so clinical and precise, something so brutal and haunting. The cold, in all its warmth, squeezing the life out of me, leaving me battered. It is stunning to behold such a state, the streets still holding the snow from days gone by, the world looking frozen, or Wonderland, at least. The people from head to toe almost covered in clothes. Winter. It hits hard here, it sounds like a gospel choir, uplifting, soulful, glorious. Welcome to the world of Wonderland, even winter is majestic here. Even the frozen soul sings loudly.

Poleaxe

She came down on me, from a great height. Just the way Thom Yorke sang it. God, it was beautiful. Really it was. I think the word 'sublime' could pretty much cover it. She moved in this way, and it all happened here. You try to fathom it all, work out the answers, but just let it take you as it intends to. It just wants to have it's way. The fighter, the love, the warrior of every breath. and to leave them in pieces, having truly felt some magic. Take a hammer to the senses, a poleaxe for the heart, make us feel alive in any singular way. When it's over it lives on. Rain down, with all the love you can take. Rain down.

(NOTE- Words, punctuation, grammar. Beyond the rules of language we can step and challenge people as readers, as writers, and as linguists. Never stop evolving. Never stop wielding the weapon and bringing it crashing down on normality. Everything with love, my little ones, everything with love.)

Kto Wie

Who knows. So much on the mind lately, where to even begin. Inspiration coming out of the ears. Wonderland is working by the second, sending out signals and messages, crushing us with freedom. Who wanted to be a statue, last forever, but go nowhere, who wanted to be stationary? Being stationary was all too common. I didn't want to move aimlessly, with no purpose or point to any movement, but just pondering never moving, a bird in a cage, was all too much. Rubik in his tank, could he ever be happy? I truly hope it could be so. The addiction to madness, and the faces and masks we all wear. When will I find a face without one? The Baddies and The Heart-breakers and the nightlife flying all around me. This jacket of armour for love will not be necessary. And you, and love, and you, and everything. It comes to me at the most unexpected of moments. It comes from almost anywhere. I want some of that pie, can we truly take a bite? Kto wie.

Yes, My Dear, Even In Wonderland There Are Hookers (Two)

She was a beautiful catastrophe, lost in the night. She was a step from the gutter. Everything is here, some cooking pot, some paella, some complete madness. She was almost showing the world her seashell. If you held it to your ear what would you hear? This place is alive, with all our tragic corners. Sometimes they close in on us and we can scarcely breathe. Someone wanted to betray their stronger self and take her for some disgusting pleasure, licking her wounds. The night was turning us over on ourselves, showing hidden sides. She could be a mother, she was definitely the child of someone, be they dead or alive, and she was ticking, like all of us, like clocks. Until the batteries ran down, and out. She was at an end of sorts, all the time. She was feeding off nothingness and managing to survive. There she was, just waiting on something, anything to happen. There she was, about to fall off the edge forever.

Apologies

She never meant you no harm. They were rushing through the tunnels, never contemplating their surroundings. She didn't feel the fracture of her words. He was effortlessly bound towards destruction. Sometimes they come, apologies from the stars, sometimes they are not even born. Do you consider your actions, and the endless consequences? Do you shatter at all as the overwhelming cascade rushes over you? Maybe blink and miss something that passed all too fast. We make our beds and should stand by our work, it is all art, however tragic it might be. We crumble together, shadows alone, we find our way back to the way out of the maze. Should we amend our circus of errors? For we are the greatest performers, are we not? We are unfathomably wrong and it possibly, just somehow, might never seem so right. Never again.

A Woman with Blonde Hair

The blonde hair was coming out the sides of her woolly hat. She had a real pretty face. She was soft, breakable, tall and thin, inviting me. Home. Possibly. She looked like she might be a good egg. One worth cracking, finding the beauty within, ready to spill out, if gently tipped a little.

Some of the Men Here Are Beautiful

We all know how much I like to write about women. What could be better than observing the female of the species and commenting on what I see (what I really see)? But, having heard that Polish men weren't a patch on their counterparts I would like to question a somewhat sweeping statement. Some of the men here are among the most beautiful men I have ever seen. Granted, as with any place they are not everywhere, but there are definitely men with great style, fascinating features and profound beauty. Possibly it seems minimal because there are just so many incredibly pretty women here, but as with anything one should acknowledge the presence of something so real. The eyes of the men are not quite as piercing as those of the women, but nevertheless I have seen clear and powerful ones adorning men's faces too. Quite simply it is a compelling race of people. Not just physically, but also in the sense of the behaviour and emotions and love on display. I am curious, intoxicated and I have fallen into the well of this country, willing to uncover whatever I can until I may decide to escape. Or not.

There Is No New Blog Today

As you have already read there is no new blog today. I am far too tired and even the idea of opening up the 'create new post' section has me taking cover from it all. I feel sure I will be motivated to write again soon, however, and with a much fresher head of inspiration. In the meantime, I wish you all well and the sweetest of dreams. Fare thee well, my friends.

The Children Who Sound Like a Herd of Elephants

The stampede, the attack on the weekend peace, fragile mind that becomes me of late. It's more than two kids, four little arms, four little legs, surely. Kids need to roam. Naturally. Above me. Over me. Through my head. Like a drill in my temple as a wake up call. Like Rubik last week in his tiny bowl the kids are caged. They are trapped in small walls, when they should be in the space and beauty of the outdoors. Instead the herd continues to move. Back and forth. All day long. Over the floorboards above my weekend life (the week days are as quiet as the smog bombs are unexpected). Poor head, that's right, tip the words out. At least roll around in some delight. The elephants are coming. Pretty soon it will all be over.

The Smog Bomb

This haziness. I'm not sure about her. She comes out of the not too distant muffled light. This place is fairly intriguing at the best of times, but it's like someone has pulled down some mysterious curtain and shrouded many of these days in curiosity. Like the optician dropped one of those filters into the giant metal frames and everything took on a totally different look. The music still forces its way through the haze, fills the ears all the same, as it ever did. It sounds so glorious at times, like it has been sent to deliver me to some superior place. To lift me from the gloom, from the smog bomb that clouds the heart at times. The end of the week and I can smile and I can turn to Rubik, and finally I gave him his dues. What a beautiful creature. Just like her, and her, and her. Swimming all of us, ever we go. We find our way through everything, together, even when we are apart.

All of the Things of Which We Mustn't Speak

My darling, yes, the lights cry. They weep in sorrow, deep into the darkest night. We must ask to somehow rid ourselves of this battle. The inner peace, the sanctuary they try to break into. We must forget the eyes over the shoulder. We can only harm the memories. So many things, of which we mustn't speak. A woman just glowing, like a ball of salvation. Her eyes for me, contemplation, and messages hurtling through the mind. I wash her, wash with her, wash ourselves away. Down the drain of everything, holding hands we go. All of the things of which we mustn't speak, jostling upstairs, harrying those cells. My darling, the abattoir, where so many go, where so many are heading, we must seize everything and bring it all to life.

Her Name Begins With The Letter 'M'

Woman of the night, ticking for dreams, slipping into those streams, throughout the night.

Your name, begins with a letter, holds hands with a sense of hope, retains me for a moment, and then I am gone.

Slippery fish, only ever a dish of the day, nobody will remember, me, when the sun sets.

Cancel the strokes, falling on the canvas, let the heart scream aloud, fragments of old wounds.

The Neckline

She tosses the hair over to one side of her head. She pulls it down, strokes it, runs her fingers through it. She knows it gets my attention. She probably practices all the time. In the mirror. One of her stunts. Nevertheless, it's divine. She looks really good. I bet she's delicious, on the end of the tongue. The hair, crawling down one side of her head, the neckline on the other. The neck. Absolutely perfect, as I trace it over and over, as I fall into dreaming.

It's so smooth, like peaceful water, like swimming in heaven. Snippets of our conversation flickering through the mind. On the eyes she is. Her face. Your face. A face for I. The line of your neck, beautiful lagoon of skin.

She had no time to meet again for a little while. She would be out there, nearby, living her life, I would be doing the same, hoping for some meaning to fill up the days like water fills a glass. She was only a ten minute walk from mine. I had taken her home last night. We had collided, clashed, and communicated well. She was the challenge. She was words on a page that needed deciphering. The glasses. The eyes. The hair. The neckline. The riddle.

When she removed her glasses as I had asked her to she was beautiful. Yes. Exactly as she was when she had them adorning her face. Glasses are for seeing through, past, into the person wearing them, into the world outside.

So, there was a woman. A young woman with strong character and eyes to match. She liked other things to me. She had a way that was fascinating, to say the least. She had a neck that went on forever and long fair hair that like a rope gave me the chance to climb up, to try to find the bottom of that endless neckline, just so I could get on board. I could but try.

The Bus to Auschwitz

You are on the bus now, rickety old thing that it was, rattling along the roads and lanes leading to Auschwitz. Getting nearer and nearer to that astonishing location from history that will live forever. You are leaving Wonderland behind, for something else. Something else. I hope you feel the force and take something similar to what I did from it. The day is grey and miserable. It is a dark day for such a place. It was so good to see you again, to share a small part of the days together, just some days for you and I. I wish you well. Our paths, our journeys, are far from easy, but we are blessed.

You will have emerged from the bus and stepped into the horror-show. The brutal and essential museum of the Holocaust. My thoughts are with you, as they often are with those who were lost, who fought, who suffered for love, for hope, for us.

The bus must have made the journey thousands of times. It showed the wear and tear of time. The numerous years. It looked like it could fall apart at any moment. It was the bus to Auschwitz. Some bus had to do it, some driver had to get it there, and some people had to take it in. As much as they could. The history of the happenings and the constant evolution of it all. The art of Monday, a grey day, a day like any other.

Rubik

I thought about you yesterday, Rubik. It occurred to me you might not be alive when I returned home. Maybe there wasn't enough water for you to swim through. Your home wasn't good enough for you, perhaps. I am responsible for you now, not just for giving you a name and abandoning you. Not just for what I want from you, but for the whole experience. I must care for you in the necessary way, somehow hope you could be happy too. I want to train you to attack pigeons and to call me if you need anything but for a fish it could be a step too far.

The world in a bowl. Something for me to explore. We can get a friend for you soon. Someone to share the days with, to bring them more meaning. Okay, so you are a fish, and I have absolutely no idea how that feels, so I am not going to say anything is possible or not. I just want to think of what I can do for you. The world doesn't care enough about its surroundings, we should try harder, we should use the heart for every single movement. Wishing you happy days, for it's most of what we can ever hope for.

When Our Words Come Together

She asked questions, she ordered her words in beautiful fashion, they made great sense and showed intelligence. She had some key to philosophy much in the way I hoped I did. She was open and interesting and we could probably have talked all night. Endless hours discussing books and artists and the end of mankind.

I could be washed away in her words, just as she could be in mine. The perfect flood. Given how truly mechanical and ugly modern communication could be (and I do not doubt the pros for a second) it was refreshing to fall into such an elegant dialogue. When our words dance, when they unite like lovers, when the sparks fly, when one of us dies over and over and the other one catches the body and never lets go. Flowers emerging, unexpected and tragic, flowers emerging at the tongue of a dream. I always trust myself to magic, I let it take me where it will. Drifting like leaves on the water's surface, to be taken almost anywhere. Hold hands with the possibility, with every last drop of hope.

The Red Rose

The one for you
The red rose
Flowers from the ground
From the earth who knows

The slow fade
The petals as they curl
Red and then crimson
Watching the love unfurl

The time freezes
Stands still before us
Like a snapshot, a memory
My darling, all because

The one for you
In a vase in your room
Alive as it is forever
The love inside the womb

Freedom for Krakow (31st October, 2012)

Finally there is something meaningful about 31^st October. You know what I mean. Today is the 94^th anniversary of Krakow’s liberation from foreign rule. It marks the day it was released from its battle against Great Britain and many other European countries in the First World War.

There were celebrations for the anniversary, and a brass band and some men dressed in the soldier’s uniforms from the war. It was one of those moments when a little piece of Poland and the values attached to its history slipped into my consciousness. When I got to see the nation’s pride, and in the giant square of the centre of Krakow with the sun beating down and throwing shadows everywhere, and with a long Poland flag making its way down one of the chief buildings of the square, the magic of this place hit home once again.

People all over were weaving in and out of the police and the brass band and the men dressed as old fashioned soldiers to take photos. These folk didn't bat an eye lid. The moment was more important, and while I did occasionally see one soldier turn and talk to the one next to him, or two members of the brass band have a brief dialogue it clearly meant something to the people concerned, and the children from various schools holding all different flags. People were congregating to observe the scenes much as I was, and it was clear that tourists and others had uncovered something very Polish and fascinating. The music was great, there was a surprise shot fired from some cannon (half scaring the life out of some of us), and the freedom of the city rang loud and sounded out into the sky. 

The Return of Sunshine

So, just as the snow came it is now being thawed by the sunshine licking the final leaves on the tree branches and all around. Yes, I can write long sentences with very little punctuation, as well as putting an aside and not feeling it necessary to bracket it off. But the snow is falling from the warming house tops and bushes and fences, performing a slow vanishing act. It's a scene, for sure. I posted my mother's birthday card. I hope it reaches her in time. I have no idea how efficient the Polish postal service is. It's a learning curve, as should most of our days be, otherwise perhaps they have been wasted, perhaps we didn't do with them what we might have, something we could expand from and then share with the coming generations, from love, from life, from desire.

The sound of the divine 'Proserpina' by Martha Wainwright is ringing around the room, my head. It is a stunning ode to her mother who died not so long ago. Her voice never sounded so beautiful, and I'm sure she felt the need to sing beyond herself when she approached the recording of the final song her mother wrote (so I have heard) before her death. A more perfect song is hard to find, surely. It is the sound of so many emotions. The sadness and glory of every day and the feelings it contains, of reaching for the stars, and both failing and reaching, and never letting go. The return of sunshine, the return of all our dreams, the return of you to me, and vice versa. I return to my mother in a birthday card, just like Martha to her mother in her song, and the sunshine to the land; and the love is all consuming at times.

The First Snow

Winter crashed into autumn this morning. The changing of the clocks to winter time clearly meant for Wonderland that the first snow of the season could wait no longer. Upon waking, far too early I should add, I could see some brightness through the tiny gaps in my shutter, and upon looking more closely I saw that snow had arrived, and was bathing the garden and rooves in a crisp, white blanket. I went back to sleep, with the shutter up, so the backdrop of softly falling snow helped me to relax and enter a deeper slumber, which it did. The neighbours are noisy, or the walls are thin, or everything can never be perfect, not even here in Wonderland, so time ticks on, after its change. The snow is already melting, the sky is almost the same colour though, so maybe more will be delivered soon. Since I arrived here less than two weeks ago there has been golden sunshine, deliciously playing with the leaves and trees as they become more bare by the day, and rain and cloud and grey skies, and now snow. This place is definitely keeping me on my toes and telling me not to settle in. Constant challenges, we must shift shapes and adapt and never stop loving, in all we do.

The snow just added to the magic, but it's everywhere. I want to venture out shortly, into the cold of this place. I want to feel it snapping at my revealed skin and licking my warmth. It can have me. I can warm myself again later. This place is beautiful.

The Pretty Blonde Polish Waitress

She was my waitress. I had just had some lunch and a drink. I obviously knew almost no Polish. Maybe it was funny when I said the odd word, maybe they all spoke English and found me useless. She was really cute. She had this long blonde hair, tied back tightly, sweet features. Her hair fell down the upper part of her back like effortless hay. I liked the way she looked and the way she smiled at me. Her t-shirt and waitresses apron fit her perfectly. She was delicate on my eyes, had a nice charm, like she might be a good soul. I had a happy feeling, fulfilled each time she passed me by, sometimes giving one of those friendly smiles.

I was in Wonderland. I was part of it now. I had the surroundings of my dreams as the daily fabric of my existence now. This woman was there too. Now, maybe beyond this moment as well. I would like to come back here, see her face again, though I could take it with me when I leave shortly. All the little moments, so pretty and special, flapping around like a newborn chick misunderstanding its wings, soon finding space and reason and explanation. She was gorgeous. She was Wonderland. I live here now. Holding hands with it all.

Halloween, Kiss My Ass

Whose idea was this? It’s like the Easter bunny on acid, thrown into a blender with a fancy dress shop, a horror movie and the brattiest kids a person could find. I am not convinced the nature of it is innocent (it just shows that kids are as macabre as the films they have seen and should not have!) nor that it’s the fun some claim it to be. It’s yet another chance for some kids to push the boundaries, and I imagine most folk dread those multiple knocks on their door at this time of year.

The Americanisation of our times is clear, what is not is just quite why. Perhaps ‘The Sheep Rule’ applies. People need to follow, not lead, to be told, not to have to think for themselves. Heaven forbid that. So there it is- baby time. Spoon feeding. This is what you like, this is what you should do, this is what you must think. You have to.

Somehow they pull it off. Like an unstoppable plague it spreads. Like a Tsunami it washes everything away in its sweeping over the land. Like the fashion and the unhealthy eating and the infiltration of bad spelling into the English language it goes on. I politely decline to be taken under by the ceaseless waves. In fact, such things make me move in the opposite direction. I never played the Halloween game; never saw the fascination with it. No treat, play a trick? It would imply to me to encourage violence, aggression and any other negative behaviour in society. Imagine if we had a ‘trick’ played on us every time someone begged or asked for something from us in the street and did not get anything. There would be chaos. The excuse could be, well I learned it through Halloween. Possibly this is rather extreme, but should we not teach good morals and values to the younger generations, rather than throwing the toy out of the pram should we not receive what we aspire to?

Put simply, Halloween, you can kiss my ass!