Friday, March 31, 2006

 

Breathing into Tango

*
*
Written somewhere in April.

Time has passed, and I am now no longer happy to do what I have been doing over the last two years, which was to be just what I happened to be at any given time, but feel like I've got to do what I've got to do because I'll be what I'll be doing. Or something...
Printed out (free) business cards with a lovely sunflower on blue background, on which I advertise myself as a gardener, trained in the Eternal Garden of Love, I'll trim your bushes! And another set of free cards as an Ayurvedic Massage Therapist. Both under the nom de plume Evan Greene. My name has undergone this change because British people wouldn't instinctively how to pronounce Iwan, and as to Kuchenberg...
I live in Totnes now. In Devon, South West England, pretty much Northern Hemisphere. Fell in love with the place, fell in love in the place, found a life waiting here for me, embraced it. Not without resistance, not without wild winds of the drifters drift threatening to blow my erratic-nomadic soul away and tearing apart the soft sail of love that Nushka and me are patiently putting together day by day, by our own hands. What wind in my sails now? What passion, what drive? Love as always. For many things and Beings. And the steering wheel of reason is right in my hand. So I am on this ship, and sometimes the nights get so dark, cloudy and rainy, that I swear I can't see my own hand. Stubbornly sailing right through the English winter, no soy marinero soy capitan, y el equipaje de mi barco se vuelve loco en este oceano salvage, there's got to be a passage, a floating branch or a bird announcing land, announcing spring.
The good days will come. I'm skinned like somebody who just comes back from a long journey. No money whatsoever. Putting a strain on my relationship, making it hard to enjoy anything really. Feel the feel of an unemployed prick. Good things came already: have a job as massage therapist on a detox retreat, but that's only one week per month. Living in the most expensive country in the world.
Exploring the remotest corners of consciousness, sailing the astral and trying to read light signs of a lighthouse, out in the cold Devonish night, full moon on the sea. New way, new frame of mind, sedentary now. Easy to overlook beauty in the familiarity of things. But her love, although more deeply familiar everyday, retains that wild beauty of a snowfox leaping out of pure playfullness into the first spring breeze. You can tell I am becoming Argentinian. Tango playing right now, tango very loud, as all evening allready, Tango que te quiero Tango. And with Nushka we are exploring new subtle dimensions of dance in our light bodies, and that is the most noteworthy thing encountered these days and probably the reason why I started to write all this in the first place: dancing very slowly together,we felt our arms creating a living circle of energy, through which every information could be easily passed, and where our immobile dance became the rolling of something in there, in the lower body, spiralling it up, for both of us, spinning and whirling from the inside, erect spine and composed poise from the outside, Tango is every spiritual tradition and everything is Tango. And if it is not, you can always turn it into such. Tango-shopping, Tango-fucking, Tango-praying.
The Turning of the Screw, and other stories of the Ayahuasca, remain big teachings to be completely assimilated. A tale of firmnes - firmeza - without which our life is just a little bit too flasque, without which love is just a fire without heat, a thought without strength. Don't deliberate whether your offering to the sun is worthwhile or not, you have been doing just that all your life. Start to shine with all you have, all you can, all that is truly you. Be beautiful, finnally. Be big. Hafiz says that

"The difference between a good artist and a great one is: the novice will often lay down his tool or brush, then pick up an invisible club on the mind's table and helplessly smash the easels and jade. Whereas the vintage man no longer hurts himself or anyone, and keeps on sculpting Light".
So Firmness it is, discipline and determination. An ordered lifestyle. Something that looks from the outside like "Mr Everybody" and ressembles even more the teachings and admonitions my parents gave me along the way. But of course, what matters here, is the very way in which I came to this, which was very much mine. Learning things. Slowly becoming a man. Filling discipline and determination up with love...from the inside. What matters is not the "lifestyle", nor the places I go nor the things I do. What matters is the inside. Turning everything I thought up side down. Living in the world as a piscean creature. Rambling on. Always. Small sentences. No verbs. No need. No need for anything but everything...has been my motto for a long time. I have been precluding me from the enjoyment of many a fine thing in life because of just this: waiting for something higher, the perfect light, when it's all always already there, here. Hold my hand.
Show me spring: magnolia trees in full bloom, cherry blossom under blue sky, silence of green grass filled only with the busy humming of bees and little robbin sitting in the tree. Lying here with Nushka by side, breathing.
Or breathing into the deep sense of silence and peace of a treatment room I enter, when a person has consented to lay her body down on my massage table, and we're having a silent dance together, for an hour. Priviledged communication. I feel grateful and humble.
This is it. This is all there is. People dying, people living. Sun rising and sea licking the shores of a magic island. I'm living on an island. Island records. On this day.

Monday, October 24, 2005

 

A Life in the Day

*
*

We die containing a richness of lovers and tribes,
tastes we have swallowed, bodies we have plunged into
and swum up as if rivers of wisdom,
characters we have climbed into as if trees,
fears we have hidden in as if caves.

I wish for all this to be marked on my body when I am dead.
I believe in such a cartography - to be marked by nature,
not just to label ourselves on a map like the names of rich men and women
on buildings.
We are communal histories, communal books.
We are not owned or monogamous in our taste or experience.
All I desired was to walk upon such an earth that had no maps.


(from 'The English patient')

Friday, October 14, 2005

 

Attempt at a self-portrait in the light of my relationship with my voice, inner/outer, spoken/sung as experienced over the course of my life.

Letter for Chloe,

I was a silent baby. I came to the world with the umbilical cord wrapped twice around my neck, and they say that I was blue. My mother claims I was the perfect baby because she could just sit me down anywhere and I would stay there, sitting quietly, until she picked me up. Adrian, my two year elder brother, was the voice in my early childhood, and I was the ear. We were extremely close, and while he was the leading, dynamic, extrovert, nervous and articulate kid, I got to be known as the quiet Beatle (we're four brothers), prone to moments of melancolia spent in isolation, or lost in a world of books and story-telling tapes. One of my favourite characters was a red haired little gnome called Pumuckl, and for years I spoke in his high-pitched funny voice.

In many ways, I can see this silent and slightly phlegmatic child inside of me as a loss of energy, something being muted. I am not talking here about the salvatory and golden silence of being with oneself (as a child or later) but rather the unwillingness to stand one's ground in society, in this case the family circle. But with the beginning of school, there suddenly was a space in which I could be somebody different, and I could live out my extrovert side, much to the surprise of my parents when they would see me outside of the family setting.
One important aspect of my childhood - please don't laugh at this - was being a boyscout; I think old Baden Powell was the one who introduced me to group ritual and chanting. Slow and silent movements alternating with question-answer singing always left me with a mood of archaic tribal belonging and celebrating. More so, during the summer camps, the goodnight song - 'Abendlied' - sung in the dark, with all the boyscouts holding hands, was a prayer to the forest, and I remember the taste of my voice going inward, very smooth and soft. Those moments had an intense magic, and I could for the first time witness the sheer power of music, or should I say Spirit, or Spirit of Music?

So I had tasted a singing coming from a place of Spirit, but I would loose it soon, as I entered another lifechapter, where singing came largely from the throat and the (hugely) growing ego of a wild adolescent. Came the time of playing in bands, the charms of drugs, sex and rock n' roll on a smalltown scale (compared to British standards, I was a choirboy, I think). My first public appearance on guitar and vocals was in a church, where I shouted that I didn't believe in God...I played the guitar in a funk band called 'Discoidal Mogul', was a rapper in a hardcore-crossover band, a background vocalist and bass player in a Nirvana cover-band... On pictures of me singing on stage at the time, I have quite swollen neck veins, turning red from screaming... What I remember most of these days, is the exhilarating feeling of reaching out to the audience, making people move; I am credited with and feel an infectuous energy emanating from me as soon as I step unto stage, I always completely embodied the 'story' of what I was singing about, to the point where I was almost 'all by myself', engrossed with myself, while at the same time putting it all out there. Ah yes, I was a post-pubertic performer!

Moving to Brussels for my studies, the bands slowly collappsed, and things got quiter, musically speaking. My girlfriend at the time had an incredibly powerful voice, we sang a lot together, but I remember experiencing my voice to be blocked (just as on an energetical level, I was blocked by her 'verbal diarrhea' as she called it, I found myself in a relationship not unlike that with my elder brother, being the ear again and not allowing myself to 'voice' my concerns and needs). In these years of studies, I repeatedly tried to join choirs, experiencing the deep emotion of religious songs and the sweet union of unison, but never stayed there for long, looking for a different kind of sound-environment...

In due time I finished my studies, my long-term relationship (rather violently and traumatically) ended and I found myself in a place of relative void and silence. I could not and would not resume teenage songwriting, singing songs on the guitar felt unsatisfactory; I had no means, no vehicle to communicate myself to myself, and I wasn't sure of who that 'I' was in the first place. Grief and guilt had veiled my voice and my song-world in such a way that I decided to stop everything I was doing and put all my energy in the task of recovering, rediscovering my life-force, my life-joy, my singing joy throat. For a very long time after the end of my relationship, my throat was in severe pain, I felt like being continiously strangled. This revived the early memory of feeling muted, a little bit grey and dull, half dead, really.

So I went on a wandering journey in order to see how people where managing to live on this Earth, I had everything to learn. I am still on this journey, and I hope it will never end. I have never found, never owned my own voice, and in a way never owned my own life. But as I am starting to reclaim my life more and more, to reclaim my natural birthright of pure joy, abundance and contentment, I realise that just as I search for the company of happy shiny people, I seek for the company of a voice in me that is free of all that 'story of Iwan', a voice prior to that conflict, a voice that thunders powerfully through me and caresses me like a breeze. A voice to take me home. I remember singing the SA-RE-GHA scale with its movements, with Gavino Divino, on a summer camp in beautiful Devon not so long ago. I wasn't singing anymore, I was being sung, my body elongated and stretched every movement to its full extent, without my own participation, it seemed. It felt like a flower opening up, the feeling of sweetness and springtime-joy moved me to tears, it was transpersonal beauty. We are (I am) recovering from a long numbness.

I remember sitting on a balcony of a wooden house in a lush northern Indian valley, Oming into the rain. What most struck me then was the quality of the silence that began after the sound ended, I really sing because of my love for silence. The silence between notes. The silence underneath, within and behind notes.

The arabic lute, the oud, beautifully plays around a thick surrounding silence. I started to play it in Egypt. There, in a little hut on a beach in the Sinai, an english excentric, half-crazy-wiseman-nutter going by the name of Calvin introduced me to Rumi by handing me his ragged and artistically mended copy of Coleman's book. It certainly looked more like a newly discovered Dead Sea scroll, and I plunged like a thirsty fish into Rumi's vast ocean. He had me burning again, he infected me with his passion and love for everything that is living, with his yearning and longing for God who is underneath, within and behind everything that lives. I did not want to sing abstract all-encompassing Oming on end, I do not fancy exploring the buddhist's emptiness, I no longer want to shut myself off and retreat in my cave in order to find something I've lost on my way to the Earth. I want to embrace the world and take my place among the humans, I want to sit down in this circle and sing my love... and I need a new language to do it!

I am going through big changes; I am being guided and worked on, layers are falling off and I'm growing young again. When - soon inch'Allah - I'll be truly naked, things will fall into place and I will find a form to whrap my love-singing in. All I need to do now is indulge, celebrate the joy of being alive, which you - dear Chloe - so magnificiently embody. 'Sing your note out loud!' says Rumi, and I'll go wherever he tells me to go...

(to laugh. completely. outside and inside, with all the breath of life! )

Totnes, October 2005.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

 

Schreiben

“ Ja: - wer denn soll lesen, was ich in diese Hefte schreibe! Und doch, glaube ich, gibt es kein Schreiben ohne die Vorstellung, dass jemand es lese, und waere dieser jemand nur der Schreiber selbst. Dann frage ich mich auch: Kann man schreiben, ohne eine Rolle zu spielen? Man will sich selbst ein Fremder sein. Nicht in der Rolle, wohl aber in der unbewussten Entscheidung, welche Art von Rolle ich mir zuschreibe, liegt meine Wirklichkeit. Zuweilen habe ich das Gefuehl, man gehe aus dem Geschriebenem hervor wie eine Schlange aus ihrer Haut. Das ist es; man kann sich nicht niederschreiben, man kann sich nur haeuten. Aber wen soll diese tote Haut noch interessieren! Die imer wieder einmal auftauchende Frage, ob denn der Leser jemals etwas anderes zu lesen vermoege als sich selbst, eruebrigt sich: Schreiben ist nicht Kommunikation mit Lesern, auch nicht Kommunkation mit sich selbst, sondern Kommunikation mit dem Unaussprechlichen. Je genauer man sich auszusprechen vermoechte, um so reiner erschiene das Unaussprechliche, das heisst die Wirklichkeit, die den Schreiber bedraengt und bewegt. Wir haben die Sprache, um stumm zu werden. Wer schweigt, ist nicht dumm. Wer schweigt, hat nicht einmal eine Ahnung, wer er nicht ist. „

- Max Frisch, „Stiller“



...Wer singt sagt keine Dummheiten. Er singt!

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

 

My Eskimo friend

`
`
She. Her name is Susan. They call her Suzi. She’s got husky-blue eyes, a fair complexion. She says she is being “kept alive by machines”. She is on dialysis: four years ago, her kidneys failed, since then she has to go to hospital three times a week to have her blood purified by machines in a four hour intervention where they stick a needle in the veins of her left arm, where they've installed a fistulla. She is thirty-one now. An amazing dancer, an amazing sweetness.
She grew up in Belfast, with the bombs, the hatred, the deluded IRA fanatics… When asked to explain what the conflict is about, she quotes an old man: “ Anyone who thinks he understands anything about anything doesn’t really know what’s happening here!” Irish humour is devastating. After being in England for four years, she still often shocks the back-padding, overly apologetic Brits by her directness, considered rude over here. Once she had a terrible desert in a restaurant, and when the waiter asked her if it was good, she answered with the biggest smile on her face “no, it’s really shite, but I’ll still eat it because I’m really hungry”!
Coming to Totnes with its big alternative organic-warrior scene and its two Buddhist colleges, she jokes that as an Irish protestant she was raised to hate Catholics, so here she decided to hate Buddhists, because “they take life too seriously and wear bad shoes”. She is studying Alexander Technique here. Keeping her back perfectly straight while she hoovers the treatment-room of the institute in the middle of the night. I watch her and she is a little shy about it. She has a reputation of being chronically unpunctual. Her mother, Margareth, wanted to call her Anouchka, but that was too exotic back in the day in Northern Ireland. She died last year. She was a terrible cook, but a beautiful woman with long black hair, big almond eyes and unstoppable laughing fits. She sent her daughter little parcels with the worst kitsch to distant England. When a nurse called Suzy into the hospital room one day, she said “no, that’s my little Anouchka”! Her Father is called Denis. The mother had once remarked to her that his name was written with only one ‘n’, like ‘penis’, as a consequence of witch she addressed her father as Penis in the following letters. He never commented on it. He didn’t really finish school, worked for years as a ‘rep’ (representant) and did quite well. They could afford to buy a bungalow in Belfast. Then, one day, he invented himself a diploma and got a high level post in a multinational pharmaceutical company. He had never managed people before, so when all these highly qualified people turned to him saying “Denis, I have a problem here, what should I do?” his answer – invariably - was “well, what do you think you should do?” He was very good at his new job! Two weeks after he started in the company, the labour union went on a massive strike, and he had no idea how to deal with it. So one night he visited the union leader – who lived two streets down from him – and told him he had no idea how to deal with the situation. So they sat down, had some tea, and the union leader basically told him what to concede to. The next day at the company, they orchestrated a fake ‘big argument’ between them, so that the union leader would look good in front of his mates, and they ‘reached’ a deal. He, too, has cancer, has been operated already, is in for another...Her brother, Simon, is two years older than her, a writer and odd. He had written a novel about one of the ‘disappeared’, a woman who was abducted by the IRA one night she was in her bath. They dragged her out naked in front of her kids and she was never seen again. This was the punishment for having offered last help to a soldier who was dying on her doorstep, on a day there had been a shooting on her street. It gets more horrid: when Simon, who was living in Southern Ireland, went up to the victim’s family to go through the manuscript with them, it turned out that one of the five sons was a member of the IRA, who had killed his mother, and got very angry with Simon wanting to publish this. So shortly afterwards, around Christmas time, Simon is sitting in his local pub near Dingle, South Ireland, when a man comes up to him and tells him “ by New Year you have to be out of the country”. A local policeman confirmed him that they were being serious with this threat. So he packed his things and left to England, where he now teaches creative writing at the University of Leeds. His novel never managed to get published. Now he’s written a second novel, about his sister, basically. It’s the story of a guy who has a sister who’s on dialysis, and she disappears with a certain Dr. Death who helps people die, and he has two weeks to find her, because that’s the amount of time she can survive without dialysis.
I hear that when her kidneys failed, her partner left and ran away. I figure she has strong views about people not being there for others.
She meets a traveller and likes him. When she touches me, it feels like the open sea.
I call her the Eskimo Princess.

Friday, September 23, 2005

 

AFRICA BY BUS

It
is

It is time to expose the foundations of an idea that has blossomed up above my head lately, quite some time ago actually, seven months to the day actually, or so…
It is time to share with all friends and people of peace ideas about my project;

Working title: ‘Creative Caravan going down the coast of Africa’!
The idea - in a word - is SHARING!

I have this vision of 10 to 20 people (a couple of Range Rovers or Mercedes buses, my big round Egyptian tent, maybe tippies, solar panels for amplification..) starting a creative journey down to the Motherland. The idea is to arrive at any given place, set up the little village and have a first night of proper ‘performance’ including music, story-telling, dance, healing space, kids’ corner, etc…Of course, long nights of celebration with the local public will follow, we will meet the musicians, magicians and story-tellers who will perform for us. They will roast a lamb for us and we in turn will toast some tofu for them, or whatever. Then we will all jam and possibly tour the land together, for a while, till we’ve met all the cousins in the South and we’ll be heading downwards, to another country: Morocco, Mauritania, Senegal, Gambia, Burkina, Mali, Guinea, Ghana, Togo, Benin,…


I already have a handful of enthusiastic musicians on board, not a date, yet. Possibly within the three next years, or maybe I’ll wait to be a qualified ‘Naked Voice’ facilitator. Anyway, that’s the plan. And if you feel a strong urge to contribute, participate, elaborate, collaborate, investigate?…Share opinions, experiences, know someone who’s all up for such an idea, has been going down already…
Please write me!
I’m thankful for any kind of input.

Mama Africa on my Mind.
 

In the Brunchtime of my Life

¬
¬

In the Brunchtime of my Life/when we're carrying on with what we were doing just because we enjoy it so much/ just before the middle of the day/ when things start to have to be thought about – getting done later in the day/ but now world like a lush breakfast table shared with friends and a bottle of champagne/ bubbles of joy/ accept abundance/ please have it all/ the world is my university/ following only the Law of Attraction and having International Relations/ Elation really/ feel fresh yes please ah the beard is off/ cut my hair myself in the bath today total empowering experience/ haircuts used to be experienced as a Samson’ish ordeal/ green superfood on my morning porridge/ new strings on my guita’/ muchcha music in my life/ what else?

I’m currently settled in the ‘Castle Lodge’ where Faith and Phil live. I met Faith ‘the Voice’ at the body camp in August. Just in case you wondered who all these foreign people in a foreign land are, that host me. Little bit outside Totnes, with panoramic view on Devon’s rolling hills and the Dartmoor afar. In exchange for my staying here, I work in the garden and house, now preparing a huge party in the house for tomorrow. Setting the clocks for the last potential excess before period of purest purity once again, because much work is to do and voice likes clean air and healthy lifestyle, so I listen to her…

Moving to the country. It’s all fairly simple. And no further explanation is needed. So I’ll better stop here, or else I might come up with the cleverest thing in the world to say…:-)

Peace and Happiness to All

Thursday, June 23, 2005

 

Return from the Valley

Fall with me
into the ditch
on Love's Highway.

I so enjoy sitting here with You.

I am a blind man -
You are Light,
along this dark road.

No passerby will even notice
our humble celebration
in the dust of their days.

Why don't we undo this winding road?

Joyful is the path,
and the Valley smiles at us.

We sit,
and you hold me by the shoulders.
Around us, everything is red.

My helper.My guide.My ladder.

Send me to Earth. Give me a Soul. Watch me go. The valley of ME.

The Path leads through the Valley.
Joyful is the Path.

Starmusic still in your hair,
let me be done with phrases and
come home to the silence within that music.

________________


I have lived for several weeks in this little sheperd’s hut in a mini-private valley just for myself, somewhere in Jhibbi valley, Himachal Pradesh. The poem was written a few weeks before I went there, just one of these things that tend to happen in India... The first two weeks were spent with Naomi from Queens, NY, then about a month alone. God bless the intensity of both of these periods and the difference between the two. To get to the hut, I had to walk for a good 30 min. from the little Jhibbi village, leave the main road and climb up a little path into my valley, along flowers and big stones, passing the little Krishna shrine at the entrance of the valley. The valley had a little stream of cold mountain water, where I could shower in and wash my dishes, drink…Every morning a crow came flying on the roof to wake me up at six, steal my soap and eat my left overs. Salamanders shared the room, as well as giant spiders and one scorpion on the wall above my bed. The monkeys stayed at a prudent distance, I could observe them jumping from tree to tree or bathing in the little pool down there. In the daytime, the village women would lead their five or six cows into the valley, screaming to lead them, hitting them ferosciously.
I would tippically start my day at six (woken up by my friend the crow) with 45 min of sitting, dwelling in pure being. In those moments before sunrise, or late at night, alone in a lost valley in a foreign country, it was easy to forget my name, my history, the importance attached to my thoughts. Just sitting. A very sweet and intimate connection with the Being that is at the core of us. To wake up and not entertain any kind of particular relationship with oneself, just to be. Natural state. Immediate and childlike. That’s, I think, what the overused term “meditation” means, something very simple and quite natural.
It is equally true though that during all this time, I was living with all my loved ones, and especially my immediate family members, inside of me. And the art of meditation, at its beginning at least, requires to leave the world be what it is, and turn completely inside. Later, then, would it be embraced with a new love. At my point, there was a conflict there, because with memories and feelings, identification would ensue, and one is easily lost in fruitless daydreaming.
I am now a more present person, and my life quality is greatly enhanced. I see it when sitting around a fire at night with people; their eyes turn glassy, with a fixed gaze, they are lost in a dream world of their thoughts. I am conscious of myself. When thoughts arise, I am conscious of the one that is experiencing them, the witness in the back.
Why I’m writing this, I’m not sure; if you think it’s all bullocks, just skip it.

I won’t describe the period after march 16, when I learned about the departure of the dear lover of flowers, my beloved grandmother Nonna. I won’t go into the chronological account of my whereabouts and many meetings, because she is no longer reading it, and these events are so far away by now that it would probably bore the hell out of me. It’s history now. Memories of feelings, not the feeling itself. The past is death. It is also living on in every cell of my body. I carry a corpse with me. And I embody life right now. Today in London, I feel very dead and very alive at the same time. …
So my father invited me to come down and celebrate his 60th B-day with the whole family in Austria, and that was a real treat. Joy of belonging, of loving togetherness; gratitude that we’re all safe and alive. And I stayed on in Belgium, welcoming the cousins and aunt from Argentina which I had never seen before, and that was the summer’s second love-blow of feeling family-rootedness deep within. It’s something archaic, something organic.
Then I went to the UK for two weeks, and this is where I am still now, four or five weeks later. Going with the flow, my life is as uncertain and unpredictable as ever, beautiful and rich as never. With the obligatory blind spot in the middle. I wouldn’t write if I was perfectly content. To sit in absolute stillness is the noblest human posture possible. As for now, I am left with my little words, helpless magical symbols. Which leads me to my future plans, my passion and hopefully dedication for the times to come: the voice beyond words. Just that clear space of one’s own unique and true inner voice. I want to find mine. Gonna take classes with Chloe Goodchild in London and Bristol, seminars that explore the depth of voice through a lot of silence. Making a lot of music outdoors this summer, I realised how our perception of the silence is altered after we have been chanting for a while. Sitting in the middle of a huge stonecircle at Scorhill, Devon, with Eliza’s overtones nearby, I felt that presence in the voice. Music powerful medicine. So I’m signing up to this voice course, my aim is to become a singing facilitator. It has been since I first attended a singing workshop with Joseph Clarck back in Brussels, a long time ago. Gavino Divino at the “Celebrate the Body” camp was another of these important people, and singing four harmonies Gregorian laments with beautiful Helen was a reminder that nowhere else do I fell so alive, present and burning as in that space.
Now in Diana’s kitchen, my sweet sister of despair. For we are in despair, carrying this irremediable sense of void into whatever life we encounter. Something was shattered, and who knows what it takes to mend us? Is time all we need? We have overcome the tragedy, only to find ourselves in the subtle realm of a sober, flat day-to-day despair. Emptiness of things. La nausee? Music, then, is needed and felt more than ever, a physical impact on the dead body. Music has the ability to give solace, to stir the heart, to speak on a spiritual level where our words fail us. Music as an invocation. An invitation.
“Dance, when you’re broken open.
Dance, if you’ve torn the bandage off.
Dance in the middle of the fighting.
Dance in your blood.
Dance, when you’re perfectly free.”

Don’t accept any consolation, Rumi. Nothing but the highest truth of yourself. Wash yourself off yourself. Be melting snow.

I’ll go, wherever Rumi appears in my life. A living guide.

Nusrat singing now. Sitting by the fire at the “Spirit of Music” camp, listening to Jim and Jim’s brother Jimmy sing in perfect duo, I had to think that, had I had that twin brother, we would probably have sung like that together then. I miss Abel. I love pumpkin-orange-ginger jam with cinnamon in the winter. And women, too. And I’m loosing my memory, though that’s probably for the better. Maybe Adi’s biggest problem is his elephantesque memory…Dreamt of him and Max parachuting the other night; learnt on the next day that they had effectively jumped that very same day. Connection status: established.
Addictions: in the end, I am not that un-gifted for them. Heavily on meat before I left for India, I dropped it there. Only to fall back on chocolate and white sugar on my return. Will drop that one now. Pricelesness of living food.

The other day, I jumped on a bus to London I wasn’t planning to take. Arrived here with just a toothbrush. My shirt is starting to feel “not fresh”. Gotta get myself back down to Totnes, rated the second “coolest” place in the world after San Fransisco… Jimi Hendrix remains unable to write a truly happy song. So does Jeff Buckley. The stuff modern music is made of is psychologically unsound, just wrong. Beautiful and wrong. The “ I can’t live without you” kind of thing…But positive-affirmation songs of praise sound easily tacky and closer to newborn Christians than to honest music. We need more Al Greens, Jack Johnsons and consorts.
I do love the british. Feel very welcome here, being offered homes to stay all around the island. That feeling, to be on an island, still present. And what to say about mystic Devon, land of oaks and hedges along the rivers, the Dartmoor and its barren landscape, the beauty of its desolation, the energy of its long history, the stories in its stones, the misty mornings,…ad infinitum. Big powerful rocks everywhere, stone circles, burial grounds, a place of tangible pagan wisdom. Would like to live here for a while as a wandering minstrel, troubadour, bard,…commuting between Totnes and London. Let the A303 be my home for now. I just need to find my bag, somewhere in a van around Totnes at the moment. Everything is easy. Says the mouse running through the kitchen, just before the cat comes back from school.
I am a pisces with sagitarian rising and moon in Gemini. Astrology holds it that I should be a wandering gigolo-angel. Needless to say that I don’t identify with this description for the least - - -Happiest when sleeping out in the fields, open fields of possibilities manifold, sleeping on the hard ground, cerca da terra. Climbing on to toilet-constructions hanging in trees, waking up with a jump into an icy stream. Enjoy the taste of unpoisonned food. Come and visit sometime. Join the singing fields. There is a Community of spirit.
Loads of images piled up behind our eyes. We hope that by saying them, they will gain some intrinsic sense. But life as such has no purpose other than to be lived.
I dream of a Mongol horse-riding knight riding his horse through the night. Black, all three of them: night, horse and knight. His name is Zad Isabgol. There’s a killer on the road.

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