litereske

g . by this river

pgiselbrecht — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 05:31:14 +0000

Here we stand at this river,

watching it slowly pass by,

whilst inhaling its breath.

Time slows to the point,

where it meets the velocity of the river’s current.

A swirl drags a fallen leave down.

Forever, down, down, down.

Its green coloring derives from light, weather, surrounding,

It all creates this new shade.

All reflections are absorbed.

Mirroring drowns slowly.

Now and then a splash appears,

and then no splash appear.

It carries all with it, stones, sand, tears.

As we stand at this river,

we always fail to remember why we came.

I always wonder why we came, came, came.

Whispering, as the fog enwraps us slowly.

The man, brian eno: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w2WURHY3D4A

g . anew the prayer, anew the promise

pgiselbrecht — Sat, 28 Mar 2009 02:50:34 +0000

I am waiting for the growing of my hair. Soon they are going to cover my face.

Recently my mind became so unfocused. I drift, I drown in the vast array of thoughts which I am unable to extract meaning.

This deprives me from my present.

I am lost in the next second to come. All alone in this vacuum. Sitting on a float unable to figure where land will appear. I am thinking about my philosophy, my hollow spirit, the meaning of all; which I have been acquainted with for such a long time. Is it true, I mean reality, yes or no?

Music replenishes me with mood. Emotions which I usually hide. Whispering lyrics, humming to melody, heart beating to bass lines; all this nurtures my soul.

I am so eclectic. So is my music. So are my feelings.

I start to meditate in this infinity. I am looking for the last resort, the endless water, the highest peaks. I am seeking and finding my destiny with the help of gods. Awaiting events which flatter me.

Surely the gods will carve this face – will let it wither. Will let grow my hair. Will let me find myself – sometimes, but not now.

Birds are passing by my window front. I wonder.
I whisper silently what a friend of mine has told me recently:

Did you know that experts still have not found out why flying is possible?

g . Bin weg

pgiselbrecht — Fri, 27 Mar 2009 02:24:50 +0000

oh, du guter geist, 

dass du nicht weisst,

wie ich heiss.   

begreif ich das all 

als intervall, 

meiner zeit. 

als reiz. 

meinerseits. 

 papier,

 ich hier,  

mein stift,  

ein gericht,  

meiner kritik.   

schrift,  

ja es betrifft,  

die fantasie des geists, 

bereits, 

als verständnis,  

als erkenntnis, 

eines neuen seins,  

eins, 

mit mir,  

hier, 

für immer fort, 

mein wort,  

kein rand, 

für meinen verstand.

g . Mistress, I beg for your sway

pgiselbrecht — Sun, 22 Feb 2009 02:39:28 +0000

She is that much of an invert. She never speaks about herself in private and in public. Not to lovers, not to friends, not to anyone.

Better not break this silence which sweeps anyone into her mystical aura.

Mostly she is just there, to stare: the ongoing and turning of the world, ever never so sacred to her. Awaiting the blinking of a new shooting star or the flashing of reflection which she finds in your eyes. I have only once seen this shooting star in her eyes, and then I thought she might love me – that has let me forget all the things which happened on the humpy road.

She does not give you the calmness of asking you anything about your life, or where you come from? She rather focuses on the moment in which you appear; which surprises her anyway.

I enter the room with my tight jeans and white shirts. Slowly releasing the loops of my scuffed shoes. Enjoying the taste of this situation, in which somebody might have awaited me. Bending upwards and breathing in the smell of this apartment while overseeing the items properly aligned in the room. Or not.

Walking to my alloted place – a chair. Then I dare to uplift my head to give a gaze to the sofa corner, which is hers. She sits there as she has never moved away. You wonder if she has ever been able to do so.

Then she starts always with the same phrase, “Now you are here, so …”. Then I feel flattered as she has spoken, and I start with my babblings. My shy eyes meet hers. My stories about the world sometimes meet a knowing smile. Now the couch and all surroundings including the noise from the TV are shut out entirely, it is as I have entered a tunnel or a hidden dark pathway.

I am there, she is near. I want her, all comes down to this. I touch and my hands walk up her body. When my lips suck on hers, I reach a goal. When she starts eating mine, I am there and once fully defined. It seems that I reached a state which is me, but I have long time forgotten about it. Suddenly I feel caring, feeling something about myself which is warm, feel that I have found a new way to go. Some hope which I spilled on the floor long time ago, I know care to drain back into my bucket. Kissing we sit there, starting something together, maybe …

But then, let me introduce to the public my ever-since biggest enemy or worst opponent, doubt. I know him too well. He is black when I am white. He does leave me in the need, he does not leave me in the want. He is omnipresent, loud and scary. I fed him well over the years … we had awful fights, but I think I always won, but so does he. Doubt you are a big enemy, cruel, you strike against self-confidence and happiness of a situation.

But this time, no. I kiss harder, there you go.

Then she looks at me. Sometimes she does. Then, when somebody stares at me for a longer moment I feel insecure. I ask her why she does so and she says nothing.

In the bed I touch her shoulders. She has wide ones. She is very strong. But her skin is so soft.

And sometimes she gets so warm that I even have to leave some space between us.

Her hair always have a good smell, I love that. Hair are wonderful anyway.

She is a modern valkyrie as she rides over the battle field while the nordern lights paint on to the sky in yellow and lila. You only see it when you have fought for it – you either lost or won. She just accepts it. She knew how it happened. Sometimes too much anyway.

Shine, shine, shine on

Yes
Wont you shine, shine on

I am awaiting the moment when she tells me about emotions, feelings, thoughts … but every time I am not seeing her for some longer moments I start forgetting her. The distance comes in, very wide, very long. I am so frightened by the feeling that I can not reach her anymore. Forever. The band connecting us is cut by the present.

At this time I ache for telephone calls. Or SMS. Awaiting soothing whispers which embed my soul softly. Your calming voice would let rejuvenate my lost mind. Your gazes always gave me the strength to make a move.

But it is not coming. It is not there.

The world between us tears apart. I drift offshore. And you become a memory. And believe me there is nothing worse than becoming a thought of the past. It is a ban which you can not break.

To be continued …

Or not …

g . my seconds

pgiselbrecht — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 15:22:23 +0000

I am in the mountains. Goddess, this holy empire. The peaks are covered with snow, now and then rock surfaces appear randomly. I can smell heaven from here, clear and damn near. In this valley surrounded by the Alpes stands the house of my grandma. It is approx. 300 years old but it feels as old as mankind. It is carved in wood. Pinewood. The furniture is custom-made. The ceilings of the rooms are shallow.

It is 7 a.m. and all there is is the tick-tack of the wall clock. I try to hear every second. And I imagine that all get slower. And slower.

Now I listen to the thousands of the second.

It is one of the moments in these valley. Spiritual and holy. Because it is quiet. Only quiet. You can hear your heart pumping like the tick-tack of the clock. Also it slows down to a complete stop. Then my damn soul arises to haunt in these alley looking for the infinite quietness.

Later my grandma comes in with her optimistic smile, which she pulls up every morning. She stares at me. Walks to the wall clock and pulls the string with the weight, so that it will tick for a couple of more seconds.

g . tents

pgiselbrecht — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 15:00:35 +0000

Interesting enough is the topography of how land is formed It is reflected in the smallest entity with its heights and shadows. Take the topography of a snow field.

Recently I saw the breeze mixed with snow arising from the crest. A cloud alike.

These shapes are brushed up like flocks towards infinity. It seems as if the earth steams or spits. Totally befogged in white. The wind as ever after celestial. He forms the landscape as he provides directions to the snow flogs and leafs. In the widest arrays of the alpes light is second factor to be taken into consideration. The landscaped is wrapped in a yellowish hue pasted strongly. Shadows dissolve reflections and create contrast. No more glittering by these little ice-crystals lying softly on the snowfields, no more light-tracks created by skis of children.

Emptiness – only this dark ice-blue stays here to find its peace in the night. Protecting the area by its darkness.

What are the mountains without its shadows – they would not be as mighty as they appear. Not as graceful as they are.

g . can anybody stop these faces to appear

pgiselbrecht — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 14:27:32 +0000

I think that once man gets older, the face fades like the summer flowers in the beginning of autumn. Then the wrinkles carve a new face. Together with the cold wind which rushes by like years. This new grimace often resembles animals.

For instance my grandma became a crow. She has an awakening gaze. The wrinkles around her eyes became layers with rings. Every ring is a bit wider. At the same time she looks wise. When you ask her a question, she replies with a strong, raspy voice.

Another example is my boss who looks like a fox with his reddish hair geld in all directions. He is smart indeed.

Lukie, the mountain farmer, is an owl. He has a beard like a bush to discard his chin. And waterblue eyes. Mostly he wars lumberjackers’ shirts and a grey felt hat. Sadly he does not smoke the pipe.

I am going to look like a hamster in a couple of year. Or a rabbit – I guess

*nay-Black Coffee.

pgiselbrecht — Sun, 05 Oct 2008 10:19:33 +0000

I sip on an old cup of it, wondering how many lips have drank from where I drink now, and what they drank. I look out a black and white balcony in a grayscale world, silver halides settle on the existence of everyone and everything, the faces of children turn grey and the lonely grimaces behind windows are overcome by contrast, exposure and shutter speed settings.

Time is no picture; ironically, I can capture a moment in black and white, a feather falling, a smile or even death. I cannot capture summer, however; it slips right through my fingers and throws autumn leaves at me, laughing, glorious, tantalizing.

My picture is of transience. A picture of four walls and a roof that are no more, a home exposed, naked – an empty bathtub if it weren’t for the autumn rain and the brittle branches flown in by the wind and by crows. Black and gray feathers, here and there – lifeless remnants of what was once essential for flight. Our hopes and dreams are too many for the world to hold – like cold water in a rusty bathtub, flowing over the rim.

A leaded ball, that’s what my picture is about. It crushes concrete walls that once divided inside from outside, safety from exposure, mine from yours. It crushes windows and floors where once stood a chair with a table, a flower perhaps.

I am somewhere else. The wind is much stronger now, swaying softly through the rustling forest behind the house. The river has gone silent, the crows, too, are waiting for the impeding storm.

We have to go, he says. I close the blinds and draw the curtains; I lock in the summer winds and the sunlight, my way of imprisoning seasons. I don’t know when I’m coming back, or if – but what I do know is that somewhere, there always seems to be waiting for me…a tree, a black-and white tree with dark clouds and branches and crows, throwing leaves into a naked bathtub filled with cold rain, overflowing.

$pippo: That is that – Stopping why???

pgiselbrecht — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 13:44:05 +0000

The plane is high-above in the air. Everybody is seated, all passengers have fastened their seat belt. I realize that when I look onto the clouds, i see more dimensions than when I look from the grounds upwards to the clouds. Clouds can be actually very tall. They can open up and give free whole landscapes; they are not as flat as they seem to be from world’s surface. With this in mind i proceed gazing into the whole of nothing. The nothingness can be sweet and daring. It loops and mentally I swoop.

I am sitting at the pool looking at the clouds which are being moved in Singapore faster than anywhere else. There is this squirrel living in the palm trees while I live in the condo nearby. This animals lives in the neighborhood of our swimming pool. A fine kind of place for this furry little thing. Location-wise it may be considered as prime area.
I see it often, actually i watch it jumping from one branch to the next, balancing on top of fences, climbing posts. When it moves it is more a jerking step than a run away from enemies movement. Maybe that is because of the heat? Sometimes I think that thing is observing me too. What would it tell about this blond man without tan?

Giorgia lights up a cigarette. She looks at you like she has never seen you before. Everyday you are a stranger to her. Sometimes she even walks by without looking at you. You are of no interest to her. Never.
Then at another time she gives you her full attention. Laughs directly into your face. Wants to retrieve all information out of you. She is so curious about how you see things? How you live? In what you believe? etc.
It has been like that already one year. And is continuing for some more time …

The clouds move on. They change shape and lighten up when the sun is low. I kiss the air and blow it towards the air. When its cold I can do my own clouds, when I breathe out. I love doing this. It would be nice if every movement would be accompanied with clouds. Or if you could surf on a cloud. Whatever, we are lost, better jump into the water and fly there.

e>an: simple trails of thoughts of a wondering mind

pgiselbrecht — Fri, 20 Jun 2008 01:25:26 +0000

Khalil Gibran wrote that the relationship of a parent to a child is similar to that of an archer and an arrow. The parent is there to provide the backing, the initial push, but where the arrow lands is split between the elements and the child. My Grandfather knew a thing or two about the idea of that initial push, but he never lived to see the full extent of what Gibran had articulated. I wonder if he, my Grandfather, ever knew who I was, or if he just thought of me as a familiar face, someone from the past he couldn’t place but was friendly with regardless. There’s a painting hanging on the wall closest to the stairs in his daughter’s hourse. It’s an old oil painting of a black haired, freckle faced, handsome young man wearing a straw hat. It is, and it is not a painting of me.

I wonder when that old man looked at me, if he believed that I really was him at a younger age. Perhaps coming to visit through some back door in time. The look on his face resembles something like when they show a freeze frame of a boxer being clocked in the jaw. He looks like he was knocked out of the ring, out of his mind, but still the machinery wakes, eats, sings, loves, smiles its big smile. His awareness is fragmented, much like my understanding of who he was before his many strokes. I never knew him the way his painting portrayed him to be, young, strong, intelligent, artistic and romantic (legend has it he wooed my Grandmother with his bow and arrow skills). I can see his full head of thick white hair sitting in his wheel chair, grinning at spots of sunshine on the ground. He could see through them, it seemed, into some distant place none of us will not know for some time. I can hear him grunt words and sing a song about the bonnetts in the Easter Day Parade. I wonder if his smile meant he knew that he didn’t have to waste words in life anymore. He communicated with a furling of his eyebrows or a clearing of his throat. The man I knew was connection in passing, someone I was able to sit with, hold, touch, but existed in passing, which was still a blessing in every way. He and I would have had one heck of a conversation if he was “all there.” As of this morning, he’s not peeking through the light from our side any longer.

I’ve said many times before that if you’re lucky enough to be adopted, as I was, you carry with you the unknown belief that you’re the only person who looks like you. When the day comes that your birthmother sends you a letter, you meet, she’s amazing, you’re both fascinatingly lucky, and the world delights in the origami of your lifelines folding… when that day comes you realize that life doesn’t care what you think. Life is going to do what it pleases, its going to unexpectidly put you in the same room with how you may look as an old man. It’s going to show you your gray hair, wrinkles, arthritis, and your whispered stories about a time lost in history. Life showed me all this, and after receiving a text message from my Birthmother, while working on a huge movie set in the East Village of New York City, I realized that I am truly my Grandfather’s Grandson. Walking many of the same streets he once had.

He lived and worked as an artist in Manhattan for many many years. He appreciated music, fine art, photography, and most of all the art of human connection. He is reported to have drawn turtles and humming birds in Central Park, killed wild pheasants just outside the city (just to show you how long ago this was) and made his living as a sketch artist for the New York Police Department’s Crime Scene Division. He sometimes would receive a written description of a scene to sketch, at times using his family as models. He would take a picture of the scene and sketch from that. He was a force of nature, from what I’ve heard. That’s the same thing people say about me.

I have also heard that alcoholism and depression are the two mortal foes of our family line. Both of which I have been introduced to, though I’m most intimately familiar with depression. Since the age of nine I have wrestled that deplorable quicksand of the downwardly spiraling mind. Having only recently discovered the practice of mediation and yoga, which have so far been an unparalleled spiritual medicine. Music is also another antidote to my continually wandering, wandering mind. I think of the sound of a claranet coming from down a dimly lit hallway. I walk with caution and excitement, following the music as it grows near. I peer into my biological Grandparents bedroom where they lay in white linnen, comfortable in bed. My uncle is playing them a lullaby, “close to you” by the Carpenters, on his antique claronet. I slowly bow, saying goodbye to the old happy couple laying in their bed. My hands in prayer position, I bend low, to pay my respects to the beautiful moment unfolding in front of me.

As for my Grandfather, every time I met him I don’t know if he knew who I was but every time he was overjoyed to see me. He probably wasn’t able to even fatham the enormity of the story of my reuniting with his daughter, the woman who secretely gave birth to me and handed me over to a new family one winter in San Francisco. I assume it doesn’t really matter, either way I’ll see the face of that passing familiar friend again if and when I’m lucky enough to live to be his age.