All You Do Is Done To Be Undone...................... (a skip-rop)

Es la hora
de devolver la
dignidad
a si, tierra

Hemos cogido y ahora escogimos
nuestro debido en la semilla
Olvidar antes de nacer
division, sumacion,
hem' crecido
mas grande
que
el nido
ahora volamos o callamos
desde las perspectivas
mas altas
los nuestros funden
y se confunden
desparecen
hasta
que en muchos
somos uno

y nuestra bola
si que mola
JODER
y tu, puto chulo
mordiente el culo
vete a la mierda
o hazte compost
pero con respeto
hombre
siempre con respeto



(respect to La Mala y Bebe)

Summer night's wish

Last night I made a wish
a deep wish, with a roaring heart
and a face pressed against the night sky.

The stars were moving.

They fluttered and flashed shooting sharp red sparks
saudering the sky from point to point.
Planes connected the dots and
satellites held up giant webs to catch the constellations.

We, prisoners of a dark orb, count up the points.

Who is winning? Who is reveling in the bigger picture?
Who can draw an exact portrait of the vast night face from memory?
fugitive moments of oneness

The step from you to a star is simply a question of fusion.
Fuse-one, refuse none, all alone

As the giants dip out of sight and north becomes relative,
new stars rise over the horizon, riding red carpets,
lining our wishes with smoke-screened promises.

We are closer than ever to the stars and yet
they remain just as distant.

When we wake in the middle of the night,
what twinkles back our eyes, what hums the dozing song?
Images glimmer, smiles making money.
Windows reflect, transparency for our humility.
The doorway lets in love, random and true.
The roof remembers Pandora and sits tight.

Last night, I went out and watched the sky dance
as the dogs wailed an ode of yearning to the bony moon
and I hummed along to the crickets rubbing out a drone
to rub into our dreams.

Last night, I wished upon a plane.
And my heart and face and stars and gods
laughed and wept
until finally I slept.

THE ORTIST

~~~image by Masha Vasilkovsky~~~

TIME: The Edge of the Last Fractal before the Next Bloom

PLACE: The Landspace Contimuum

1. Once upon a time, twice upon a time, thrice upon a time...that's six times upon a time now, henceforthwith dot.

2. The Landspace was lush, the time planes were synchronized to a gentle buzz with flurries of excentricity and inebriating odors.

3. There, was i me myself her she we us&them ours, not you yourself & they but you and all of us. you & me. flee. be. tree. 1, 2, 3. Ready steady go. No time is no time like space.

4. Four, knock on the door. The time of the Ortist has come. The digits show the way.

5. Messages from the stream. Order from chaos.

6. So the landspace goes under attack and riproarers bellow, beckon, behold. The Rhizome uproots, implodes, rises to reveal our connection.

7. Chaos to lyrical. Life teaches us to dance. Our teacher is the hub and the shuttle through the weave of our complex emotions. We follow her as she follows us. Our heads raised, faces upturned burnt by the sparks from our minds. Bodies spinning, intertwining.

8. At night the bird beeps mournfully, a faint heartbeat of our vitality as slumber whispers in our ears. Reassures our realities that they are not intentional programs but real and honest, and random, and destined, and parallel and unprecedented. Interconnected being.

9. The Promised Land is molded into our own flesh and blood.

~~~image by Masha Vasilkovsky~~~

26 year old has been painting for 52 years!

David Goode Hill is now 26 but it looks like he has been painting for 52 years. His oil technique is as sophisticated as his understanding of light, depth, and beauty. Revealing the refreshed talent now thriving in the Tramuntana.

David was born in Valdemossa to an English mother and a father from Uruguay, and has squared his circle living and painting also in Deia, Soller and Barcelona.
At 13, he moved on from making murals in his bedroom, got on a skateboard and explored grafitti from Palma all the way to Uruguay.
At 16, David’s father gave him an oil set and off he went to study the basics for an art bachillerato at the Escola Superior de Disseny in Palma. But design’s hotflashes did not hold Hill’s attention like painting’s meditation did. He taught himself the secret to pictoral longevity and capturing light through oil painting.
From epic landscapes to psychographical portraits, from surreal adventures to minimalist impressions, David has already journeyed through a variety of genres and styles.

For the last three years, David has been delving into the investigation of mathematical phenomenas such as sacred geometry and crop circles. His current project involves creating a holomorphic fusion between painting and photography. An analytical allegory in the form of geometric drawings floating in the middle ground, like a spectral presence, emitting their own energy.

Rift into Spring

"Force of Nature" by Qahira Lynn

To reveal my deepest darkest secret, i have to admit that -yes- it is to live forever, however much it frightens me. But only on the condition that i don't get bored.
Perhaps that is the purpose of death, to keep our eternal souls from getting bored.

I kept sensing something was coming. I dreamt about it. I saw it in other people's dreams. It was big. Bigger than my father's death. Wider than World War 2. And more invisible than the plague. Something we had to leap into to keep from getting crushed by it.
You can not see it. It is a looming shimmering wave of consciousness speeding towards us, flattening all who are not ready for it to pass right through us. A path lights up from infinity's starting line to infinity's restarting line. The pull of the soul is irresistible.

Call it death. Call it choosing life. Life eternal, instead of an endlessly ending end.
I do love this life, all the way to the tips of its frustrations. The struggles have stories and the stories sustain us from silence to silence. The gentle pulsing heart of the universe climaxes with each bloom and recedes into the depth of the falling.

We will leap together, we must, and trust in the innocent wisdom of our infant experience. Remembering the joy of rebirth. The desire unleashed for everything in this life. Stick those keys in my mouth and my fingers in the socket- i want to feel it all again. Being left alone to die. To hope and hope that one day that perfect life will come along, fill my heart with blessings and insinuate my memories with a craving for eternity. Wanting to want god. Wanting to want you forever and not wanting to want you. To have you, to be you, for you to be me, having me having you, having being....

The Show Must Go On

The shape of my life as I sculpt it.

I tell you the truth over and over again and still
it bends over and back to lie at me.
Past promises have caught up to future hollows.
Will they be fulfilled?

I loved you, stranger, when you first kissed me-
leaping lightly out of the darkness, dancing a random jig of joys
but then... disappearing between smoke and mirrors.
The line crossed from honesty to cruelty is where we play out
our blindfolded hourglass juggling act, catching and releasing
who I wanted to be and who you could have become.

You were calling it love
but i called it fascination
and so, we called it mutual.
You called it hope
i called it hopeless
so we called it love again.
You called it freedom
but i called it sacrifice
so we became territorial.
You called it family
I called it community
so we didn't know what to call him,
for a whole month.

Roots making me restless to find out what it all means,
to everyone, from everywhere.
What's around the corner? What's over the edge? How much can i bear?
You pulled out the chainsaw to help free me.
I dropped some seeds to anchor myself to the future.

I have finally found something to do while they grow.
Keeps me from standing there, from getting cut down.

I ride a unicycle in the show. The greatest show on earth.
On this unicycle, my wheels are made of razor blades and my spokes flicker and speak:
"Love > understanding > communication > contact > stutterings > silence > observation > suspicion > accusations > resentment > hate > denial > anger > guilt > compassion > empathy > realization > love..." and so forth.
I ride on a tight rope, and arrows come flying at me, rebounding off my skin and spokes. I am also made to sing to the melody of a violin missing strings. The squirrel monkey that hides in my hat holds on tight to my hair the whole time. Flaming hoops swoop down & across my well-timed path. I wheel through, towards a lion who awaits his dinner that has been tenderized by arrows and slightly roasted by hoops. As I leap from my cycle, I raise my wooden sword to parry the ninja acrobat sushi chefs flipping out from their cloud-bourne trapezes. The lion reaches out with maw and paw and I must quickly learn to fly if I'm to survive for the next show.
- Little monkey pulls the curtain-
Every night I beg silently: Please don't ask for an encore. My heart teeters and my ego slinks down a sharp thread as the applause dwindles.

My life is shaped by the lights I shine on it, entrust to my synapses and transit through perception. A bio-dynamic hologram emitted from the spinning diamond of my soul.
So, why manifest? Why use a time-line at all?
Being requires an improvised story weaving into other stories to manifest the sheer joy of experiencing the full capacity of the source. Does thinking make this carpet magic or am I just romanticizing our dusty destinies.
If, and, or, but- conjunctions of reason leading me to folly.
What if the shape of my life ressembled chaos?
And what if the shape of our love could ressemble the peaceful patterning of that chaos into a harmonious resonance, echoing across creation, arcing the light softly smoothly
around the universe, sparking soul fires in an infinite dark void crawling with possibilities.

(take the r out of boring)

A Russian absurdist performance piece collaboration between distant & recent past versions of me.

Sybil still had her coat on as she lounged on the humid bed to write. The lice in her head were numerous but something new was chewing on her.
"Hello? Who's that in my head?" she wrote, surprised to witness her hand respond.
"Why, it's me. Sub-text. The writer's companion. I will be your assistant, noting and commenting on everything you experience."
"Ah." she sort of exclaimed, (but what she really meant was "And whyyy would I want you around?")
"I can deepen your meaning."
"Oh." (Though what she thought was: "But...I am therefore I mean.")
"I think you´ll find that in writing: you mean therefore you are."
Sybil was flustered as much as a russian immigrant can be and, biding for time, she wrote down Sub-text's comment while trying to figure out another nickname- Subti? Texty? S-T? STD? yesss, STD. Sub-Text Discourse. Sybil was also trying to figure out whether or not she really wanted a narrator to hitch onto her implicit life. Or was she simply afraid to know thyself? She could hear STD cracking up. Sybil got to her feet and whilst wondering where sub-text began and she ended, she decided on a test.
"So, are you capable of helping me out with this humor thing?" (What she really meant was: "Can you give me what i want?"
"I can only do post-treatment. Reflection. Digestion. Afterthoughts. Etc. With maybe just a hint of anticipated double-entendre, if you know what YOU mean...that is."
"Figures..is there anyone else in there who can give me a hand? My funny side, maybe? A gag writer lurking in the wings?"
There was a long pause. STD reflected that Sybil could hear her uncle Sadge having a coughing fit next door. Unable to find a remedy over these past few months, she just wished he would be quiet.
Hard to be funny when you're trying to keep control.
"That's a start! Enough with linear reflection." Sybil changed tack and reached for the old radio, turning up that old song to the maximum static threshold:

It's all about timing (teeda).
It's all about giiiiraffes.
It's all about jews and the bush,
blondes and the tush. (Tada dada dada DA!)
It's all about... idiosynchrosy (teeda).
It's all about falling so low
that the hit makes the punchline
bring home the shame to you,
but ob-ject-ivity makes for
levity
'cause sooner or later
you'll get hit with tomato
and the fool who'll be singing iiiiz you!

While STD was concerned about what was going on, trying to get a handle on Sybil, she was off to make sure Grandpa peed in the right spot. Any and every moment was ripe with humorous potential but our long lives give our innocent joys an improper mangling. Sybil didn't feel like giggling at Grandpa's forgetfulness- today the plant pots, tomorrow the umbrella holder. She had sub-text on her mind, and this STD was back on track, paralleling and countering all her rapid switchbacks.
But then STD flinched. Sybil was reaching for a poem... oh no! not a poem!! Sub-texts don't know what to do with poems. THOSE intercourses just lead to a squash-ball game in a hall of mirrors!

Sybil knew she had got STD into a corner. So she swallowed the poem and ran off down the stairs, jumped on to her bicycle and rode with the flowing night air. STD was worried, fading, awash with the shallow current, the present reduced to an all-encompassing bubble of time. It's all about timing. If there is no later than now, then who needs sub-text. (Unless you're lloking for sex, of course!)
Sybil rode and began to rave out strong & loud to get the pretext to initialize instantanealism with the mutter of the beckoning rhythm and the sacred incantation of the poem:
(take R out of boring)
(take the R OUT of BORING)
(TAKE the R OUT of BOrING)

Ahhhh, the froggy smells of spring spring to my nose like welcome doglicks lapping through an avalanche repose. Ohhhh, the blinking carlights light up their turning flanks like anxious children tugging at their parent's pants.
The seasons and streets alternate pulses pulsing nervous air like red and blue blood chilling heat flashes thru my hair.
The well-adjusted street clocks mark marks in my bicycle's belt as the wheels reel past tttttick-tocks bouncing off the cobblestone's pelt.
Gingerbread regurgitations rise forth frothing tasty bubbles into my low-hanging raving sleepless mouth starving for a jam-colored pillow.

And so it was that STD subsided, disgusted. And so it was that Sybil did not know what to think anymore, and felt at peace. Chaos. She had found the vaccination for her new fever. Yet a little voice could be heard whispering into the fractals of her mind:
"And so, what did you mean, anyway?"
STD had a little weapon of its own, doubt. And so it was that Sybil's bicycle veered off course, and she found herself plopped into a pile of droppings. One of the old poos cleared its' throat and declared: 'Sometimes, you have to laugh to keep from crying.'

(poem written in 1995, piece written Feb.1 2010)