Happy New Number 201102

numerical alchemy
music of the spheres
yearly incantations of renewal

a looking glass year
as two jumps into the whole
and splits into ones
ones bounce off each other
and become impregnated with potential too

---
one winter to another
the purity and terrible beauty of life at a standstill
momentum lulled and colors buried deep
we wish you tenderness

---
one spring and another
eyes and leaves open and shut and finally...blooms exploding to seed
the wheel revs up, colors alight and stick to the surface
may you humm with fresh energies

---
one summer so another
the complicity of heat, sharing of fullness
the apex critical with buzzing, beings plump with desire
this wish is for us, you and us, somehow somewhere, celebrating and cerebrating and coeurelating together


---
one fall to the next
resuming movement, gaining speed and vision
the harvesting of mature dreams, the raking of old and faded ones
we wish you the strength and solace of understanding



one to one to one to one
to
two to one to one
to
two to one to two
to me and we and us and you

the dance of the cycles spirals on
may the flow be with you

Jerry’s Games

“You’ll get square eyes” shouted Jerry’s mother from the kitchen. “Why don’t you turn that thing off and do something else?”

“There isn’t anything else!” screamed Jerry. Only four years old, but already he was back-talking like a teenager.

Thirty years later and Jerry was still hunched over a gaming screen. He tapped his square-rimmed glasses against the side of his head and chuckled as he remembered his mother’s warning. His slight smile faded as the game turned and he sighed thinking she should have worried more about his posture.

‘The hunchback’ was his nickname throughout most of the gaming parlors in Las Vegas. Jerry wasn’t really that hunched but it came to him automatically when he sat down to lose money. Or to ‘recycle paper’ as he called it in front of his daughter, Emily. Bright as desert dawn, the little 6 year old wasn’t fooled. But she appreciated his funny shame. Jerry’s wife, Linda, appreciated it much less.

Jerry’s favorite thing to do after a hard day of gambling, was to bring his daughter on a sunset roller-skating round of the neighborhood. His back would straighten as he would get up on his wheels, ‘2x2’s he called them, old-school skates. Emily preferred the more modern inline skates.

The first time they ever passed his childhood house, Jerry pointed it out. “That’s where Daddy grew up.” Emily scoped out the surroundings and as she wheeled around her father, she questioned him about his childhood: was this the street he played on? How many friends did he have? What were his favorite games?

“There is nothing else!” Jerry screamed. But in the silent absence of response from his mother, while she played her daily bridge game at the kitchen table, Jerry gazed blankly out the window at the boys who passed by on roller-skates. Jerry had no such friends. Only the children of his mom’s bridge partners who would sometimes come by. They would play silently side-by-side, destroying each other on the video screen.

It took Jerry all the courage he could muster to rent the skates at the roller rink. Eighteen years old, but with the longing of a four year old, Jerry took to the rink and closed his eyes. His back relaxed upwards and he wheeled, for hours. At first he just let his weight bring him forward, round and round the rink, but eventually the blaring Michael Jackson tunes woke him up and his feet started to weave in time.

“Isn’t it dangerous to skate with glasses on?”

Linda was sixteen and very sweet. She would have to wait another sixteen years before getting bitter.

“You been at it, haven’t you?” Linda began the tired old conversation like a ritual. Jerry had run out of all excuses and any explanations. He just looked at his wife, her exhausted face and clothes coated with waitressing and cleaning dreariness. He simply replied with his usual white flag: “I’ll make dinner.”

“You’ll end up losing more than just your games.” Linda was beginning to sound like a television public announcement. But Jerry couldn’t help it if he woke up every morning feeling luckier than the last, hungrier and impassioned for the potential fulfillment of a win. If he could only add another zero to his last big win. It was only a few months ago but odds were Lady Luck, or ‘Esmeralda’ as he thought of her, would release her little hunchback soon. All his years of praying silently would pay off and the big big win would allow him to do something else.

Jerry slouched into his seat at the Paris Las Vegas casino. He always avoided the high-rolling area around the ‘Salon des Tables’. He was superstitious about pretension. He wanted Esmeralda to notice him for his humility. He placed his bet and as his glasses slid down his nose, he heard the comforting finality of the croupier’s call: “Les jeux sont faits.”

Nothing more to do but wait.

When Jerry finally turned off his gaming console, he sat in the dark and listened to his mother’s friends babbling and clinking and shuffling. A cloud of mentholated smoke hung at the door. Feeling the emptiness growing around him, Jerry quickly turned on the television and stared.

“Well, this is something else,” thought the four-year old. “Isn’t it?”

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....