this ONE local

a SWEET dream

When have I heard the trill of sweet western birds last? A pleasure long forgotten.

Now I live in the lands of harsh sounding screaming birds. Every morning, it must come from their innermost hearts, they send out their loudest piercing shrill towards heaven, as if to greet dawn. As if to wake up the world. Then they fly through dawn’s early colors, circle the trees as if in love with their nightly resting place. As if weaving a spell over their domain to stay safe and to still be there when they’ll return at dusk. Then they disappear for the day.

They return just as the light turns grey. The first shrieks seem to assure the flock, yes, our trees are still here, come now, come all, lets praise the day gone by and settle in for the night. Then the air is filled once more with loud harsh shrieks and screams, hundreds of throats screech and croak, endlessly, loud, until the last one of them found its nook in the heights of the trees. All against the blackening sky. Finally they ruff their feathers as if having a bath and the rest of the world can go on with life. The nocturnal anyway.

Not a trill, but a thrill. Often I find their white feathers, young fluffy ones and ones ready to be used as quills, underneath the mighty gums.

Speak softly, love and hold me warm against your heart
I feel your words, the tender trembling moments start
We’re in a world, our very own
Sharing a love that only few have ever known

Wine-colored days warmed by the sun
Deep velvet nights when we are one

Speak softly, love so no one hears us but the sky
The vows of love we make will live until we die
My life is yours and all because
You came into my world with love so softly love

Wine-colored days warmed by the sun
Deep velvet nights when we are one

Speak softly, love so no one hears us but the sky
The vows of love we make will live until we die
My life is yours and all because
You came into my world with love so softly love

Silence is when the gods stop talking.

Silence is when the sun burns down onto scorched stone that hot that even lichen stop growing. Birds stop flying.

Not one foot wants to be set infront of the other, eyes can see the air flicker. Sweat being silently spilled is the only motion detectable.

photo::  Bayon, Angkor Thom, Siem Reap, Cambodia
credit::  eve-jonjo

Beyeler Museum, Pratteln, Switzerland, March 2017, a multi-media exhibition

Imagine the image on the canvas waning and waxing without the canvas moving. Undulating like a lazy wave. A lazy frequency coming towards you and going again. Very slowly, very comforting and soothing.

The room had an eerie muffled no-sound which made my ears feel very large. The installation fascinated me. What is it? I stood there mesmerized without thinking, letting this unknown movement taking me to LaLaLand.

I stood there for a long time before I also took my turn to visit the space behind the canvas where all was revealed and the magic lost its spell. I tended to say that it was a back projection – wrong.

Imagine a huge ice cube about the size of a big bucket. The ice was scooped out in the center to leave a funnel with the last bit of ice left at the end as a wall. This funnel was suspended by ropes from the ceiling to make it free moving, backwards and forwards, slowly and in the middle of the funnel was a static light bulb emerged.

Artist’s name forgotten.