danaja-org

tomažu

2011-12-21T01:40:00.000-08:00

na današnji dan so po koncu oddaje oznanili še en konec... pred 29. leti je umrl po lastni izbiri Tomaž Hostnik, glas in idejni vodja Laibacha... Začetek in konec... Kozolec naših sanj. in memoriam...

You searched for yourself in vulgarity
and prayer, lurked like a beast
at the Revelation. Now you have
purified yourself and I
gained faith in you.

Strange are the paths amongst the haystacks,
surrounded by rustling grasslands and fields,
where the corn turns yellow -
fresh blood dripping into to a field of gold.
We searched for you in the woods and meadows
at full moon with our women and dogs.
We searched for you all night and all day.
We never found you, but the quest
was not in vain.

You are a forester!
It is written on your forehead.

A blade of steel from your coffin springs.

21.12.82
zimski solsticij...

Pretty village, pretty flame

2011-08-23T13:38:00.000-07:00

We realised it one night
When we didn’t know what to do with ourselves...
As we watched a village to wich our guns were pointed...
The village was still burning,
As later night after night other would on the horisont,
That we were sorrounded with something resembling
A gigantic circle of strange lights...

With all those villages burning...

And the flames were rising,
And licking the clouds, the sky...

It’s a beautifull sight (when the vullage is burning)
It looks so cheerfull...

A little village not even worth mentioning or naming,
That you can’t even see during the day,
On the bottom of the ugly valley...

One can’t even immagine what it looks like at night
...while burning...

What a sight those joyfull flames...

Pretty villages burn pretty.
But ugly stay ugly...
Even while burning

(pretty village, pretty flame 1996)

revolution?

2011-08-23T13:13:00.000-07:00

we fought
endles wars...
stood on the shoulders
of the titans...

and bright rose the flames
of our flags...
like the fire of the revolution

but it's not done...
just resting under its own ashes...
awaiting to arise again...
with more power...
with even more flames...
burning...

in the night of the revolution

350 chears for turkey

2011-01-15T09:50:00.001-08:00

good good bye turkey, good bye...

green is good...
i'm thinking to myself...
drinking the last 2 drops of absinth
this time i won't roll tyres...
i'll roll myself...

green is good...
my eko friendly road to oblivion
on wich i roll 350 degrees...
roll, roll. roll
as a forgotten tractor wheel

something for our kids to remember

2011-01-15T09:32:00.000-08:00

going back to that mall
(dedicated to the two.../3)

as the snow goes down i follow it...
keep your pennies for my thoughts
i'd trade them anytime for flakes
virgin white ones that bring back memories
and gently lay them on the ground...
spreading their white hair... poisoned with desires

sitting at those empty tables...
thinking out loud... speaking our lives

on my left the silent and the wise man
on my right the one whose stories were my desires,

catching...

" i'll make u the fisherman of souls " (jesus, somewhere in the bible, written source)
we were the makers of our dreams
ripping them from the eyes of strangers
foreigners, for what we knew

even if we were strangers to ourselves
we shared 10 moments of our lives...
eight of them we spent together
six of them forgotten under the weight of dark nights
four were stolen by the gypsies
and three we stood brave...

i'd trade the rest of them for those two...
two brave men... not men more giants

one was pointing finger at the irony of life
the other, blinded by all the desires...
the first i knew before i met his greatness
and before i was blinded by the light of his words
the second... the bravest of the three
lived the dream I used to dream about
and made his heart a home for two

brave soldiers... looking for the crystal ship...
from their crystal clear glasses
that they raised to the sky...
like an oad to brave soldiers we lost on the way...

me... i drank life from every bottle...
without a glass to pour it in...

some dreamt about the breakfast at tiffanies
we dreamt of breakfast with the Hunter
some dug for gold
we dug for the worms of our desires "knee De(e)pp"

always the brave 3
our wives were screaming: "come back with a bottle or in it"
like a sad message of no return...
home, or to that hunted place...
between the shelves of a closing mall
sad stories of deaths, broken hearts and unsung songs of desires

all good things come in three

the first, a brave man... a good soldier
that knew the irony of life,
and told it with words that made gods listen...
stories of divine proportions
the second one... the greater reminder
of the story that gave me scars...
the poet of unsung loves

i'd give it all away to sit there at that table...
again

there was no last supper, we went straight for the desert
we screamed for silence and without words
swallowed each other's pain to make it poems...
even if those 10 moments were all we thought we had in common
you were there, when i fell for the first time off my bike
you were there when wheels turned like casino roulette wheels...

where will it stop this time?

no balls back than... just bullets
from russia with love..,
well, back in the ex USSR... to be honest back at that same mall
being what we were...

i'd give my soul for those 2 men...
my shoulders so they can sleep,
my cheeks so they can weep...

tonight i drink 2 u...
no whiskey on my ice this time...
just snow flakes on my cheeks
falling like frozen desires...
frozen by the hands off passing time
it's near to closing time... again...

-earth (O) ¤ zemlja -reality- 15.1.11

2011-01-15T02:12:00.000-08:00

"... i really fucked it up this time
didn't i my dear...
didn't i my dear"

mumford and sons

the last part of the 3 internet exhibitions...
dedicated to all the things that come in 3
the father, the son and the holly goat...
the 3 sitting at the table of a mall...
dreams, wishes and to the reality that comes afterwards...
to the 3rd time...

reality strikes loudly with the white silence...

so that i can put them back int the drawer and lock them away...
after all that's where they came from... from the drawers of my memories and moments...

tnx to all of u who gave those moments to me, and tnx to all of u who read them and lived them through...

someone, spoken source

"sandbox made of traktor wheels...
filled with memories of sand...
on the back it said... get the wrench...
i hope i will... someday..."

killer pickguard from back then...

white hall, last door on the left...

she was right... as if she knew... as i did when it was to late (should have sold that dream if it didn't remind me of u so much...

when i grow up i wanna be just like daddy...

"here have a negro... the best part of the negro is the white cream... i got myself a bag of negros... oh i finished all my negros..." and then i'm the nazi-one...

this is where it all started... back then...
" i remember as getting this notebook on new-years eve back than in lenningrad '41..."
vasily orlov wagner

dedicated to the memorie of a great one... sitting drinking from a bottle with a deer head next to your father... as if i knew u... as if u knew me...

specs

gifts

Laibach "der staat"
Drzhava skrbi za fizichno vzgojo ljudstva,
posebno mladine, v svrho dviganja narodnega zdravja,
narodne, delovne in obrambne sposobnosti.
Ravna chedalje bolj popustljivo, dopuscha se vsa svoboda.
Oblast je pri nas ljudska.

The State

The state is taking care of the protection,
cultivation and exploitation of the forests.
The state is taking care of the physical
education of the nation, especially of the youth,
with the aim of improving the nation's health and national,
working and defensive capability.
Its treatment is becoming more and more indulgent,
all freedom is tolerated. Our authority is that of the people.

OUR AUTHORITY IS THAT OF THE PEOPLE!

13. the name poem...
that's where her name came from
danaja tomazh pengov

it's all in the dots... go and ask her... it's all in the dots

something blue, something borrowed, something broken...

2 toilet signs...

almost ready to face reality... almost...

happy birthday

2010-10-11T10:09:00.000-07:00

there was no message beep this year,
no flowers in the morning.
just a piece of paper saying: "happy birthday"
with the blood red lipstick stain,
worn by an another year gone bye
worn by the thousand times i tried to kiss it
thinking it was you

"i did it couse i wanted to try
what your mouth tastes like."
You said, smoking my lucky strike

lucky... the irony of that.
passing with a jingle like
Happy birthday

sang by
another stranger

she pomnimo

2010-08-30T10:09:00.000-07:00

cosmonauti

(we still remember fellow cosmonauts)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NCEZGkCLkY4&feature=related

happy birthday

2010-07-24T23:41:00.000-07:00

happy birthday mrs. vaupotich...

i still miss your loughter...

heaving coffe with mr. Hostnik

2010-07-23T23:41:00.000-07:00

"as loud, as the silence
of heaving coffe with your-own-self"

" announcing the last, and third [3rd], part of the electronical exhibition

soon"

-cold (N) – minus -empty- 28.6.08

2010-06-28T10:47:00.000-07:00

-cold (N) – minus -empty- 28.6.10

dedicated to the memmory of 642 2643568

cold as the glass of the closing sliding doors of an airport...
cold as the knowledge that u'll be gon by the end of the escape...
cold as the emptyness that i'm living...

departure

nothing but silence...
and empty coldness...

50 herz of the bipolarity found in alternating current (swinging moods- on the see-saw of emotions » It doesn't hurt if it's not love, and it's not love if it's not electric... this makes Nikola tesla Don Juan«

danaja
after every high (past exhibition) there comes a low... and that's what scares me.

"flowers in the fall" botticelli's spring in orange
memorries of my child hood (memorries from fucked up childhoods... aren't they my dear (like saying tnx to mumford and his son)
the pencil (that's how he saw art, that's how he saw our art, as life made a writter your own thoughts... long hair as presheren -he used to joke about it-... and slowly took your voice away... and it slowly took your life mr. imagineer

health insurance (never mental)
Tnx for the box... i guess u never knew u gave me a present...
the scent of apples (i guess it'll make you more happy than me...)
meds: "baby did u forget to take your meds placebo

her

a bounch of news and reading glasses
insurance for the night of the white silence (no need to explain this one anymore)
i still am...

don't bug me... that's what i understood looking at him from a different prospective... sorry i was just a baby back then
100/9 good reasons for a theatralical goodbye... running at the top of that hill and allways pretending to be the first...

allways glad...

"there's nothing to worry about...
i'll be there whene u come back... l"
and the cold wind took the worm words
and robbed them of your scent...

-cold (N) – minus -empty- 28.6.10

2010-06-21T10:18:00.000-07:00

dedicated to the memmory of 642 2643568

cold as the glass of the closing sliding doors of an airport...
cold as the knowledge that u'll be gon by the end of the escape...
cold as the emptyness that i'm living...

departure

announcing the 2nd part of the exhibition...
on the 28.6.10 at 19.00 on the same adresses...

nothing but silence...
and empty coldness...

"there's nothing to worry about...
i'll be there whene u come back... l"
and the cold wind took the worm words
and robbed them of your scent...

you were the girl with the cherry earrings

2010-06-12T23:45:00.000-07:00

Introducing and announcing the second part of the imagineers exhibition called -cold (N) – minus -empty-

You as the girl with the cherry earrings sounds like a cheer from a place where everything is a reminder of something from our past lives. When the bip of a cell phone or a branch full of cherries used to represent a world for two and is left to be a sad reminder of a world I once new and had… stolen routines, stolen little moments and a loud: “I really fucked it up this time… didn’t I my dear”.

Another hail to the birth of the imagineers, the creators of mechanical moments and the big loves the world doesn’t remember anymore…

More of this coming up in the second part of the exhibition called -cold (N) – minus -empty-

the birth of the imagineers part2.

2010-05-27T09:24:00.000-07:00

13. Guns'n arms of the theatrical "fare wells"
tnx for the small one cutie

14. "someone" through her eyes
-semi-automatic portrait

15. Remakes of sheer happynes (on the anniversary of stolen momments

"the only book published in more copies than the bible is the IKEA catalogue. We used to read pornography than it was the catalogues... Now we have the internet and our heart-held ithems

all moments are real if not differently noted

"the birth of imagineers"

2010-05-27T08:30:00.000-07:00

the following text is written in two languages. The one that we speak and the one we understand. Certain things might be missunderstood.

»rojstvo imagineer-jev« spomini iz predala

» It doesn't hurt if it's not love, and it's not love if it's not electric... this makes Nikola tesla Don Juan«

danaja

someones quest into the drawer as the new mirror (sory alice) no Narnia just pure math.

The exhibition from the drawer is devided int 3 parts:

-hot (L) + plus -skyhigh-

-cold (N) – minus -empty-

-earth (O) ¤ zemlja -reality-

This first part is called hot. As for the memories that were there before their time. Something beautiful and pure. Wich made me feel as a little child going through grandpas drawers, discovering old black and white photos with funny faces, and the little moments from our-(someones) life

all the three parts are dedicated to the inventor of the moving ray img. Strazhar and the other theoretical cosmonauts
and her...

"i allways thought that memorries come on a black background"
danaja

the first part, as all free of them is built in a format that can be explained with the use of a simple math formula:

2 + 13 = 15 X 2 = 30 + 15 = 45
45 X 2 = 90
90 - (2 X ( 1)) = 88
______________________________

note: all numbers that were used have a mithical explanation

" I'm made the destroyer of my worlds "

(danaja on the quote by Robert Oppenheiner-first detonation of an A-bomb)

4. Wannabe society (artificial fake plastic love for the state (and the love for coffe (with her)))

5. a bunch of fake money and two audi signs
(shick)

6. "v sobi 10(sta)2" J. Plestenjak
(randition of the traditional slovene song by j. plestenjak)

parody of the fake moments on the radio)

"I'm going to sing a few songs from my pictures"
(m. dietrich)

7. " Let me call my commies "
( primordial american RAP slang)
or how guerilla pop developed over-seas.
[tiho-zhitje] silent-crop-je

8. growing up to as a "jim morrison wonnabe"james douglas morrison

9. rasist
"angry by mistake"
(and than they call us nazis)
NSSAP-danaja

!0. Wienerschule
and other balkan costumes and habbits

11. Bizhoterija [bijoutery] the small things we live behind

12. "Traveling to there and back only on the wings of our dreams"
danaja

two gas bills and an open mind

the birth of the imagineers

2010-05-24T21:57:00.000-07:00

»rojstvo imagineer-jev« spomini iz predala

» It doesn't hurt if it's not love, and it's not love if it's not electric... this makes Nikola tesla Don Juan«

danaja

Tokrat samo spomini na trenutke. Zive slike podob vtisnjenih v mozhgane na chrno ozadje pozabe. Torej spomini predstavljeni na internetu, ker vemo, da vas na otvoritev dosti nebi prishl(a). Tuji spomini iz udobnosti lastnega stola in varnosti lastnega doma. Posvecheno njej in izumitelju skeniranih spominov g. strazharju, ki sta omogochila nastanek sekcije imagineer-jev znotraj danaje

Razstava bo razdeljena na tri dele:

-hot (L) + plus -skyhigh-

-cold (N) – minus -empty-

-earth (O) ¤ zemlja -reality-

Prva se bo zgodila 27.5.2010 0b 19.00 na naslovih:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/danaja-org/314432324040?ref=ts
http://danaja-org.blogspot.com

na obeh naslovih bodo na dan razstave tudi informacije in texti povezani z razstavo samo

»the birth of imagineers« memories from a drawer

» It doesn't hurt if it's not love, and it's not love if it's not electric... this makes Nikola tesla Don Juan«

danaja

This time it's just memories stolen from everyday moments. Live immages imprinted in your brainn on the black background of the fear to forget and being forgotten. Memories from the comfort of your own rocking chair in the security of your own home. Dedicated to her and the inventor of the scenned memories img. Strazhar.

The exhibition is devided into 3 parts:

-hot (L) + plus -skyhigh-

-cold (N) – minus -empty-
-earth (O) ¤ zemlja -reality-

The opening of the first one is going to be on the 27.5.2010 at 19.00 +1GMTon the following addresses:

http://www.facebook.com/pages/danaja-org/314432324040?ref=ts
http://danaja-org.blogspot.com

on the same addresses u'll be able to read more about the exhibition and the reasons for it.

laibach

2010-05-13T08:28:00.000-07:00

"Ever since man climbed on to his back legs, and took his first faltering steps, he has been driven to move, by a primordial longing for space. The beauty of the starlit heaven balanced his fear of the dark. But the harmony of heaven and earth only holds if man looks up to the stars without wanting to grasp them in his hands. When he cannot reach the stars, he turns his anger on his neighbours. In the fists he wields weapons of terror to protect his family. He wages war for territory, for fire, food and fuel. From the rise and fall of Rome to now, the struggle for survival is unceasing. No sooner is one conflict resolved than another one begins. For every relatively bloodless revolution, like the birth of Slovenia, there's a bloodbath, like Sarajevo."

Laibach "a film from Slovenia"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4FU7rEkryv8

2010-05-10T12:53:00.000-07:00

row row row the boat...
round and round she goes...
oh shiny turbine

in memory...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4FU7rEkryv8

in the mean time...

2010-05-09T00:48:00.000-07:00

listening to these songs while working on the next project... i would never even dream of saying it better...

"I remember a girl so very well
The carnival drums all mad in the air
Grim reapers and skeletons and a missionary bell
O where do we go now but nowhere

In a colonial hotel we fucked up the sun
And then we fucked it down again
Well the sun comes up and the sun goes down
Going round and round to nowhere

The kitten that padded and purred on my lap
Now swipes at my face with the paw of a bear
I turn the other cheek and you lay into that
O where do we go now but nowhere...

...Around the duck pond we grimly mope
Gloomily and mournfully we go rounds again
And one more doomed time and without much hope
Going round and around to nowhere...

...If I could relive one day of my life
If I could relive just a single one
You on the balcony, my future wife
O who could have known, but no one

O wake up, my love, my lover make up
O wake up, my love, my lover make up"

N.Cave and the bad seeds "Where do we go now but nowhere"

"Please forgive me
(it's impossible to say)
if I appear unkind
(it's impossible to know)
but any fool can tell you,
it's all in your mind

Down in the meadow,
the old lion stirred
as his hands cross his mouth,
he has no use for word

Poor little girl,
with your hands full of snow.
Poor little girl,
'had no way to know.
But you've got me eatin'
you've got me eatin' out
you've got me eatin'
right outta your hands

[Incomprehensible]
Or the frozen field
And the hollyhocks hang harmlessly
And the old lion kneels

But you've got me eatin'
you've got me eatin'
you've got me eatin' right outta your hands"

N.Cave and the bad seeds "little ghost song"

danajin dan inzhenirstva in predstavitev spominske turbine

2010-04-20T09:43:00.000-07:00

danaja's engineers day plus the first presentation of the memmorial turbine

ob proslavi in v chast danajinega dneva inzhenirstva, na dan 79ete obletnice rojstva g. Ing danaja predstavlja spominski mlinchek, ki dopolnjuje program MSP in hkrati oznanja blizhanje uradne splavitve mehanichne soshke postrvi. Ob tej priliki danaja zheli vsem miren in srechen dan inzhenirstva, ter vam tudi v prihodnosti zheli mnogo lepih sanj... tistih ki nas ponesejo do zvezd...tistih, ki nas ponesejo do nje...

in the memory of the 79th anniversary of the birth of mr. Ing danaja presents the memmorial water mill. We'd like to take this opportunity to wish u all a calm and happy engineers day, with a lot of beautifull dreams, dreams that carry us to the stars... that carry us to her...

potochek

2010-04-19T15:44:00.001-07:00

postoj in poglej...
kje domek je tvoj mi povej...
moj domek je tam pod goro...
kjer ptichki veselo pojo...

njej...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgsPnPlk40U

devided states of amerika speech

2010-04-17T09:02:00.000-07:00

transcribed by danaja in the honor of the opening of the exhibition for the 30th anniversary of laibach in ljubljana on the 15.4.10. In long and loving memory of Tomazh Hostnik, his life and legacy he left behind for us to see...

Winners and defeaters,

We don't like morality and we sure don't want to preach about it,
but your country, obsessed by moral values, is now forcing us to do so.
Let's say this very loud and clear: the higher the buildings, the lower the morals. Moral values in america today are nothing, pure nothing. Behind the faith in God, evil is hidding. Lots of evil and sins against humanity. Freedom, democracy, , family, life protection, and security for your own nation are based on violence, revenge and hatredfor all who set up ann ostacle to the overrated theory and practice of the American way. Lust for power, greed and arrogance is killing this nation and its soul, if there is any left. The game you play: lying, stealing, sowing death, to protect your concept of morality and life against the life of others is not the right way. Needless self-interest for counties like America was allways bad morals, but it's bad economics as well. There are no winners in this game, no victory in it for you or anybody else. In fact, it's a suicide your nation is doing toitself. Although by the number of ammunition and guns, bombs and bullets America might still be a leading force and global superpower, you appear to us, who had a chance to see you from up close and personal, as a third World country, a cloumsy gigant filled with fear and prejudices, a gigant child, abused by his parents, a large flock of sheep on the open range without a ranger, without a shepherd and a leader. Your president is the opposite to Christ and his victory is based on moral values. Christian moral values. I tell u this: the worst government is allways the most moral one. But when fanatics are on top there is no limit to oppression. Morality which is based on ideal is an unmitigated evil. And don't forget, your president represents the majority of your nation. This time it's true, it's not even a lie.

Well, my dear ones, it is also true that Americans in general are not too intelligent. For that reason we can partly forgive you and overlook some of your sins. But this will not help stopping the decay; the historical primate of America is approaching its end and this is a historical fact. Like every empire, the USA is falling apart. E unum, pluribus: »from one many«. United you fall, devided you'll stand. The devided states of America are being made. And the civil war is being foretold.

Peter Mlakar
NSK department for pure and applied philosophy

ooooo, since you're gone...

2010-04-13T01:11:00.000-07:00

you see it was funny looking at it from this prospective,
it seemed almost as if there is no end,
to this mixture of mist and evaporating water...
water called in the arms of the hot sun...

and than all of a sudden...
two small boats...
must be fishing boats...
draw a clear line,
of the prospective...

like looking at the future...
alone...

i'll change... i promise...

MSP- mehanichn asoshka postrv - mechanical socha trout

2010-04-08T12:46:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9NV0WtqN1d0

As allways... for her...
the branch that specialises in the preservation of the dreams and the firm beliefe in love...
building toys for the child inside of us...

MSP [mehanična soshka postrv]
[building u a house]

Sistem, ki deluje kot ohranitev in belezhenje podatkov. Sistemizacija zgodbe, ki jo je simbol nosil s seboj v prejshnjem življenju ter podelitev nove funkcije znotraj današnjega sistema.

Simbolu se s tem odvzame tako čas kot prostor originalnega izvora ter se mu dodeli novo podobo. Simbol tako postane svoj lastni alter-ego. Danaja bazira tehniko predstavitve znotraj koncepta ozhivljanja izumrlih vrst. V danashnjem svetu najvechkrat narobe interpretiramo zgodovino in izvor tako simbolov kot zhivali (primer koncepta oživitve slovenskih rek in vnashanje tujih rib, ki so izrinili avtohtono soško postrv). Stranski produkt projekta postane model Mehanične soshke postrvi, ki bo splavljena ob popolnem izumrtju prave, ki v tem primeru postane simbol iz preteklosti.
Mehanika chustev

V estetiki posameznih pesnitev
Posvechenih ljubezni do lepe nje
drzhave.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IeRbTLnyNLU

2010-03-31T09:19:00.000-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IeRbTLnyNLU
hostnik about and after hostnik
(danaja's conversation wit this father)

Tomazh Hostnik and Laibach

Tomazh Hostnik continues to be a source of fascination even amongst those who have only recently discovered the music of Laibach. Given the length of Laibach's existence, it is all the more remarkable for someone whose spell in the group was brief and was long gone before the band was known outside Yugoslavia. However his importance to Laibach is significant and the band would have been quite different without the imput of Tomazh.
Born in the town of Medvode in 1961, about 8 km to the northwest of Ljubljana. Formed Laibach with Dejan Knez along with a group of friends from Trbovlje and guided by Dejan's artist father Janez. Laibach was created in Janez 's Trbovlje studio, who also had an important influence in the creation of the band and its work. However Tomazh was very much the leader of Laibach with a forceful, dynamic personality and had been attending a college that prepared Slovenia's political elite. He completely dominated in interviews and had a huge presence, intellectually and physically. His ideas and designs have continued to shape Laibach to this day and it's no surprise that his presence is soon felt by those interested in the work of Laibach.
The year 1982 saw a dramatic increase in activity from Laibach as members finished their military service; performing their first concert in January 12th at the FV 112/15 Club in Ljubljana. Other concerts soon followed including the New Rock Festival at Krizanke where Laibach stole the show, so much so that the band appearing after Laibach were reluctant to take to the stage fearing their performance would be very much an anticlimax. Laibach's impact was immense; their slot opened with a women reading a provocative letter concerning Laibach's use of their name, rousing the fury of some members of the audience, even more so when Tomazh appears in military uniform resulting in a number of projectiles being thrown with one smashing into and cutting his chin. Tomazh stood defiantly as Laibach launched their set with a tremendous and powerful rendition of Cari Amici Soldati.... Več
The last performance with Laibach was on 11th December 1982 in Zagreb, shortly later through the effects of serious depression he committed suicide on December 21st. He was buried on December 23rd in Zale cemetery. Igor Vidmar on his radio show created and broadcasted Smrt Tomaza Hostnik on 2nd of January 1983; the piece created from Apologia Laibach read by Tomazh shortly before his death with Ohm Sweet Ohm by Kraftwerk (one of his favourite bands) playing in the background.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EVTngRCf9vk
(kraftwerk ohm sweet ohm)

the keys to my wrecks

2010-03-22T15:04:00.000-07:00

" only after we lose
something we start
to organise thoughts"

the anthology of the things that brought me to where I am now

"this is how it starts
and this is how it's going to end"

"engeniring of the dreams"

dedicated to my her...

after every dream becomes reality...

the 13 rules and the roles of danaja

2010-03-22T15:02:00.000-07:00

(tnx to miss Angelou for the reading and the sound of dreams)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=131B7K91PVc

the 13 rules and roles of danaja
we live them and we follow them...

the only truth!

2010-03-18T08:30:00.001-07:00

fuck everything... fuck god... if he exhists, fuck relations, friendships, emotions fuck it all... it's all just a fucking ilusion... we are just a fucking illusion created by our low-range brain... enough of this!

hostniku...

2010-03-14T04:50:00.000-07:00

Apologia Laibach

Since when, sons of truth, are you the brothers of night?
What colours your hands with the redness of blood?

The explosion in the night is the flower of woe,
nothing can be jusified by it.
The altar cannot be destroyed,
the altar of lies, that multiplies shapes.

The spotless picture, the painless lights,
the only harbours of the terrible night.

We are the children of the spirit and the brothers of strength,
whose promises are not fulfilled.
We are the black ghosts of this world,
we sing the mad image of woe.

The explanation is the whip and you bleed:

Break the mirror of the world for the hundredth time,-
all your efforts are in vain. We have overcome the night:
our debt has been paid
and the light is ours.

Apologija Laibach

Od kdaj, sinovi resnice, ste bratje noci
Kaj roke vase s krvjo rdeci?

Eksplozija v noci je roza gorja,
Opraviciti z njo se nicesar ne da.
Razbiti mogoce oltarja ni,
Oltarja lazi, ki oblike mnozi.

Brezmadezna slika, brezbolne luci,
edina zavetja srhljivih noci.

Otroci duha smo in bratje moci,
katere obljuba se ne izvrsi.
Smo crni duhovi od tega sveta,
opevamo noro podobo gorja.

Razlaga je bic, in ti krvavis:

Po stotic razbije zrcalo sveta
vas trud je zaman. Presegli smo noc;
nas dolg je poplacan
in nasa je luc.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_XNXkzKY404

my little personal goodbye (untill the next time i'll see u)

2010-03-13T06:05:00.000-08:00

it's not love if it's not electric…
that makes nikola tesla don juan
and you don't know what empty means
if u never held her in your lap

as you
i'm just a brave but empty
little tin soldier… broken
but hurt to many times before

so whenever spring will change
snow for leaves…
i won't trade u…

it's allways personal…
if there are 2 persons involved…

i love you… and allways will...
my "closest comming to the stars
on the covers of dreams"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FndFnco9OVw

didn't i my dear...

2010-03-13T00:58:00.001-08:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lLJf9qJHR3E

for her...

2010-03-08T04:23:00.001-08:00

The soil, that u remember,
When a step represents the world, that u leave behind,
Becomes the horizont in wich u dissapear...

The darker(blodier)...the more fertile
(our soil... at least that's what she used to say)

A step as a mesurement,
That represents time,
A face, torn by years,
Imprinted memories...
Wrinkles on her forehead, cheeks...
Steps as escaping birds...

And her hand, old
Has become soil (in silence)

As hellos to the morning, when the steam rises from the cold ground
Sparcles made of little stones that glow from her eyes...
At night when left alone
I would embrace her... and let her spill inside my heart

I would hug her for the etternity
With sparcles made of memmories

But this moment u're leaving,
As a step cought in the trap of the same soil,
Devoured by the utopian freedom
But your thoughts are still with her...
There... the place u call your home

njej

2010-03-05T06:22:00.000-08:00

zemlja, ki se jo spominjash,
ko korak predstavlja svet...
ki ga zapuschash, je obzorje v katerega izginjash...

bolj je chrna (krvava)... bolj je rodovitna...

korak enota, ki predstavlja chas
oblichje, ki razbrazdajo ga leta,
vtisnejo spomine, nagubajo
ji chelo... lice... stopinje kot bezheche
ptice

in njena roka, stara
(je) v tishini zemlja' postala...

pozdravi jutru, ko voda izpareva,
se kamenje sreche iz ochi bleschi
ob vecheru, ko jo pustijo da sameva
bi objel jo, da se v srcu naseli...

rad bi da te stiskam vechno...
v objemu iskrice spominov

a ta trenutek odhajash
kot korak v pasti zemlje.
ko pozhira ga utopichna svoboda
z mislimi pri njej ostajash

memento mori

2010-03-05T00:13:00.000-08:00

in long and lasting memory...
will allways love u...

tomazh pengov: "sarkofagi"

2010-02-22T22:05:00.000-08:00

intro:

verse 1:

verse 2:

verse 3 + female vocals

verse 4 + female vocals

part 2nd

2010-02-22T11:14:00.000-08:00

Part.2

Imagine a field full of roses and joy...
Actually they were sun-flowers but it's the thought that counts.

Always dreaming about that true love... that I read about in books, heard in love songs... it never mattered if: »she comes from an another planet, if u call her a different country or a different e-motional name (named after a land scape"). There she was my playground love.

(to you, the one who's re reading this in anger thinking I know her: don't claim you met or knew her... it's not about the thing u call: »her!«)
This one's real...

A true story without a happy ending, becouse there was no need for one... I love movies with a sad »happy end«
It's like cutting a rose and giving it to someone »as a gift«. We destroy lives to create joy. We destroy ourselves to create happy moments for everybody around us, that we love. Creating that picture perfect smile, to frame it with the most beautiful background and pack it in a box with three breathing holes made of e-motions (still knowing that nothing will ever compare to her...)
Her hair stopped the place and grabbed me as a whole...
Grabbed my attention. As I was going thorewards... to the exit of this little rollercoaster of my mind. Black...

With long hair knitted together with the color of the sun... that orange... I guess you could call it that? Orange... every emotion is true.

How can u...

The rest was already all written be4 (c.o.t.a.)

i miss my her... my you... pt1

2010-02-20T23:51:00.000-08:00

part one:

The hope was that on the day of my execution there should be a huge crowd of spectators and that they should greet me with howls of execration.

a.camus

I guess that it all started back in the eighties... it always starts somewhere around that time... they never told me the exact date but making 2- or -3 counts it was in 1984. Actually it started years later in 2007, the new and forbidden millennium (when i met u)

Coming out clean

I guess the main picture in my life, that i keep on coming back to, it's a small dog barking at the bag, where they put bodies (corps) in. That, in some way »idiotic« proof of the unknown was my first contract with death. Just like Christianity it was the little stupid story by someone we used to love and learned how to hate in time.
A little »almost battery filled dog owned by some fat lady in a furry coat« barked at the bag in which my _____________ was carried away.
» It proves how fucking special it was...« he told me after the 5th beer.
It wasn't counting them back then but i knew by the way the words were braking and his tong was throwing saliva all over the place.
» He was really special... even the dog could feel it...« now i know it was because the smell of the rotten human flesh. They found him the 5th day hanging by his feet. Just like a ball of glass on a Christmas tree. Even Jesus came out of his grave on the third day... I guess that's why he looks so crispy fresh and young all the time, on all those reminders of the way he died, that we all call crosses.
I saw him that night even if i never went to the funeral, i never understood why. Maybe because i wanted to. Couse he was special. He had a long beard and long hair 2. Just like Jesus. But he was hanging on the tree for 5 days so there were no wooden statues or oil portraits on canvas... not even a portrait on his tomb stone.

Because his own family was ashamed of his long black hair and that long beard...
(music from the musical »Hair«)
I guess that's why he sang him »the black »freckle« across his eyes« on his funeral...
Or at least he tried to...

They were laughing at him... Couse he was walking around bare foot. They even used to call me names because of him. Because we were those neighbors... in that small city that everyone is talking about, and the neighbors that they later all become.
They used to shout his surname at me when they were dunk...in bars they called »homely«. The same surname I share with him as if it was a course worth.
howls of execration: (exe'rjshn): coursing, the act of coursing;
even when they were 10 times drunker as he was when he was walking barefoot. »but they went to church the next day. And listened to stories about Jesus Christ the savior« walking barefoot on water...«
and nobody called him my surname for doing that.
My own surname...
He was special. Not because the dogs were barking but because. Even when passed out, they couldn't beat him at chess. And they call it the game of life. They do. He was best at it... and didn't want to be a part of it... they couldn't bit him. So i guess he understood it and was good at it. Because he was good at chess. The game of life.
I used to carry his picture around. Just like they do. He wasn't as pretty as Jesus or perfect as they were in their little lives. As we are... But still he was never a role model. But he was special... not because the dogs were barking.
Not because he smelled of death, but because we share the same blood...
The same name... his... sur(name)

covenant danaja

2010-02-13T01:34:00.001-08:00

Covenant danaja
terms of the “firm belief in love”

1. the name and the emblem of danaja are the multimedial materialization of the idea of love itself and the love for art, state, religion and other sheep-like behavior adopted by society for it's self-preservation... Means giving the ready-made idea of love and state a new face and visual form. Embodied in the form of danaja

• ime in znak danaje sta multimedijska materializacija ideje brezpogojne ljubezni do umetnosti, drzhave, religije in ostalih ovčno-čredniških sistemov, ki jih druzhba koristi kot orodja samozaschite. Pomenita prenovo in novo podobo ideje ljubezni do drzhave, umetnosti in religije in jo prenese na umetnost kot popolnoma svoboden multimedijski sistem.

2. danaja works as a mechanism for the understanding, storage and the restoring of symbolism. The works of danaja are never medium or technically confined. Our language is vulgar and the symbolisms common

• danaja deluje kot mehanizem za analizo simbolov in simbolizmov znotraj sistema, njihovega shranjevanja in ponovne adaptacije. Gre torej za sistem spomeniškega varstva simbolizma. danaja ni medijsko ali tehnichno omejen sistem. Nash jezik je ljudski, simbolizmi znani.

3. even if danaja always works as a whole group without individualities, it's divided in four groups: sun [sonce] Ikarus working as a visual propaganda and other visual communications tool, water [voda] MSP exploring lyrical, erotical and emotional aspects of systems, air [zrak] fazan003 studies the reach and technologies hidden behind the range of each medium and freedom [svoboda] Globalko etc as a 3d form of danaja and it's theories in forms of actual products and visual adaptations of ideas.

• cheprav danaja deluje kot celota je navidezno razdeljena na štiri skupine: sonce [ikarus], ki se ukvarja z vizualno propagando in ostalimi vizualnimi orodji, voda [MSP-mehanična soška postrv], ki raziskuje lirično erotične in čustvene aspekte sistemov, zrak[fazan003] ki raziskuje in razvija domete medijev, ter s tem njihovo sposobnost doseganja ter shirjenja informacij in svoboda [globalko…] ki se ukvarja z dejansko aplikacijo teoretichnih in ideoloških sistemov danaje v vsakdan

4. Although the components of danaja are well known and promoted, the faces behind it, and therefore the people involved (and their stories), are hidden behind the work to clarify the story and symbolism behind it excluding the human factor of compassion or other personal feelings torewards the author as an individual

• četudi so vsi deli danaje jasno razvidni, znani in promovirani so avtorji in njihove zgodbe vsaj navidezno zakriti za njihovimi deli, da bi izključili človeški faktor sočustvovanja in apliciranja lastnih zgodb na avtorjevo. S tem se izolira zgolj odnos in čustva do dela samega.

5. The anonymity of the people forming the group, or at least the anonymity in the group works and projects guaranties the complete flexibility and gives the power to change and reinvent the work and goals, providing the power of self preservation and the revitalization of the ideas behind the goal.

• anonimnost skupine chlanov, ali vsaj chlanov samih, omogoča in zagotavlja popolno fleksibilnost in daje skupini mozhnost ohranjevanja in samo-obnove idej za cilji in nachrti, kako do teh ciljev priti

6. the interaction between the components inside danaja works on the same basis as a state, ideology, art and religion. It's main adoration center is the symbol, as the meeting point for ideologies and believe. An identification symbol and gravitating point for it's followers and believers. Every brunch gives an apparent sense of autonomy but still follows the strict rules and roles of the firm belief in love.

• komunikacija komponentov znotraj danaje deluje na istih principih kot ideologije drzhave, umetnosti in religije. Bazirana je na kulta simbola, kot središča ideologije in vere. Vsaka posamezna veja daje navidezni obchutek avtonomije a hkrati sledi in upošteva stroga pravila in pripadnost trdnega zavedanja ljubezni.

7. Although the structured form of danaja and it's impersonal approach it's main concern and soul purpose of existence is the viewer as the individual. the audience in one person. The common worker forming the collective that has and gives the power and words to revolutions.

• navkljub fragmentalni sestavi in danajinem neosebnem pristopu, je njen glavni cilj in subjekt gledalec kot posameznik, ochinstvo in obchestvo v eni osebi. Običajni delavec kolektiva, ki je napajal in dajal besedo revolucijam.

8. By displaying danaja's works and thoughts and exposing the elements and structures of every day life and the mass-media to the viewer, it enables him to either agree or disagree with them, allowing him to have, or form an objective view on society and modern day mediums. So danaja functions as a mirror for modern day society.

• z javnim prikazovanjem danajinih misli in del, ter razkrivanjem struktur vsakodnevnega zhivljenja in medijev v njem, gledalcu omogochimo, da se z njimi strinja ali ne strinja in da izoblikuje neke vrste objektiven pogled na druzhbo in moderni medijski sistem. Tako danaja deluje kot ogledalo danashnje druzhbe.

9. danaja therefore exists only with the existence of an audience followers or haters an audience as receptors of information and transmitters of the energy (5W).

• danaja tako, za svoj obstoj potrebuje občinstvo, tako zagovornikov kot nasprotnikov, ki delujejo kot sprejemniki informacij in oddajniki energije (5W).

10. danaja follows and uses the rules, aesthetics and language of it's own. allowing the members and components within it to function in a system that's autonomous from the parallel reality [life], using only it's symbols as means of communication.

• danaja sledi svojim pravilom, estetiki in za komunikacijo uporablja svoj jezik, kar omogocha chlanom znotraj nje, da delujejo neodvisno od vzporednega sveta (imenovanega življenje) tako, da uporabljajo zgolj njegove simbole in simbolizme ter komunikacijske sisteme (medije)

11. danaja functions on a ready-made concept and it's formed on patterns adopted from every day life such as states, religion, pop-culture and mass media, exploiting it's weakness for the spread of it's own concept. but always, even if working on the same basics and rules, avoiding the systems trivial aspects if not using them as a tool.

• danaja deluje kot že izdelan koncept, ki sisteme chrpa iz vsakodnevnega zhivljenja in sorodnih sistemov kot so drzhave, religija, pop kultura in masovne medijske korporacije. Izrablja njihove slabosti za shiritev svojega lastnega koncepta, toda nikoli, čeprav deluje na podobni bazi, ne zapade v trivialnost teh istih sistemov, vendar jih uporabi le kot orodje za doseganje lastnih ciljev

12. every part of danaja's structure can function separately as long as it follows the rules and roles in the structure of the system

• vsak del znotraj danajine strukture, lahko navidezno deluje posamichno, dokler sledi pravilom in zachrtanim smernicam znotraj sistema, kot ga dolocha danaja

13. danaja ceases to exist when it becomes a tool of an other trivial system and by that destroyed and exploited in it's core and when it's terms or structure are violated. Or when the members loose the ancient dream of traveling to the edge of the space and back with the same energy that fuels he stars. And the creation of the systems that run it

• danaja preneha delovati in obstajati ko postane orodje trivialnega sistema shirjenja informacij in s tem zanika ali unichi temelje svojega obstoja. Preneha z delovanjem tudi, ko izgine potreba po raziskovanju mej vesolja ter potovanju do njih in nazaj. Z isto energijo, ki napaja zvezde, ter sistemi, ki jo formirajo.

Laibach 13.01.10

but for me...

2010-02-09T22:15:00.000-08:00

but for me the birth of
something beautifull,
the bird of something sad...
the bird of something that resembles emptiness...
the birth of something
BAD

every year

2010-02-09T22:06:00.000-08:00

Every year the »same difference«

We curiously turn our heads back... in the search for the secrets left behind. For our foot steps... quietly imprinted in the sand, that we call memories. Good or bad... beautiful or f*****g ugly... but always ours. Some about love and some about friends. Always a retrospective. Some friends are imaginary, some loves come and go... but the true ones stay...

This time there will be no speeches about emotions, this time there will be no drums filled with big words... even if we could talk about loss and pain. Even if we could screams the names of our love ones in the grey mist of the morning. Even if I love those lost moments. Even if I still have to swallow hard from time to time.

This time just: “a happy birthday Mr. Strazhar”

danaja

like a rabbit...

2009-11-01T08:32:00.000-08:00

In your oven
(like a rabbit in your headlights)

I overheard a conversation the other day Mr. K. People. Two individuals were pointing fingers at each other. Why are we so obsessed with overhearing? Why are we so delighted if there is death? Overhearing becomes something that we do all the time overhearig stories on the news, living stories from fairytales and soap operas loving like they do in the movies. Sometimes even forgetting our own lives.

Other times we just play back our dirty fantasies as if we wished to get sick To throw up our »being good every moment« inside us. All the stories that are ours. That we hate and fear. But again love when we read them on paper soaked with yellow piss. Tabloids. Being shocked by the stories we already knew
I wished for ten moments that I was brave like you, Mr. K. And knew how to steal the wisdom from their stories and make it mine
Just mine

»I' m wearing a coat that smells like you my dear«
(occupying Palestine)

As I'm working in a morgue day by day through the same routine. Dark places without windows, without light, but with a strong smell. Smell of dirt mixed with the sweet and sour smell of death (just like that dip you liked so much at the drive-in). But once you get used to the smell, you see beauty beautiful faces even if distorted by death and the wrecking force of walls... rocks cars and bullets you see beautiful women. With skin cold as ice, and that bluish colour. Reminding me of flowers blossoming. Beautiful lilies when being hit with bruises of rainbows. Gorgeous crysanthemums when the blood is gone Beautiful hyacinths when being dead.
Every once in a while they even smile to you. Those peaceful bodies lying on their designated places. Peaceful. Even if shot through the head by their beloved ones, even if left alone by everyone, they smile. Even if just for a moment. Even if their smiles last for seconds and then disappear in your sick mind like moments. One, two and they're dead again. Being [sajkik] psychotic. A see-through day-by-day appearance [chain (see)saw] of painful [loud] sounds A chain(see)saw tearing its way through flesh and bone, tearing its way through wood chips (of flesh) flying around. They sounded like smiles. Disappearing but still leaving an echo in the empty hallways coated in cold tiles. Working in a morgue. Quiet part.

Beats of the »pneumatic cutters« against screaming sounds of our »skull drillers« the everyday routine of sounds that break the silence in between their smiles. No wide, shiny teeth looking at you from a toothpaste commercial but beautiful cheerful smiles. So vivid yet so empty.

Sometimes I go to funerals. To see my artwork. All of you are my paintings. And every funeral is like an exhibition for me. I put my art on display in a wooden frame just like a painting or sculpture (if the bones are broken) in a coffin. People dressed in chic black. Sipping white wine and having the jibberish conversation about the exhibit. Aproaching it every once in a while to have a closer look.

No reality is more beautiful than you were Dead in a car full of red roses the reflection of your coffin in a black tainted window no jewelry is more beautiful than the golden polished handles of a casket No red dress is more suited for you than the red velvet of a coffin fits you perfectly. Wraps your body in colour like a gently worn coat. A famous red one. (ups). The smell of formaldehyde coats from high white collars. And red necks.

»I'm always wearing a stethoscope so the girl at the 4 a.m. coffee break will notice me. I probably look like a doctor working late nights. Actually she's the only other person in the room (besides her[you]). Two ponytails, each at one side of her head. Fat brown plastic frames. Brown like the wood of the coffins that we sell. Maybe that's why I'm so fascinated by them. Never smiling, always looking at the ground. Just like in a movie. The typical good girl. Nothing like you were. Maybe that's why I fell in love with you Slowly decomposing in my 2-bedroom apartment. There was no funeral ceremony. The red roses were bought by the government. No priest. No holy water no holy nothing
So maybe that's why i dug you out of my dreams. (filled with soil)

At first we only spent time together when I pulled you out of the freezer Stone cold crazy foxy. The twinkling neon light always glittering in your eyes the sweet sounds of water dripping from your skin. Unfreezing. Little drops of sweet rain dropping onto the tiles on the floor as the ice on your skin was melting. After the ice was broken and gone, we started to move because the water was gone. So we started to go out from the freezing room. After a while I even took you home. Dinners for 2 --my place of course-- scents of the candles to cover your smell me staring into your beautiful face with the gloss of skin turning blue at first, then to green. I even called you my little rainbow, remember? Your eyes staring into mine without moving your curly hair covered with dirt Little brown reminders of the soil back home. My little sunflower growing in the middle of the field. That hair of yours always reminded me of those little sunflower roots. So delicate So gentle, so full of life. And dirt hanging from them. The very dirt I liberated you from. Those curls covering your left eye playful moment almost like seing a naughty child playing with the magnifying lens and ants Burning them. A pocket-size crematory.

So we started to go out together. Not just at my place but proper out. Like lovers do Drinks with ice... remember it kept u from smelling. The wooden wheel chair in which you were always seating like a stuffed animal (that's what you are, after all), a stuffed teddy bear, at first didn't bother me so much The squeaking of the wheels even sounded pretty to me like the »strange snorkling laughter of your ex«

But then we started to get into fights Those little habits of yours, once so cute and simple, which you made so unwillingly, started to bother me. And you couldn't stop making them.
And people started to notice that my only one isn't so vivid after all Waiters started to find offensive the way you never talked to people I started to be tired to always have to order for you too I mean you talked to me, why wouldn't you talk to them? Always the same question: » sir, is everything all right with your mrs.? She's starting to be a little ahm blue in the face!?!« So we started to stay at home You were suffering from a »postmortum depression« I read And there was an ad about it after Doctor Phil's show. No more fancy candles. From now on, only the twinkling light of a Russian army torch.

We were never able to have candles because they would burn your hair every time you fell on your face in the soup plate Every time I picked you up from your plate, the noodles were hanging from your face. They reminded me of little worms Making me sad because your end was close. After all, you were decomposing.

God I miss those slurping sounds that you probably made when you were alive.

But now you smell like tar.. and open-air fire in the middle of the night Fake dreams of invented realities memories like snapshots.. glued together with pictures from newspapers and travel catalogues We visited all of those placesgluing your post-mortem pictures in front of the Eiffel Tower with a piece of scotch tape. To accompany the scotch on the rocks in my hand almost real Clearly showing that on the back of your head it's not the steel of the Eiffel Tower but the cold shine of the steel operating table. That was your bathtub once, remember as you let me wash you for the first time. You seemed so peaceful and quiet. To accompany the scotch on the rocks in my hand almost real

The same rocks you once fell on that's how we met, my little bee b(e)e suicidal that's what they used to call you little be(e) suicidal flying from flower to flower. From depresion to depression. From addictive habit to addictive habit From that cliff straight to my arms. Your tender skin tearing against those rocks bones breaking like shattered glass as our little coffee table you (once) again fell on as the sound of the electric and pneumatic cutters that I use. They're my tools. My chisels that create perfection that carve beauty out of death. To be on the cover of dreams. Young boys getting wild when looking at those pictures. Women gossiping about the type of make-up I used to cover death. As they used to hide the scars and bruises as their husbands waved goodbye on their way to work. The little be(e) suicidal always flying.
Head first just like you used to solve our problems head on on the rocksAnother double please.

I was always scared that they would find out how much I loved you back then It was forbidden. We were different and they could never understand the beauty shining in our necro dreams. There was no one fighting for my rights on a tv show the different ones just called me sick. All I wanted was to love you if they were the different ones than why did they call me sick? I really loved youmore than they did when you were alive.
Those rocks were the reason we met the thing that brought us together as two lost moons attracted by their gravity (as you were back then), flying towards those rocks
My lovely one I never found the beautiful sea shells that kids sell on the street even if I kept on and on searching those rocks then one day I saw your empty shell on the rocks It was in the news. I even got an e-mail with your face before and after your change. But even if your face was different, I could see the inner beauty of it. What a coincidence that they brought you here to my morgue

I could never be myself with any one like with you You were the only one that could really listen to me. But the fights started to be older, there was more and more broken glass and the plates got bigger and bigger. Part of it was because you never even bothered to clean up the apartment. I had to wash my own shirt for work my long white robe started to have brown spots I got them because I had to lift you on the bed every night and off of it before I got to work. A quick cup of coffee before work and lifting you up from the bed. Sometimes in the hurry I forgot to change before going to work. Sometimes I even forgot to iron. So people started to notice the round stains round like your breasts. I even started to think you started cheating on me. If I didn't wake you up, you would just lie there naked.
»What were you doing on the bed naked all the night and alone? Alone! Don't lie to me! Who were you with!?!!«
The fights started to get louder. But I didn't hate you. I loved you. I even cried when they came and took you away from me one day. The neighbours started to complain about my screams and your smell. So they broke in one day men dressed in uniforms, breaking down the doors and screaming something like » burn the witches!« I couldn't understand their mumbling. Their faces were covered with helmets and the guns were scary, so I couldn't concentrate on what they were saying. I think they started to call it concentration disorder. They even claimed that I pushed you on those rocks so that you would stay with me. But they are lying remember? You jumped. You must remember. You decided that it was time to go. I wasn't even there. I didn't even know you back than.

That's what they said when I was on the news one day. Imaginewe were on the news. Romantic like two lovers Romeo and Juliet on the news Not in some dusty theater where nobody goes anymore On the news I always repeat things 3 times in the letter to make it more theatrical I know you would love it more epic more me (us).
The publicity I got was overwhelming. I know you mentioned afterwards that I started to enjoy the feeling of my ffteen moments of fame. I was on the news every day the star of the hour the scoop of the moment ... the court case of the year my very first title I fell in love with the moste beautiful girl again. I feel in love with you. After all, I had to remember that you were the one that brought me here. You were the one who brought the attention at us. The one to reveal our love to them.
They even paid for our counseling. They call it psychotherapy, call it couple's counseling. I love you sweet one. I always loved you, now I adore you. Since you are a ghost and follow me around the empty halls of a psychiatric clinic.

»the same white tiles that remind me of home!«
Sincerely (someone, spoken source)

to a good friend

2009-07-09T02:13:00.000-07:00

»The meat man's gone«

In memory of a good friend

»The meat man's gone«

I guess that's what they call: »the silence of the lambs«

Put down your forks

Dry your tears with napkins stained with oily drops

»The meat man's gone«

He was the joy of our mornings

The last memory of our late nights

His smile lit up our sky's…

But now… »the meat man's gone…«

His hands would carve from meat our joy,

Lambs… not »of god« but of devine taste…

Corners of our mouths would spread in smiles

As we licked them in memory… of our meals

But now… »the meat man's gone…«

No more: »Messieurs or madames«

No more whistles to the clock…

No »pardons« or »ein biers«

Only silence

For he »the meat man's gone«

So let us rise our forks

One last time

And dry the tears that run by our oily lips

And remember him…

Couse he might be gone but he stays in our hearts

Forever… That same, smiley

»Meat man«

the flea circus

2009-07-08T17:52:00.000-07:00

Welcome 2 the:
»The flea circus«
[for her that brought tears of hope and love]

It's Sunday morning, I'm not going to church today. I'm saving my money for my flea circus ticket.
And there was the begining.

»Ladies and gentlemen… a new show with amazement and addictive lies is in town. Clowns with sad faces resembling your fears and broken dreams, fire swallowers of childhood tears and abuses on the cover of new shiney posters. On a TV set near you…right next to god. A whole empire of entertainment built around a 2tone [black or white only] tent. Selling fake-flavoured candy to the little kid inside us… Never heard so many lies as in this »real world«

Enter the dream…of something so worthless that it has to be hidden with layers of powder or so gross that has to be shown to everybody… as his power or the power of nature… freaks and animals… preists and politicians… common liars hidden behind curtains of fuzzy sheeps suppressed and surprised by their hunger for oblivience…
And as we move on… lie after lie we never look at the commercials breaks between shows… we just learn them by heart…

»Buy whatever's killing you. There's no point in killing yourself for free… than you could't CONSUME death… slowly…Just as she does you… hold on to your ticket till the exit… you might have wont the trip of your life… the only thing that nobody survives…«

LAUGH you heard of sheeps… I found jesus… he was behind the sofa all the time…

Welcome to our first show… called birth… pick a name for it… the same order of letters that's going to follow you for the rest of your life… Convert from zero to whatever religion your parent's choose for you… and than back from clerical to digital… follow it… I'd guess to the slaughter house. Where all the drems find their home… not hope…

1.) Freak show

I keep hidding in the freak show…
Even if i can't pretend…
My skin is made of holes hosting flys
And my body smells like naftalin.

My clothes are skeletons from closets
Hosting all the hate for what was known as fears…

I will never love again…
It hurts as I pretend to be the one
who has no fear.
Rotting flesh on bones of glass

A see through performance with no other side…

So my stage call's on.
Hosting it all, all the ones I hate…
And the audience is just a list of faces…
That made me what I am…

A freak…

Stage call nr.1:

»I love u I said…« a word that keeps on hunting me
As something I hate for the pain

Sounds of trumpets… boys with little drums
Skeletons of hate wrapped in cloath of dreams…

My scared body… covered with over grown meat [as scars]
Hidding my past behind masks…
I have no friends to shape my paste…
So I go on trips by heart…

Bumping into problems called routine…
A routine of same old problems that I know by heart.
My costume is what keeps me here
Makes me different… prevents my every escape.

And death is not the answer anymore…
It's so easy I can't do it… that same costume
Like a chain and ball…
If I could only juggle it through life,,,

Curtain…

Last trumpets with shreads of metal…
Making noises like past dreams about something
That once sounded like my life…
The only talent I ever had was destruction…

The same one that keeps on killing me…

Show after show…
Stage after stage…
No more posters no more pictures pls…

I'm tired… deaf to all the calls
The trumpet makes me sick…
Eating me from inside like a venom…
Eating out my show… like a puppet without strings…

Nothing left to move my arms…
No one's there to pull the string…
The seats are empty… the kids are dead…
Only tire tracks and pools of tears…

2.) Stage fright…

Same topic in different shows… different actors
I allways called it love couse it makes it easier…
Until I saw her eyes…

Sound like a well known chorus of the same old love song…
You're beautifull… but now it's real…
A pair of eyes matched only by the shrieking feeling of stage fright…

Dark as a black rose…
Dark as the things I love…

I'm not sure she heard me…
I move my lips to her steps…
Simple gestures that just make my day…

Every laugh is just like a song without lyrics
Every move is like a frame in a movie…

A silent move…

I freeze those and play them in my head…
Other people call them dreams…
I call them you…
Elegance is what makes you what you are…

When u pick your hair up, the world stops…
The pin holding them together is my still point
And I gravetate around u… like a lost satelite…
But they help [the pins]… they take away my fright…

I hold that little piece of your life in my hand
And the freight is gone…

I feel ready now…
To have another look their way…[those eyes]

Another dream… »beautiful as only u can be…«

Another act with shinny eyes…
And me drowning in them…
Drunk with the sent of your hair..

3.) Audience

Once when I was six my mother told me
»Not to stare at the television…«
But I did… at first it was dark…
Than light started to slowly crawl in…

Since then I see stars…
Little pieces of shiny objects
Glittering in my eyes…
My personal little dimonds…

At firs I thought it won't go away
Paranoid I was walking through the streets…
Filled with snowflakes falling
As on a dead tv set.

Since then I see stars everywhere…
Faces that I know…
Faces that tell me stories of lies
Written in scripts of dreams…

»I love u..« they scream…
In the agony of somebody elses skin…
Violently throwing themselves on the floar…
»It's television« they say…

The other reality…
The constant lie hidden behind a piece of glass…
No holes no rabbits just snow…
Alice left…

»Until one day the darkest pair of eyes
Stopped the script of every day routines…
The sparkle in them reminded me of stars…
Little moments of joyful childish memories…

Estetic of something so perfect…
A reality show of feelings
Stagefright instead of tears…
Addictive gestures of being the one…«

No more scripts…
No more posters…
Reality stops
Silent falling snowflakes on the screen…

4.) I heard they are going to ban smoking in the flea circus.

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8, when numbers count to nothing…

When was the last time I had a breath of fresh air? They don't show it in the movies.
Dean never told me that it'll hurt as hell when i'll try to run… run away from my own habbits.

Never told me how sharp the pain is as you watch the only person that u ever adored as he sticks a white piece of cloth in his throath… to clean the breathing hole… the black hole created by the same habbit that I follow. Ligned up as a soldier… No questions asked…

»Yes sir captain Nikotin. I'll serve u till the very bitter end.«

There was no dignity left in that for the exception of the scarf that he used to cover it. A scarf of lies and facts connected with numbers… Published in the books he knew by heart.

Smoking kills. Thanks for the news… I alwas thought it was going to help.

A performer… that's what I was…
The first approach: »hm hm.. do u have a light?« Her eyes shinning with life… or was it death? And than play after play the same rutine?

»Light(s)! inhale the ambient, exhail the words, applaus, curtain.«

That dark red curtain that the his casket was covered with. That feeling in my throuth again. As the need to start crying… Or is it the lucky strike that i'm waiting for? The very last one… last one in the pack… they say every end brings a new beginning…

New pack

Spit…

The feeling of his lungs collapsing pack after pack… as he tried to point at my future… somewhere in the disstance… covered with smoke… as once his face was… that thiny gentle line of smoke drawing the shape of his face. Lines that I considered as my home…

»Now leaning forewards to pick up something…«
he reminded me of the cigarette ashes… as they lean foreward… forgotten in the ashtry of this circus… The bottom covered with dead performers… One with the morning coffy, one because he hated his job, one because there was nothing else to do and one that I smoked… different from his…

»I was still learning my little routine…« »Working on my speech for his funeral«

I used to like the stage fright before every show… Now the performance of well studied movements became a soap opera of routines…

It's been two years now and I'm still waiting for his performance. Every spring, after the cold of winter, as the snow is mellting I hope to hear the happy sound of bells and laughter… But there's only silence. The same white silence that he left behind his final act… not an applaus… just black umbrelas standing in the rain of memmories of him that the sky was dropping on us… I still remember the sound of each and every one of them… Never sadnes… Couse he didn't want me to. Just an another excuse… for the next one.

Why don't i spit out the logos of the things that i was supposed to love more than anything else? My every day rutines… Performances… Why is there no loughter…Why is there only [honey on] tar .

Sweetest depressions and addictive lies in cartbord boxes. I finished the last one. Aplouse…

Courtain

5.) I heared there's no religion in the flea circus…

I
'll spread my love all over your face… and pain(T) it blue… green… yellow… as a rainbow of love… Changing day after day… it's not love if it does not hurt… He'll never breake your heart couse he made a commitment… and it has no bones to add that suttifying crunchy sound to yor prayers. Thank god that u live next to the church so u can visit it every time u fall from the stairs on your way there…
Than u'll have to pray… becouse it's not love if u are not affraid. Hidding under your bed, night after night, praying to him, that's listening from above, but is on hold at the moment… Ordering a happy meal to go… Where? Back at »the fruit of his own creation«? Becouse it's not love if u can't feel it. He died on a cross for you… We speak and believe money… we understand digits… and converting from clerical to digital…
I heared that all the fear was invain. Becouse it's not fear if there is no death. You have to know what hell looks like to know how beautifull heaven is. Or was before they painted all the Coca cola logos on their wall. Merry christmas. Santa is born… Have a Coke…

6.) I heard there are no polititians in the flea circus

» we claim this land as ours! Make it ________again«

Sweat dripping down a pair of fat red cheeks
Cheeks that you have fed with votes and money
Claiming something yours… to be found
Before you even knew you lost it.
»may god be my witness«.

Victims of lies from their own creation
On pages… but not just pages… Front
Doors of your houses… Screaming…

» with golden smiles to match the eight a clock news«

Smiling faces of the tortured
As they turn to torturers…
Reasons hidden behind another _______–ism...
Point a finger and they'll cut it…

They will cut it with pens as sharp as swords
Wrap it in their realty with pictures straight from »wars«
Hipocratic kisses of peace
And wishes of »get wells«

Comercial brake:

» help rebuild the things that we destroyed… Cover our bomb holes with hopes of a bright future. You are free now. In a land u once called home. Go now to your ruins and tents… in the land u once called home.«

Lying on a beach of sand I watch the news…
I watch a boy as he pick up shells
Empty ones…

Mouthfull of revolutions
Heart broken by the beauty…
Of the moment… by the gentle
Words of the wind…

I follow the line of clouds…
Jet exhaust… caphony…

Then silence…………………………………………………………….

Over 7 mountain and 7 lakes
Bodies tripping over empty bomb shells
Not man… parts and pieces of dignity
Once straight… saluting to his faith.

The next performance piece [of arms and legs]
For another television network's freak show.

»Our NEW jingle aannnnnnnnnnnndddddddd cut to commercials«

“And the day »the flea circus« left there were just tractor tire marks… resembling footprints… just like the paint on posters that's fading away… creating puddles of tears… gathering…

just like the smilling poster-clown with a tear of rain running down his torn face… broken… with goofy mustaches that the children have drown… resembling fear… or just resembling a new beggining…

the long winter of the await for the next show… with new lies.«

mornings in here...

2009-07-05T04:53:00.000-07:00

Feeling like an eye lash in a tornado on the face of beauty

Not a thought…

Not a melody of a well known song

Just a silent movie of moving lips

Sung by you…

An insane mechanism of the 40's esthetic…

Beautiful and blinded by the 10 moments of my day that are lit by the beauty

Sliping in the worm lap of your face…

Something so deep and blue like your eyes…

Bringing me back…

Making me feel like a child…

Chasing clouds with a finger tip…

And naming them… after you…

Thank u to even let me see where the world stored all of its beauty…

It's an amazement every time…

How the ocean starts to be something ordinary…

Compared to the blue and deep look that comes out from your eyes…

At the same time screams of the wind…

Playing with your hair just like seagull wings…

Gentle but loud…

And the calmest of the sounds ever known to man…

Made by your steps as u walk by…

Like little drums announcing that

There is beauty…

Hope or something amazing out there…

That it is worth living to see…

What color is your laughter going to be tomorrow…

I know that it's going to make my day…

Even if it stays just a stupid line from someone…

I want u to know…

That u are beautiful….

no more big words...
no strange thoughts...

just a feeling of blindnes...

coused by the sun of your being...
as i drown in those eyes...

those beautifull eyes

when everything else fails

2009-06-20T03:55:00.000-07:00

in memory of a lost parade (her)

My wired way of saying goodbye...

For 10 moments there,

I really felt like an eyelash in a tornado

On the face of beauty...

http://www.youtube.com/user/danajagonija13

To scare to write it on a wall but still:

»and i thought that angels don't exist...«

Silly me!!!

God must have been a clever guy if he made

The world DIY [do it yourself]

With my favorite picture in my head...

Taking a walk... outside

Novi Slovenski Idiotizem

2009-06-20T03:47:00.000-07:00

idiotizmi tega, kako rad sem te imel [koliko te imam]

okus po jabolkah
sladek kot spomin nate
(na njo)
vse velike ljubezni
se zachnejo na
nekem kraju

dobiva se TAM

vchasih je bilo dovolj,
da sem vedel, da si bila blizu

stala na tleh,
tam, kjer sem jaz.
dihala isti zrak...
pila isto lepoto...

----------------------------------------------------

prozorne...
prazne misli...

megleni napisi...

nikoli nisem
znal ljubiti

tako kot zdaj...
MOJA NAJLJUBSHA SLIKA
S KATERE PODOBO
SE SPREHAJAM

ZDAJ

sok 100%

parada: za sanje o lepi njej...

2009-05-19T17:37:00.000-07:00

drzhavi...

Sanje o njej...

Nekoch ko smo znali she vsi sanjariti o tem: »kako bo ko bom odrastel« in smo si jo upali gledati takko odmaknjeno... s sposhtovanjem...

Nekje med zadnjim sedezhom avtobusa ali spet pri novem omizju, med tem ,ko so vsi ostali reshevali svet... ponovno...

Takrat pa... zavesa... luchi se ugasnejo... follow... ona...

Lepa in arogantna, kar ji omogocha vse kar jo dela tako lepo tako tisto, ki jo hochem [o]

In tej naj slike hodijo. Njej naj se dvigujejo napevi v oblake... tokrat ne mnozhic razigranih otrok, ki mahajo z zastavicami... tokrat ne vrste tisocherih mladcev, ki slepo hrepenijo po njenem pogledu...

Ne...

Tokrat samo mi2... ki she vrjameva v ljubezen... ljubezen do nje... drzhave...

In nikdar vech naj tuja roka ali noga... mazhe nje sladkobo... so bile sanje njih, ki padli so nekje... pozabljeni za njene chare...

Tokrat sva dva... majhna... a malih je veliko...

Malih ljudi...

V senci ki jo mechesh ti na nas...

Lepa...

In ponosna da si...

Taka kot jo ljubim[o]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LVzGgU5AF2A&feature=channel_page

vabilo na kavo

2009-04-29T23:51:00.001-07:00

Vabilo na kavo…

Verjetno ste že kdaj bili pri nas / Si že kdaj bila pri meni.
A se nisi nikoli počutila domače, tako kot jaz ne…

Še enkrat (a ne zadnjič) smo vas (sem jo) povabil k sebi na kavo, da bi vedeli kdo ste vi, ki ploskate (ti ki jo ljubim).

Vabilo na kavo: »Čeprav je delala najslabšo kavo, je bila tako sladka, ko mi jo je prinesla v posteljo.«

Toliko krat ste se spraševali (si me vprašala) kdo sploh sem. »Menda si vedno sovražila moj prazen pogled, ki ni pomenil nič drugega kot to, kako lepa si in kako nemočnega se počutim, ko gledam v tvoje lepe in igrive oči (nisem še popil svoje prve kave)«.
Pa si še vedno niste vzeli časa da bi se spoznali.

» A ti mene sploh poslušaš? A je res tako težko iti z mano na kavo?«

Ob kavi sem jo bral kot knjigo, h kateri se rad vrneš. Knjigo, kjer ti že platnice pričarajo zgodbo, ki je tako lepa… Včasih dosti lepša od realnosti… Dim, ki se je poigraval z njenimi očmi, moteč kot moji komentarji.

» Do prve kave se sploh ne zbudim (laž o tem, kako sem jo celo noč gledal v spanju) «

Kljub temu, da je nadležen (dim) je lep… v vsej svoji preprostosti… v vsem zvenu in krikih o tem, da sem jo ljubil (da te hočem spoznati… ti… obraz)

Njo (tebe)
Njene navade, njeno kavo.

Koliko problemov in nepotrebnih vprašanj.

» Nisem hotel biti vsiljiv, pa sem jo povabil na kavo… Dala mi je številko… zdaj nobena kava do tiste ne bo tista prava… Pravo kavo brez mleka bi…
Črno.«

Črna kuhinja
Črn dim
Črna kava
Črne misli

» Mogoče ni razumela obsesije s črnim. A ravno to črno naju je družilo. V tem črnem sem bil res srečen z njo…«

Mat črn ostanek na dnu šalice. Brez svetlobe… Da sem lahko res užival v svetlobi, ki jo je oddajala…

» A res nimaš pet minut, da bi se usedel… popil kavo?«
( nisem hotel, ker je vsak stol prehitro postal miza… postelja)

Zakaj je torej (vas) ni bilo?

Je res povabilo na kavo še zgolj in samo fraza zaradi katere si lahko razočaran, zamerljiv zaljubljen?

Ali je bila mogoče kdaj klic…
» Ne odhajaj… Strah me je biti sam (brez vas, ki ploskate) «

Strah me je bele tišine…
Beli sneg
Bela krsta
Bel vrtinec v črni kavi.

vabilo na kavo

2009-04-13T03:54:00.000-07:00

črna kuhinja... črn dim... črna kava... črne misli... bela ti...

v času ko vrednote pomenijo manj ko oblak dima na kavi ste vabljeni na popoldansko kavo k danaji...v nedeljo 12.4.09 [26.4. po štetju danaje] ob 15.00 v stanovanje na levstikovem trgu 5ko kava postane več le razlog za črtico ptetike

http://danaja-org.blogspot.com/

http://www.youtube.com/user/danajagonija13

from clerical to digital

2008-12-28T13:38:00.000-08:00

Mediums:
"From clerical to digital"

If there was a before there must be an after

B3fore:

...still standing there,
on the rocks
waiting for what comes around...

bring it on...
i'm ready to face reality...
or not...

U walking away...

blind to all the calls
hiding from the obvious.
I love u... i love
the empty sound
of u walking away.

every hello...every step
it's all there...memories
knowing their smell
and echoes
in the empty halls...
empty feelings (of the unknown)

Have i ever felt before?
I think i met the empty silence,
that u leave behind.

U? I've never seen something
so yours... something so
likely, to become my next
obsession.

empty feelings,
empty thoughts.
Filling the pages
with miles
left behind.

Oblivious to the fact,
that it's all been written...
before... before i met u.

Another space... another
line filled with ink...
ink resembling pain
ink resembling blod.

Filling the vains
of empty pages.
Filling the obvious... to me
I can hear the sound
of your pain(pen) drawing
lines on the paper of my thoughts...
I miss u...

Most likely to be the one,
to be the one that's hidding...
To be the one that leaves
things behind.
So little; so lost; so mine.

I'm the one, who's going
to collect them. Even if I
never saw them i'm naming them
after you (thoughts)

And all their little stories
are running around in my
mind!

I'm giving them names
and feelings.
collecting them for
the trash of your: "forgetting
that they are there".

I give them life and the
power to kill (me)

The smell of u walking away.
the sound that u leave in my
memories!

Emptyness filling my
every need...
Filling my every thought
filling the empty spot of never
meeting your eyes...before!

nothing there...
empty pages repeating
as words...words that other
poets used to describe their
dreams... (that we steal)

empty thoughts...
repeating in cycles...
as days, as hours,
as empty moments
i've seen this before.
But why wasn't it so
white?
why does it slip away as thoughts,
faster than hands...
thoughts faster than the words
that should explain them.

I pause the pen of my
dreams (days)

How come i never met
myself, but I still
keep track of every dream
i met (I've seen)

Why I remember all
the things that hurt...
hurt the silence that
i seek in the empty
white days of
artificial loneliness

after all... we all look
for their happiness
that's created
by our own artificial (lonely)
happiness (thoughts of)

I want to be
the little prince
of my desires

I leane them their
little planets...
their little pieces of soil

and I watch them plant their
little flowers
watch them watering their thoughts,
watch their loves bursting in desires...

as mine IN TIME

i'm afraid of growing old;
without the child hood
memories of you.

After all their footsteps
are as this pen...
singing something
so unique
that it becomes magical
something so fragile
that it becomes dreams.

I never wanted to wake up...
i never wanted to be the one
that breaks the news
that you're gone!

I never wanted to be
the snake that poisons
my everything!

The little empty thought
that i hold in my hand...
pretending that "it"
hides everything that's real...

Pretending that i hide it...
Pretending that i cherish it
from the outside world.

But in the same moment
spreading my arms and hands
in the eternal hope
of seeing it grow...

i've raised the butterfly of desires...
developed (born)
in my artificial moments
of sublime beauty.

like a little child
hiding the naked truth...
as if it is about to run away.

Some old habit
same old line...

"I love u... u're the one
you are my eternity..."

My eternity of lies...
my eternity of the fire...
moments that i call
my life!
My five moments
of what i call: "reason to live"

So I lie to myself. So i
dream the dreams
that u fear...
I dream the dreams that u call reality.
The dreams that make u wake up
in the middle of the night
that u call life!

...but I still have to live it. I enjoy every little lie
that fills up it's moments...
I feel for the ones that mistake
lies_for_lifes.
I never said that i know the truth...but at least
I can lie and keep the smile on my face...
at least i can wake up being myself(ish) own

LIE!

What make the truth so
pure (white)?
Someone has to shut the sun.
Someone has to bring the night
in the empty reasons to live.

I' tired of hiding myself...
behind the reason for being
ME

Start the celebrations!
U ' re next... my next thought...
the one to keep me going
my next obsession.

Watch me here i came!
I feel for your lose of childhood.

___________________________________________________________________________

wrecking in my thoughts
women and children first
loosing touch, no more dreams
love it all for what it seems.

Gathering my dreams
before the empty sea screams
women and children first
haven seen it all...thrust

floating in the empty emotions
trying to survive in the wilderness
a long way to go home...
it's easy to die alone...

Fighting for each word
fighting to forget...
is it worth to swim?
is it worth to float on air?

___________________________________________________________________________

Another dream will cover all...
the rest
It still feels like lying on your
chest...
I still dream the dream
of building life.
of making u my dreaming soul mate
my wife

Another start...
announce a new beginning...
another (nerve) wrecking home
made memory...
I'm scared this time
No permanent marks to show
my friends...Just a made up story...

Bunkers of feelings...bags filled
with killer sand.
U'll never get me un prepared
(even if naked to your eyes)

a star full of hands
makes no sense...
if u can't touch the Sky
makes no sense if u don't know why!

Saving up thoughts creating chaos...
little numbers mixed with words...
spelling you...
spelling my life shouting out
a deaf scream
to a dying butterfly...
never felt so empty...
but at the same time
true to a new religion of
feelings...

still sinking...

throw the women
and children FIRST!

I've seen it all dying before!

after:

Scary scenes of goodbyes

Playful childe-like memories;
or were they just wishes?

Now i feel like i was spoiled
by the thought that u were
mine.
this time for good.

no more running around
it's done.
thanks god (if he exists)

been like a child far too long...
Have I really?

Sometimes without meanings or bad feelings

I gave u my heart
(a piece of it)
now i feel disable.
Like if one of my limbs
was missing
(is)

So again
they grow back u know.

But the scar is
always there.

That piece of
"overgrown MEAT"
that cover the emptiness...

That u leave behind.

But every new start for you was an end for me.
"We could really make it back in the old days you know..."

Writings on the empty walls
I built u a house...
Made of dreams
(every now and then i even spoke their language)
Or heard their cries

Every brick was a word...

or every wall a sentence...

that u gave a meaning to...

So look at me now. Scared
Stranded
disable

With the old
(new)
course of not being able to leave: " Stop the chariots i want to step down"

Emptiness was never so full[1]

Pages...
like sins
growing... big(ack)

does the meat grow so big becouse we want to fill the wound (empty) so bad? a good example of how i miss u...

I even miss the sound of leaves as they fall from the tree that they were shaken from. And it wasn't even fall... (the loudest white silence; that u were asking about...

that's the sound. I think u didn't hear it than

Never been able to actually know why,
every thing seemed so "there"
back than...

Now there's only disgust...

I'd even fall in love
with the slamming doors and
the shouts now.

Every whisper means
a new desire...

Every song speaks about us...
You
(was there ever a we?)

again...
Every foggy window
on the morning bus
has something
beautiful to tell.
Every face or line
reminds me of u!

And i still remind myself from time to time.

"most likely to be my next obsession"

Some people say that time heals all the wounds...
I believe that we just:
"forget the pain..."
and how it hurts to love somebody...

That sweet moment of sharp needle like pain...

I'll lie from now on!
every "I love u" will be
as "oh, it's raining today"

My little elevator speech...
Next please...
I've heard them all.

I'll lie but never to you.
Every time i'll be honest...

I love u
I do

No more hopes other than the wish that u'll come back...

Someday

Now i'm sitting on the last one...
Last bus home.
I never counted how
many times i'll be
left without you...

I screamed (i'm scared)

every morning realizing how and when all the things and dreams filled with hope turned into (childish games [poštevanka]
countdowns of bas lounch

Repeating like an old record.

Only this time it really hurts

No sadistic pleasures in faking the ache...
i was in love.

Every morning looks empty and fake
No more "I can't wait's
Just screams saying
please stop the time
Still hoping for a piece of eternity
with her.

Lovely emptiness...
Dying pride

I even claimed to make u my wife
the other half that's always missing.

The real me

The one, who doesn't believe in fake smiles.
Reading back old memories
written on a bar bill...

Let's develop a new disease.

I can feel your taste in my mouth.

It was sweet.

Day after day... Question after question...
Each ring brings an answer
A hope that u are here
('ll be)

again...
back...

Johnatan Doe was right... We call him John
I need t start screaming
if I want you to hear me...
Understand me...

again...

But even if...
at least i know i did almost everything in my power
or at least what was possible...

i stilL miss u.

have to go
danaja 2008
m e d i j i
[zrak]

"Od klerikalnega k digitalnemu"

[prevod teksta "From clerical to digital" danaja; 2008]

Vabilo [invitation]

2008-09-24T03:27:00.000-07:00

Kako zacheti…
danaja MSP

Vabljeni

Vedno sem znal samo pri sanjah.
»Zakaj torej poznamo etnologijo samo takrat,Ko ljubljenih ni? Ko tishinaOdgovarja na vprašanja naših misli?«

2. sanje v okviru danaje, ki spadajo v vejo MSP (mehanichne soshke postrvi) in spomenishkega varstva simbolizma.

Slikarsko inštalaterska razstava pohištvenih slik: »Zgradil bom nama hisho«[Building u a house] Bor Čeh, danaja …

Vizualna razprava o tem, kaj je Istra? In o tematiki obujanja starih običajev. Kje postane etnologija idealiziranje o svetu, ki ga ni bilo in smo si ga ustvarili kot pobeg v sanje: »Kako se je včasih lepo živelo«. Torej poskus, da teoretiziramo našo navezanost na spomine in na njo. Pogled v to, da teoretiziranje lepih stvari ubije čar in našo lastno pravljico o ljubezni na polju, sovraštva do tistih, ki so hoteli te sanje vzeti in bolečino, ki ostane, ko se ljubljeni otroci odpravijo v svet realnega življenja brez nje.

Hkrati bo to priložnostPredstavitve teoretichne linije retro pohistva»teoretichnih inshtalaterjev

Msp, danaja Vabljeni torej na odprtje razstave, ki se bo zgodilo9.10. 2008
Na Levstikovem trgu 5V stari Ljubljani [Laibach]

Stanovanje [hisha] ostane po odprtju na ogled 24 ur na dan za vpogled v sanje o njej……………………………………………[peep show] Bor Čeh danaja

Posebna zahvala vsem ,ki so omogočili nastanek razstave: g. Bojchiju in njegovi boljshi polovici, gospodu Rudolfu Ozimku, Klementu Schpendalu, Polonci Juntes, Jaki Bonča, Darkotu Slavcu, Primožu Potočniku, Gabrijelu Križmanu, Vruji, Zhorzhu, tov. Juretu Marinshku, mami, bogu, Jezusu, Istri (z vsemi Premrli) in teoretičnim kozmonavtom: Mateji Centa, Matjazhu Strazharju in Janezu Zavashniku, Akustiki Primožič, Inštitutu AVA, Pepiju Sekulichu, Sanji Vatič, Aja Vesna Ginovska...

In vsem, ki ste jezni ker vas ni omenjenih.Ponovno so vabljeni tudi vsi vashi prijatelji kajti she vedno je tudi odprta akcija pripeljite nam 5w vashih prijateljev. Zato povabite tudi vashe prijatelje in sovrazhnike in jim prosim poshljite to elektronsko sporochilo. Ne skrbite ne gre za verigo. poshljite vsem ,ki jih ni na seznamu. Ko mi je shepetala da odhaja sem zakrichal: "Ljubim te!"

2. danaja Msp- Building u a house

2008-09-24T03:16:00.000-07:00

Thinking in slovene...
Never missed u so much. A discussion about Istra and the original text about the exhibition...
(sadly not the original version becouse of the limited editing options)

opening of the exhibition on the 9th of October at Levstikov Trg5 in Ljubljana

To her

Building you a house
(danaja)

Prej je nisem poznal.
Nisem vedel kako je dišala.
Nisem vedel kakšne barve je bila.

Spoznal sem jo oranžno. Mešanica jesenskih barv je ovila njene lase, po hribih in dolinah.
[hribčkih]

"Takrat je najlepša", so rekli.
Pravili so ji istra [ti]. Kamenje med rastjem in zelom. Kako je lahko nekaj tako "tisto pravo". Kako lahko kamniti zidovi, ki jih je naredil človek izgledajo, kot da jih je narava tam pozabila.

Spoznal sem jo, ko sem stopil na mehko travo. Ko sem zavohal njen vonj, s katerim se je veter igral med praznimi zidovi, relikvijami, ki gradijo spomine na njo.

_____To hišo sem nama vedno hotel zgraditi.________

Da nebi bila preveč dovršena, a še vedno nosila njeno
dušo. [svojo]
Povešena kljuka kot dobrodošlica. Nobenih pretiravanj ali
olepševanj. Edina toplina, ki bi jo rabil, bi bila tvoja. PT
Pa ne tako, kot je bila včasih. Takrat je nisem poznal. Ni
bilo narodnih noš, plesa, otroškega smeha... Ostal je samo
še odmev otroških besed. Želje po tem, da bi bili piloti
letal, ki bi jim sklatili zvezde in jih nabrali v koške, ki jih
imenujemo srce. Ostal je le še odmev otrok, ki peljejo
živino na pašo. Še tega odnaša veter med spomine. Kakšna
je torej bila?

Ostali so le še trenutki situacijskih komik, ki jih govorijo
predmeti in način, na kako šepetajo svoje zgodbe. Le
najti jih je treba, so govorili. Kako lahko najdeš nekaj, kar
je bilo od nekdaj preveč lepo, da bi to lahko videl? Nekaj
je bilo obsojeno na propad s strani neizprosne matere
narave, ki s svojimi kremplji ognja, očmi neviht in zobom
časa, odžira vse, kar smo gradili. Minljivost postane večna.
( ali neskončna? )
Čas, ko ostanki neke dobe pomenijo njeno obliko. Ko sem
jo spoznal je bila preprosta.

Na poljih oranžne igrivosti in spokoja trave, ki se kot rahli komaj opazni kodri zibajo v vetru, so stale hiše.
[sarkofagi]

Silhuete spominov, ki so prekinile igro narave. A so se z njo vseeno zlile; kot oči na obrazu, ko njihova toplina prekine idilo umirjenih linij. Taka je stala.

Nisem dal imena, niti telesu njene pokrajine, niti igrivosti oči, ampak njej kot celoti. Rekel sem ji [istra].

Ne spomnim se točno, kaj je bilo? Spomin je varljiv v njeni bližini. Vem le, da sem nenadoma začutil željo, da bi se igral na igralih spominov in zgodb, ki jih je nosila s seboj. Ta igrala so bila kot tramovi, ki stojijo na mestu, kjer so nekoč bile strehe. Nosilci gugalnic misli in občutkov. Za nekatere celo strahov.

Govoriti o tem, da sem jo poznal že prej, bi pomenilo, da lažem. Vendar ji tega ne bi naredil. Ni me zanimalo, kako je njena mladost na ulici podila otroke, ki so brcali žogo, dvigovala prah, ki so ga živčno odganjali nonoti v gostilnah. Seveda me je zanimalo. Vsak trenutek. Nikoli pa nisem hotel, da bi se ob tem počutila nelagodno. Nikoli ni bila prostaška. Še najbolj vsakdanja opravila so ob njej izgledala magična. Njeni čari so vedno bili močnejši od vsake nerodnosti in sramote. Razen moje, ko sem stopil tja, kjer je ona vladala. V sanjah trenutkov, ko so moji koraki kradli njeno zemljo in zgodbo in umazali njen spomin z njimi.

Seveda bi jo hotel poznati in odraščati z njo.A je bila zdaj in tukaj.
Lepša kot kadarkoli.
Mislila, da je bila skrita pred vsemi.
A so ji radovedni pogledi dali vedeti, da je lepa in iskana.
Tudi, ko je mislila, da bo še veter pozabil na njo.
Je vedela, da jo gledam tudi jaz?
Sem bil kdaj res drugačen od turista z živčnim korakom,
ki ga diktirajo zaslonke?

Natanko taka, kot bi jo hotel narisati.
Pa ne bi znal. Niti hotel.

Iti od nje je bilo skoraj tako lepo, kot se vračati k njej. Nazaj.

Podobno obrazom ljudi, ki na postaji vedno pričakujejo ljubljeno osebo.

Nesramno bi bilo reči, da je bila socialistična.
Čeprav je (razu)imela čar:

"razumeti estetiko obdarovanja s pomarančo"

ali kamnom in vračati hvaležnost. Po eni strani radoživa in razigrana, kot moje otroštvo med emajliranimi posodicami, po drugi pa odrasla gospa, ki ne skriva zgodb, ki so jo naredile tako... Lepo.

Lahko bi temu rekel ljubezen. Če ne bi bila tako posebna. Vedno nekje med pesimističnim sarkazmom in zgodbami ter pravljicami o tem, kdo si bila.

Zakaj mahamo vlakom, ploskamo ognjemetom in pilotom v letalu?

[Ker je to tradicija.]
Urbana legenda o nečem, kar
mislimo, da je. Pa čeprav ni
nikoli dejansko bilo.

Zato te bom vedno pogrešal.

Nikoli nobenih olepšav. Ostanejo samo številke. Številke, ki nas spominjajo, kje bi hoteli biti doma. Kam se vrnemo po tisto lepo. Tisto edino kar še imamo. Zavetje. Zavetje, ki si ga nudila. Seveda bi hotel biti tam. Vedno. Vedno najti tisti dom, ki sem ga iskal. Ljubi(l)m (sem) ta realizem. Ko ni potrebe po nečem lepšem. Nečem kar imajo drugi. Nečem kar postane zgolj zavist zbujajoč in nepotreben dodatek tvoji že tako najlepši podobi. Ja Točno tako te hočem sanjati. Mojo.
Čeprav brez streh. Čeprav bo postelja prazna in in bodo misli na to, kje si kot
hladni veter, ki odmeva med praznimi zidovi. Ko bo streha le še ribja kost, ki ji
je čas vzel vso dostojanstvo. Vedno ostane; pozdravi tista viseča kljuka, ki
jo veter, ko ga zanese mimo. Mimo najine hiše. Nikoli več smeha tvojih
otrok, ki jih vzgajaš v ljudi, ki to vračajo pa pa..Čeprav te včasih pustijo samo pr topli peči. Zveni grozeče. Ostanejo. Tebi ti sanje. In veš, da se (ti) bodo vrnile tudi to je nekaj. Bil si...in tam. Kaj zato, če je ne boš
nikoli videl in nikoli več tam ne b(il)o... tako blizu. Vedno boš; ko
boš to hotel, z nasmehom rekel, da si jo poznal. Ne tako kot je
bila ampak res tako kot si čutil in mislil. Skoraj dovolj tvojo, da bi se ulegel na tla
in rekel, da je tvoja. Čisto tiho. S pritajenim vzdihom (čeprav bi te čudno gledali): "Moja hiša je!" Tam bi živela.
Dom premajhen za dva. Zato sem te moral stisniti k sebi. Neudobna postelja, ki jo udobno postelje šele dotik tvojih spominov. Nežnih in lepih. Tam, kjer sva prvič gledala film sanj in želja. Za nama ostanejo prazni običaji večerij. Ornament vrtnic ne kot lepotni dodatek ampak kot zgodba, o nečem kar sem nekoč poznal. Zdaj vem kaj je bilo. Predstavljam si te kako skrita pod ruto pozabe, stara in moja okopavaš grm rdečih vrtnic. Vonj tvoje kuhinje lahko sanjam, čeprav vem kako diši kava. Lepo in nepozabno kot toplina tvoje sape. Iz lončka premajhnega za dva, za en dan.

Bil sem tam. Videl sem te celo, tako, kot je narava mislila da moraš biti. Obsijano s soncem, umito od dežja in polno zgodb o tem, kaj je bilo in o tem, kaj še bo.
Ko si v narodni noši jutra okopavala polje mojih sanj s šepetanjem: "odhajam" sem zakričal: "Ljubim te." Misliti, kje sem bil kot vedeti, kam sem hotel.

Daleč stran.
Stran od vseh stvari, ki me vežejo na vsakdan, ki ga sovražim. Verjetno se bom vedno hotel vrniti tja, kjer delo nosi ponos in modro barvo, kjer se ljudje znajo boriti proti sistemom, da si zgradijo sanje. Take kot sva jih nekoč sanjala midva.

Rdecha nit, ki se vije skozi tvoje vasi, kot napisi na frontah hiš, ne razmejuje.

Nikoli ni risala meje, ki smo si jo ustvarili mi, ki nam zemlja krade korake in kateri mislimo, da jo poznamo, kontroliramo. Vodiš nas (me) pa ti. Čeprav včasih pozabljam koliko je bilo življenje kruto do tebe, koliko je dejansko bilo težko živeti s tabo sanjam o tem, da bi nekoč spet rad videl kako si dišala. Rad bi videl kako so roke ožgane od sonca, rdeče od krvi pisale s prav tako barvo parole ljubezni na pročelja hiš, ki danes samujejo. Kot se jim zdi da tudi ti.
Rdeča nit, ki se vije kot žile, ki dajejo življenje tebi, ki mi ga vračaš. Počasi in tako, da tega nihče ne vidi.
Rdeča nit, ki se vije po naših žilah in se napaja iz tvoje zemlje, ki je včasih prav tako rdeča.
Ljubim te. (jo)

Sobe ločene s kamnom,
ki ga skriva in rojeva zemlja. S kamnom, ki te povezuje. Vas do vasi, od človeka do človeka. Včasih bel kot biseri, drugič spet rdeč od zemlje, kot so tvoji otroci, ki so te branili. Ko črna vihra je nevihte, hotela dati novo ti ime.
Otroci, ki jih kot lepe misli, ljubosumno vlečeš nase in nazaj k sebi. Legel bi na tvojo zemljo in objel misli o lepem. Misli, ki me spominjajo na sebe. In ko bom enkrat res utrujen od življenja legel, hočem da si tam. Hočem, da objameš moje telo, ki ga je življenje naredilo za mojega sovraga in ga objameš. Stisneš tako močno, da kar izgine. In me spet narediš za vogal nekoga hiše, del rože ali le trenutek, ki ga bo naredil eno s tabo. Samo, da sem tu (tam).

Zakaj je vedno ista zemlja tista, ki nam barva sanje. Kako lahko rojeva vedno druge ljudi, ki te ljubijo. Gladijo te po obrazu kot da bi poznali tvojo kožo. Kot da bi bili oni sami tisti, ki jih ti res ljubiš. In tvoja koža njim pogrinja mize. Daje jim toplino in tisto, kar naredi otroka veselega, ko zjutraj k tebi sede, ponosnega kot kmeta, ki uživa, ko se s tebe vije trta. Mize, ki so kraji, kjer pripravlja se obedek, kjer previjajo se tvojih sanj sinovi, pišejo se pesmi o tvoji vsej lepoti, sklepajo zarote, ki polivajo novo in novo nedolžno kri po neskončnosti lepote.
Prevečkrat podpore so utrujenim življenja, ki z njih pijejo opojnosti pozabe.

In vsak trenutek ljubim to podobo. Vsak dan bi hotel biti s tabo, poznati čisto vsak trenutek, ki mu nekdo pravi kar življenje. Trenutek, ko s tabo preživi vsako stvar, ko truden sede k počitku, lačen k obedu, ko obupan nate nasloni sključen hrbet, da vzameš ga v objem svojih lepih rok in sanj. Pretesne mize veliki stoli in vse kar nekomu pomeniš. Taka kot si. Čeprav te ne poznajo, vedo, da se v tebi skriva mehkoba. Zakaj je nujno, da prej te izgubijo. Zakaj preklinjali so včasih to bližino, ki se danes jo spominjajo s procesijami rožami in velikimi izreki. Tudi tam so stoli. Lepi, okrašeni. Na njih so pomembni ljudje, ki opevajo tvoje ime in pesnijo, V višave z resnim glasom govorijo. In ne vidijo, da si želiš le objema, tistega, ki je božal tvojo kožo in jo napajal s potom svojega čela. Ti vdihnil svojo je podobo. Poznal je vsak las tvoje livade. Njegov stol je lepši od tisoč novih. Ne zanimajo te okraski ne cvetje. Vse kar hočeš je, da bi se otroci spet igrali. Trgali ti rože. Otroci, ki pomenijo veselje. Novo ljubezen. Nove vojne. Novo tebe.

Spet bi sanjali in gradili nove stroje, da bi jih peljali. Spet bi me (jih) nove sanje mamile od tebe. Ampak nebi hotel, da te kadar koli žalostijo. Lepi stroji, novi in bleščeči peli bi ti čast, jih peljali po pokrajini vseh tvojih lepot. Vse dokler jih spet ne premami novo in boljše njih bobnenje. Še večjih, še bolj bleščečih. In prav ti stroji, ki so orali tvojo so lepoto in zbujali potrebo po nečem večjem nečem novem jih popeljejo prek meje. Tja, kar imenujejo tujina. Tja, kamor bi njeni otroci stopili na tvojo zemljo in te celo požgali. Vedno nove sanje. Prav te sanje, ki ženejo njih in mene. Želja po tem, da srce bi tvoje osvojili. Eni s silo drugi z roko. Tretji pa z nerodno gesto, takšno še otroško. In hvalili bi se s tem, da te poznajo, da so njihove sanje tvoje. Da se igrajo ob tebi kot, da so tvoji otroci. Tudi oni imenovali bi te s svojimi imeni. In jaz (oni) tega ne bi vedel. Ker čas tako je hotel. Spet ponižno stal bi tam na vratih. Z očmi požiral vsak delček tvojega telesa. Gledal njive kože, zagorele, kot oči košata bi drevesa.

" In otrokom svojim pravil bom o tebi. Vedeli bodo: pa čeprav bodo živeli daleč, da si tam nekje bila. Da stopal sem po sanjah, ki po tebi sem jih klical. Da nekje ob tebi, leži grob vseh čustev, ki sem jih na tebi pustil ležati.. Da si mi vzela vse kar sem ti upal dati. Ker sem tako hotel. Ker si se mi igriva nasmihala med zahodi raznih barv, ki naredili so te lepo. Katerih lepa je svetloba padala na tvoje lice. Tisto, ki verjel sem jim, da nikoli konec ne bo sanj in časa, ko sem jih naredil za kraljice. Kraljice vsega. Svoj dom in kraj počitka, tega izza katerega se zdaj budim, ko maham ti s postaje. Dan med naju je prišel in s seboj prinesel tedne brate, ti pa leta, ki te bodo spremenila. Vendar veš, čeprav sem majhen, nepomemben in čas me bo izbrisal iz tvojih misli in spomina, da te ljubim. Da zate bom naredil vse. Napisal kje si bila, kako si mi dišala. Ne ugibal, kako bi lahko spremenil, naredil lepše ali ohranil trenutke, ko te še nisem poznal ampak bil tisti, ki opeval bo nase sanje. Tisti, ki v srcu nosil bo spomine nate. Ki bo otroku, ki te ni poznal v pesek risal tvoje oči. V pesek, ki je včasih bil kamenje teh zidov, ki so ščitili otroke tvoje (najine sanje). V pesek, s katerim se veter bo igral, kot pred časom s tvojimi lasmi. Pesek, ki premika čas, ki neusmiljeno te odnaša. "
In ta isti pesek, je gledal nekdo drug. Kot pred mano in njim še mnogi (lažem)

Ne vem, koliko so razumeli, kar si jim govorila. Ne vem in nočem vedeti, kaj vidijo na poljih, ki jih pokrivajo tvoji lasje, v glasbi, ki odmeva, kot tvoj glas v mojih sanjah. V obliki, ki spominja na inštrumente, na katere igrajo moje sanje.

"Stal na vruji sem in pil iz nje ljubezen in znanje,
v sebi našel tebe in spomine, želje in vse ostalo,
kar bi dalo mi še upanje, da bom kdaj ob tebi se še zbujal.

In ugotovil sem, da so (te iste tvoje) hiše kupi le kamenja
in strehe, leseni so tramovi.

Vse kar naredimo iz njih,
si naredimo sami.
Z željo, da bi te poznal(i).

Zato vem, kaj sem videl,
Vem, kje s tabo bil.
To bom vedno nosil s sabo,
tudi takrat, ko boš nosila drugega ime.

In igrivo kot danes
se spogledal bom s polji tvojega telesa
zrl v globino tvojih oči in sanjal.

Poznal sem te in ljubim te, sanje moje."

Hvala.

set gigants on fire

2008-08-30T01:28:00.000-07:00

28.08.2008

The first appearance of danaja in the space and time of mediums...

why would u build a rocket?

2008-08-05T23:14:00.000-07:00

and all those animals and funny looking creatures?
by someone for her that makes me cry:

I never met happiness…
Not in the way people think of it…

That common feeling of:"oh I’m so happy"
It always had to be something before it,
Or something after…
Either impossible or too beautiful to be true…

Searching for every remaining bit of me to give away…

Never cared for myself…
Like the child chasing the clouds
Drawing their shapes with a finger
Naming them after people I met…

Until she came along…
And then another and another…

Trying to figure out when this almost
Dervish like lullaby stops…
I'm sick…
Want to get out

But it keeps on spinning
When does the damn thing stop?
I know I entered it myself…
I was the one who paid the ticket
And said to the man behind the wheel
(That they call me) faster…
I said go faster I am bored…

Never believed that it would all of a sudden
Become too fast…

That the spins will become arms trying to
Push me off…

I loved too many people to jump off
Too many of them would be affected by my jump…

So what's left to do?
The only think is put on a childish smile
And grow your own dreams between the waves
Do dizziness that comes from the spinning
And it spins
And spins
Spins
I…
I…
I love u my next big thing…

So I build myself rockets…
Since you are my sun i figured i could follow u…
Make that small step for mankind
Resembling a leap for my rotten resembling heart shaped figure
In my chest…

And all the other animals in the background to form my kingdom…
Where eagles fly and scream her name,
Fishes make bubbles in the shape of hearts,
And birds round their necks in shapes of hearts…

But it's not love (of flying or diving in the ocean)
It's shear…

Fascination with the color of your eyes that I call my sky
With the sparkling freckles I call stars
And all the million little things I call you…

And my rocket flies:
»tell my wife I love her very much she knows
Ground control to Major Tom
Your circuit's dead there's something wrong«

Out of control…
And the path reminds me of her

of her body

J Doe (anaj)

we make something art or devine when we don't understand it

2008-07-23T07:22:00.000-07:00

why a space program as a start?

maybe because we were always fascinated with the unknown, even with oblivion. so starting out with a complex system of orders and signs seemed the right idea. it’s the same question as: “why art?” and: “what is art?” after a while we are forced to realize that there is no answer to those questions. and there shouldn’t be. because if we try to answer those we force ourselves to analyze things starting from a starting point where we don’t actually even try to analyze the real structure we just presume that it’s not supposed to be understood. that’s the answer to why a space program. that’s the answer to why there’s no rural view of animals and other things but complex systems that force us to understand how things within them work.

mankind was always fascinated with traveling. a hundred years ago it was traveling through time, traveling to the moon. today it’s just time… or is it?

let’s take ikarus as a typical space program. are space programs really something that was meant to be known to every day people, or they should just be fascinated with the width and the way this shining rocket leaves for the big empty unknown called space? the same question is the one that for theoretical cosmonauts asked themselves. why should we divide thing to artistic and none-artistic, and why should we understand all of it. so that’s why ikarus was born. not as a mean to understand or even explain things but to raise even more questions. or to just fascinate people with symbols. so we exploit ikarus as a communication device. the way it’s designed it doesn’t really work as a communication device because it enables us to only send signals to it and never really get any feedback. which symbolizes every day systems. even if u call something democracy it doesn’t mean that u get a part in the decision making process. it just feels like you actually made something; that you were able to make a change. your vote either get’s lost in the majority or just doesn’t make it there. so that’s how Ikarus works. it uses the power we gave symbols that surround us. starting with a cross as the main sign. main starting with the way our perception of the space around us work all the way to the “one and only” religion. the materials used for the built are what we cal: “object trouve”. So they already bring their stories with them. those stories have their power so we start from using those. i guess it’s not finding a universal code in the understanding of the simplest formula:

sign + sign (keeping in mind the interaction between them) = system (reaction)

but it works more as trying to predict the reaction people have to certain symbols. so starting off from a cross that was taken from an old church and thrown away and later recuperated by danaja and used as a ready made object, or more a ready made story behind the object. i could talk about the chemical construction of iron but nature has it’s own way to change things. the cross was struck by lightning several times so it has a structure of it’s own. through our researches we tried to establish if it’s chemical structure was altered to but we could not figure it out so we were left with the myth that the cross functions in a totally different way than it used to, a thing that we discovered through the process. so it shows us a different layer of mythology behind the cross as a symbol.

an another layer was shown to the story of the symbols after the actual rocket was built, by a person that I deeply respect in terms of being an urban and suburban mythologist as well as a very good photographer. since there is no bleeding figure hanging on the cross we can’t really speak about the fallen angel or another fallen mythological flyer but we automatically tend to connect the cross to “Your savior Jesus Christ”. his image took a totally different place in my life since nat avino towsen pointed out the fact that he was supposed to come back and wondered if he wanted to be reminded all the time about the way he died? so my point is: does it mean that the original story of jesus christ being the first (or second, not really sure of the timing since both are just myths) mythological flyer? the answer is no. it just means adding another layer to the myth behind the rocket ikarus. or just letting it go by. as we do all the time. as our brain does all the time.

so the answer to the questions: “is it art and how do you expect people to understand it without an explanation?” would be, that no body expects people to understand everything. your brain is bombarded with 2.000.000, 00 information per minute. so the human body has developed a perfect system to defend us by forgetting certain things. so the whole project is just using other myths that u can not escape as fuel. as something that powers our rocket without knowing. subconsciously. and just from time to time turn on your TV and be fascinated with the theoretical flame that ikarus leaves behind as it goes across both the media and sub media space of your minds.

(iakrus is dedicated to the life and work of ing. jovanovič)

Ikarus- communication from space between space and time

2008-07-13T08:11:00.000-07:00

"1 transmitter
10.000 receivers"

goebbels

our ever day life is surrounded by mass media taking the place of the main means of communication. every single medium works on the same principals. You have a transmitter on one side, and a receiver on the other. in between them u have air through which they try to send their messages. this forms the communication circle between them. the information that is being sent from the transmitter to the receiver must be a clear messages. so it's logical. use one transmitter and a receiver that decodes messages and u get communication. it starts to be hard as soon as u start to use different transmitters and receivers. or even replace the outer shape of the message.

so let's say art is a mass medium. the artist becomes a transmitter and the audience the receivers. they use visual pieces as means of communication. the transmitter has to analyze the range of his audience and the way they understand and receive information. this range is affected by the space and time in which the communication is taking place. by knowing the space in which we project our messages we can get to know and to understand what the average receivers is going to be and predict the reactions and actions to certain symbols. since art is a mass medium is always affected by the political system and the situations in all the system surrounding the audience. it works as a reaction to it or as an action against it. understanding the way people react to their sorroundings makes it easier to understand how they either understand or react to art in general or separate messages.

this fact shows that there is a need to have theory that connects and explains this actions and reactions. because understanding the medium and your audience gives u a wider view and a better chance to get your message across. the artist as the transformer has to understand the code and decoding system of the audience to communicate with them and at the same time understand the structure of the medium. every medium is composed by the medial (visual) part and the sub medial (theoretical) space. their job is to interact with the audience back to back. the understanding of this system enables the artist to use it when working on multimedia projects.

the information in the field of multimedia takes different shapes. they have to maintain an outer form that fits the demands of the audience. we have to remember that in the case of artistic communication the message isn't just a fictional message but has an outer form and it's seen all the time by the audience. this gives us a multi-layered system in which the information itself works on the same principal as the whole system. the information assumes the form of the system. this demands again the understanding of the whole system to help communication.

art works, or can be compared to several other mediums and systems. it's structure works on the princips of semantics, the communication with the audience or market works on the principals of economy. art takes, the same way that written language does, the smallest symbol (letter) and connects them between them. the way they react to each is affected by their outer shape and their information space as well as the negative space (surroundings). so the interaction between them forms a new complex symbol (word). this symbol in connection to others forms a picture (text). choosing the right way and means of communication (language) determines the number of people that are going to understand its message. on the same time symbols alone carry a message and have an outer shape of their own (outer shape of the text or single words) because they must fulfill the audience's need for an esthetic or non esthetic appearance of the symbols. for the understanding of that take the word house. you can not separate the word from the feeling it creates. or separate the vocal image of the word to the visual appearance of the word when you write it down. that shows that using symbols that u understand and analyze in a picture or any other form of art or visual communication media, you create and predict the reactions that your audience has. they, contrary to what the general opinion is, don't have to be esthetical, depends on the message that they are carrying.
the communication with the audience, on the other hand, is a relatively new approach in art. to understand that we have to look further back in the development of art and forms of artistic expressions. until the start of impressionism in the late eighteen hundreds art used to be a medium that would reflect and capture only every day moments. An artist would not produce paintings or sculptures by his own decision. most of the works were ordered by either rich families or the church. art wasn't a form of expression but was more a reflection of reality. This change was also a reaction to the development of photography. so art before that wasn't art as we understand it today (it's still hard to define and understand the meaning of the word art and what it represents). this doesn't necessarily mean that there were no artists before that just that they were more craftsmen. brilliant craftsmen. the fact that they were producing more or less ordered art gave them a very narrow choice of concepts to use.

knowing these facts helps to understand why art associated to economy. not only meaning the place or the fact that demand and consumption meet in a place but more the fact that even a very free orientated and open system as art is sometimes affected by the demand on the market. that makes modern art a perfect economical system that demands communication between space and time.

the system within

2008-07-12T00:23:00.000-07:00

danaja is divided into four programs:

sun: Ikarus as the space research program for broadcasting information fueled by the power of symbolism.

water: Mechanical Soča trout as the symbolism preservation apparatus

air: Fazan003 as the flying tractor

freedom: the last faze of development within all the systems.

Ikarus

the programs are the result of researches and own theories. All the programs are connected in a net, working as real time test bunnies for the theories that they are based on.

remind me...

2008-07-11T23:35:00.000-07:00

of the system

knowing the symbols
and the outer shape of the system
you can change it's parts

every day things
turn into dreams

ready made cocept

2008-07-11T23:30:00.000-07:00

"the symbols are never guilty for the stories associated to them, or any history related facts about people who either used or abused them."

j. Bonča[1]

the porpoise is to learn how to use the ready made concept of the symbol. We learn how to decode the "story[2]" that the symbol carries from its past lives and use it as and in communication. this process is based on self testing and exploring past and present cultural and political systems that created and destroyed it. by doing so we can predict what reactions it causes in the systems similar or close to the one that created it and analyze, again with testing and broadcasting of the symbol, what its role is and how it's going to perform in systems outside its comfortable zone.

broadcasting every symbol through different campaigns and systems of presentation that are art related. the structure is based on the same principals as pop orientated mass media of the modern world such as internet. it's mainly self powered which gives it the advantage of being autonomous. all the processes within the organization are analogue and schematic.

when created the symbols adopt the outer appearance and the structure from their "lifetime" and applying that same in the time and space in which they are projected.

[1] Jaka Bonča Slovenian architect and respected Art theory teacher on whose work we base a lot of theories and facts
[2] story as the meaning of a symbol and the associations to people or systems that used it

The rules, role and structure of the system, and it's components

2008-07-11T07:36:00.000-07:00

"i'll turn into the illusion
that people have of me.
since i never met myself
it makes sence doesn't it?"

the system is analysed throug it's structure and gives us a clear view of it's components and relations between them. when familiar with them we have the chance to operate with it's space and time on our own will. that creates the post moment in wich the ability to change both, time and space, creates it's own theoretical time machine, that gives us the power to travel within the boundrys of space and time of certain systems. so every system becomes transparent and replecable.

knowing the structure and nature of the system we are able to isolate it's symbols as elements that build it, time and space as boundrys that give to every system it's outer shape and form and the know-how to repplicate and reuse every element.

each symbol works as a part of the big apparatus called art piece, for a better expression through different media and better understanding for the masses. the expression art is used mainly becouse it gives us the space and theorys needed for the realisation of the projects. The language used becomes mainly visual re-usable.

System as the network connecting and sharing informations between it's own stories and the awdience.

Re-usable as recycable in mass reproducable media

2008-07-11T07:31:00.001-07:00

"language is a system of orders, not an information carrier"

gilles deleuze

Danaja Sybolysm monumental tutorship

2008-07-11T07:12:00.000-07:00

"Art is noble mission that demands
FANATISM"
laibach

danaja was created as a need for a mechanism able to perform sytematical analysations and preservation of sybols and sybolysm. each sybol is analysed in it's original form of appearence and through different systems, political and cultural in order to understand it's full form and power and later used as an elment for visual communication. visual communication and visual debate are used to broadcast thoughts and systems generated within them. they become sytems that are filled by the aura of artistic expresion and the ability to keep the rate of information transfer that's expected by a a modern medium and still work on analogue principals. meaning that it preserves tradition in the field of visual communication and upgrades it with the knowledge of modern capitalism and consumarism fuled mediums. so it maintains it's tottalitarian role in therms of background storries and upgrades it with the abbility of fast communication and mass spreadibility.

so it becomes a militant system of visual communication and story telling. symbol as the smallest part of the system structure, similar to the point in painting or pixle in digital media