verse 1:
verse 2:
verse 3 + female vocals
verse 4 + female vocals
ponedeljek, 22. februar 2010
part 2nd
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.)
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.)
sobota, 20. februar 2010
i miss my her... my you... pt1
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)
sobota, 13. februar 2010
covenant danaja
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
torek, 9. februar 2010
but for me...
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
something beautifull,
the bird of something sad...
the bird of something that resembles emptiness...
the birth of something
BAD
every year
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
nedelja, 1. november 2009
like a rabbit...
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 places…gluing 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 rocks…Another 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 you…more 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. Imagine…we 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)
(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 places…gluing 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 rocks…Another 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 you…more 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. Imagine…we 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)
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