The shave towards the base, the snow across the fields, the woodcocks silent escapes, so neath and full of wonders, the days are filled with heat, and my spine is stretched as trees, my spine is stretched by earth.

Image from my mountain this very day. Shot from from the foot, by the waters this year, due to circumstanses regarding weather and point of departure. This is my halo, the radiance. My greetings towards the new year. To whomever. Love.

winter`s coming up

Alles scheint auf uns herein zu strömen, weil wir nicht heraus strömen. Wir sind negativ, weil wir wollen - je positiver wir werden, desto negativer wird die Welt um uns her - bis am Ende keine Negation mehr seyn wird - sondern wir allkes im Allem sind.

novalis

The local authorities did not approach our first sketches and ideas towards expansion at all. So here`s the new ones. And, as often seen, prohibititions, limitations brings forward even better solutions.

Honor all resistance as hidden intensions.

Regarding the craftmanship of cartography, the imaginary exceed the real, before the real is experienced. Then of course, the experience bring the condition of the absolute into consideration. Then again, the first impression of sense and emotion, arranged by the artists become this fellow to the experience in the fields, and the absolute is no longer the defined quality. A map is always set between us and the surroundings, a gateway, a false but nevertheless, a true approximation; we can`t see, cause the glance is catched by the eye and the brain, we can`t describe the carbon by writing, as the pencil is made of graphite. The key to all subscriptions, read in landscapes and senses, the learning of language is to be found in the random movement of patterns. Thereby the arts. Eduard Imhof, born in Schiers on 25 Jan 1895, was one of the pioneers in the field of map art and design. I just love stuff like this, and a wonderful article this here ... http://www.codex99.com/cartography/71.html.

In the Almond – what dwells in the Almond?

Nothing.

Nothing dwells in the Almond.

There it dwells and dwells.

In Nothing – what dwells there? The King.

There dwells the King, the King.

There he dwells and dwells.

Jews’-Hair, you’ll not grow grey.

And your Eye – where does your Eye dwell?

Your Eye dwells on the Almond.

Your Eye, on Nothing it dwells.

It dwells on the King.

So it dwells and dwells.

Human-Hair, you’ll not grow grey.

Empty Almond, regally-blue.

http://vodpod.com/watch/3457544-mandorla-paul-celan

Resting a platitude above the most intricate. Culture mimic nature. What got us caught between shiver and admiration we now take for granted.

No choice but spend my night at the airport, this complex building with its functionality, an interface that, according to our expectations, is leaving us without surprise.

Except its decorations of course. Done by the most prolific norwegian artists.

So, what lies underneath, where does everything come from? ..the milestretching cables beneath the floors..., the neon gas inside the glowing letters..., the pizza stuffing,..the people? Like this dream, distorted and put alongside all connections. Yet this is all this building is ment to represent; connection.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6X7E2i0KMqM

always alongside, always continual essential. all current radicalism consentrated and alive in this

sometimes this revelation; you recognise something you surely never ever have heard or seen before. yet you say: "there you are music", or "of course music". like it has always been here, alongside your living, unheard, unplayed, coming out of the same soil, the very genesis as yourself... and that i like. and why don`t people experiment more with the most flexible, rich and obvious instrument of them all... the voice?

annual garden contribution. memories driven backwards, like forward, like last years approach towards the year before, like next years mirrors towards fields, woods, tears and hope. well...nuances. politics, ideologies..in a garden.

moondog

the wonderful Louis Hardin 1916 - 1999

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gpL0khWCgOA&feature=related

online bookstores, vinyl complentations and spring coming up.

"L'uomo non potrà mai adattarsi alla Società"

pasolini

Tend to seek this site; a prosaic monument rised by a son in memory of his dear father at the spot where he died age 67,.. in the year 1819. Covered in moss and invaded by huge trees, it's just touching. The silence under the crowns, the ground water flowing underneath, the years, the loss.

the most uplifting object found at this second hand store the other day. a crab pot, and of this beautiful tiny craftmanship it is. small crabs it is intended for, and it brings back the most wonderful childhood memories to this wooded soul. gonna give it to my nephew, his enthusiasm and joy the next coming summer will put a glow into the esperanto of emotions...the kind we all long for..the universal.

Temporary but somehow finite model of our livingspace expansion. It`s due to come into reality next year. Going to house nothing but books, studios and space for singing and breathing, it might turn into the Purest of luxury....

Just this employment of nothing these days, as the summer is high. Of wich, in turn, could bring about this association of ideas and spirits.

Well..... sometimes its nice to be blank...

read eat sleep..

The Norwegian composer Arne Nordheim is dead. And by that another one of the great modernists of Europe is gone, the last ones to really make revolt. And it made me really sad....I don`t know... a cultural fatherfigure he was, a wiseman and a shaman . So much beauty,.. the transforming of lifes own turmoil into rejoice, hymns and the thankfully.

I sit her playing "Wirklicher Wald" for soprano and cello solo, chorus and orchestra, based on a poem by Rilke. "Death Experience":

We cannot understand it, this going hence

that will not answer anything we ask.

Our wonder, love or hate are all pretence

so far as death goes, whose distorting mask

of tragical lament is all one sees.

The world`s still full of parts that we are playing;

and while we try to please with what we`re saying

death plays as well, although he does not please.

Yet when you went, there broke upon this scene

a trak of something real and understood

through the cleft through wich you went: green of real green,

some real sunshine and some real wood.

And we play on. What`s learnt with blood and tears

repeating, making gestures now and then;

but your existence and your tale of years,

removed now from our sight and from our ken,

sometimes descend on us like intimations

of that reality and of its laws,

and we transcend awhile our limitation

and play life without thinking of applause.

translation J.B. Leishmannn 1935

morphing the image, spinning the spot, hosting the odour,

miling me out

Never to subjugate our own time and implicate the subjective. I might be absorbed, but omit the absolute and renounce.

See... it never break down ever.

Live!

Late spring in my garden. Still lot to come, still a slowly opening door. This even higher sky drifts through the leafs, the month of may is dancing. And this is what my garden is; a cathedral housing the seasons. Housing the nuances, the shiftings, the shades, the changeable,.. never repeating light, growth and greenth.

Some while ago I read about the aborigines. They talk about a system of invisible tracks crossing the entire Australian continent named by western as "Dreamtracks" or "Songlines". The natives themselves calls it "The ancestors footprints" or "The paths of Law".

They tell stories and myths of creation and origin,.. about "Totemcreatures?" walking across the land in the dreamtime, singing the name of everything crossing their way,...birds, plants, rocks, waters...and thereby creating the world by naming.

As a matter of facts the aborigines believe, if the world is to exist, it is to be named by singing, if not it doesn`t exist. "A land not sung is a dead land, ...if the songs are forgotten, the land will die" they say. And... if the land is to come into being, they have to walk, year by year, the same tracks and sing, and name rocks, trees...everything.

And me found this the outmost wonderful; the world comes true by our presence, our eye and our confirmation.

To see, to name, to sing, participate and love.

Twelfth root of two,

more accurate: 1,0594630935929....One is often to ask where is God to find?

This is the musical relationship between notes. The figure to multiply every frequency to measure the next note in the tempered scale.

One of those places where spirit and science come together.

It is to be found...still, our image..

to read on...

like..everything is of another format than what`s accepted.

like..what`s grasping me is what`s speaking.

I code myself with information, this overload sometimes: The light through the atmosphere, the smell, the colour, the significanse, the sincerity of memories, ..the presence.

And suddenly....the situation tells itself to drive., to open up, ...suddenly its there,

....suddenly it stops.

images of sound ..installation made by nick zammuto of `the books`