This is the Anthem.
This is the Anthem.
This is the Anthem.

Blind Daughter of Tuonela that I am
Blind Daughter of Louhi that she is
The Beauty that you feel is not what you see
That I see
You are so blind, more blind, than me.

The Horror of silence. Nothingness. An Alien, the alien that I am wisdom, to a void of ignorance. To indifference. To curelty.
Cruelty is all those things. It leaves all your brilliance locked away in some awful space, some shitty closet in some forgotten place. To be forgotten is to walk among the living, without a voice. A ghost. Among ghosts. No feeling there. No emotion. No concern. Totake the sun for granted that sits deep in teh lap of Dionysus, wisdom and experience beyond the layers most can see, penetrate or cut through with there dull knives, never ever lock that fucking thing in a closet. Cruelty by way of cheap advancement for one's emptiness inside. To try to fill it with whatever is stolen, or ignored, from the cup of others. No one should ignore your light. It's precious. Cruel to say nothing to something that illuminates the light. Aligned with the moon. So strong. So honest. Without that there is no good work.

The Horror The Horror of The Day
The Horror of The Mundane
The Horror of The Excellence
The flip side of the mundae is not excellence. A supreme and sharpened sword that has slain can cut its master. Vainomoinen who sings to the axe that cut him. He weaves words to unweave the wound but only so with the power of the blade. And so, he must speak to the blade, in order to undo, what the blade has done.

What is normal, or considered so, has always been terrifying to me. Genuinely so. Because to me, it is all a ruse, by this I mean, a construct. There is no reality in it, only, agreement, words, thin ones. So those who grew up with love have no ability to know what I know or sit where I sit in my heart, they think, mine must be theirs, the same, but there is not sameness in what I do. None at all. So the sword is in fact so sharp, so very sharp that it is invisible to most. They don't, they can't ever understand, they cannot see, cannot imagine such an edge. Because they sit in the comfort of normal. And normal that really terrifies me. Because I dn't know it and cannot speak that language. If you want to call it that. `And I don't think it's a language, I think it's a cndition, of comfort. Tp be comfortable, to be loved means, you could never scale the unforgiing crags of a vertical cliff. And call that your home. Home, is not a word for that. But that is where I am. Comfort is a kind of enemy because again, it is just an agreement. It is not, a state of being.
Sometimes I think I am like Roy from Bladerunner, the one who burned so very very brightly. And saw those seabeams of the star of X. I am replicant, not human. Knowing that the replicant is all too human. T be alien, is to truly feel, to be alien is to be part of the earth in the sense that you share words, that take shape in the crevices and shadows, places where most cannot even find. They all have candles. They go only where that little light can take them. And they follow one little illumination after another. To save child. Thisi s another zone. T save a life, that is helpless and part one who-you-are is the one thing that can slay you - more than any sword. It's been leveraged by armies effectively since the dawn of war - but what if you win that war - you know how to beat the impossible - because you speak the impossible. Still you are exhausted. Not from the battle, but because no body sees you. Your weapon is so sharp they see, only the way that you slay - with such precision, and so fantastically.
A replicant does feel like an imposter if they are told over and over that they are not human. `That it has been fake all along. This is a terrible thing. To be told that your memories were a way to trick you into doing, the things that those comfortable humans cannot do. A state of comfort is a state of sleep, no well, sleep is a luxury for those aliens, Sleep promises rebirth.

So in the end, all that is so phonemonal is really pointing to what is human, and this very much includes violence. The idea that the comfortable couch is waht makes us what we are, with love and warmth all around, is a small picture in a frame. Without violence, there maybe could not be evolution. Revolution is evolution. In a human sense. Political. I don't intend to go this way with my words. What I mean is, with such a sharp sword, there is the possiblity of falling on it. ALso, to cling to things too hard. As if your life depends on them. You have been only 3 scraps to mark your existence, so what you bulid from there, bears the weight of mountains. And this should notb e so.


Pisze po polsku. Bo zacze?o si? tam w Polsce. Gdzie ktos si? urodzi?. Nie tam, gdzie otworzyla si? wrota krwi. Moja wrota krwi. To bylo gdzie indziej. Napisa?em o tym do programu, który zrobi?em z Hansem Bellmerem i za ten tekst Gabrielle Salomon bardzo mnie pochwali?a. Jest gdzie? tutaj, poni?ej. Brama krwi, o ktorej mowie, to inna osoba, w innym miejscu, w innym narodzie. Mówi innym j?zykiem. W jakis sposób nasza krew - sie skrzy?owa?a.
Ale jak to mo?liwe. Aby cz?owiek krwawil, musi zosta? poci?ty. Musi by? rozdarty. Musi zostac zaatakowany. Z czyms, o czym nie mo?e ?ni?. Mo?e co? ze stali, w fabryce, albo w?ókna gwo?dzia, co? najbli?szego zyciu, przymocowane do dloni, ale wkrótce odci?te. Tylko w ten sposób cz?owiek mo?e krwawic. A je?li tak, to jak zmiesza?a si? nasza krew?
Nawet a ja to pisz?, a t, h, ja, s, to w?a?ciwie o nim – on – nie ja – ale on – odbudowuje siebie. Zacz?lo si? nie tutaj. Zacz?lo sie w Polsce. Zacz??o si? od mojego cia?a. Zacz??o si? od jego spojrzenia. Zaczyna sie od zamknietych oczu. Zacz??o sie od mojego lona. Zacz??o sie od ch?ci mieszania. Ale nasza krew byla ju? zmieszana.
Jak to jest.
Jak to si? mog?o miesza? – juz.
polska krew.
I my?l? o w?ciek?o?ci. I jak blisko jest do mi?o?ci. To nie jest spokrewnione, ale siedz? w komnatach blisko siebie. Ich przestrzenie mieszaj? si?, jak zmieszana krew. Mo?na powiedzie? trucizna, ale to jest krew.
THE BLACK THING IN THE ROOM

No face. All face. No face at all face. Not a shadow. Not a thing. The thing that wants to be you. The thing, that is not you - but it follows - yes It Follows. I always thought the charred creature under the skin of Scarlette Johannson in Under The Skin - was me. My trajectory - like this - I can even mark points in that movie that I mind find interstices in my life - men with names and men whose names dont matter. The end up in the glugluglug of quick consumption, not to be remembered, valued, or kept. Discarded. Like crumpled paper.
But that thing, that thing in the room, the black thing in the room. Your ancestors there, who follow, dark line, dark lineage, so many awful things, that is heavy, maybe anxirty is just what feels their little fingers, poking up the surface - not quite through - but stretching it - they feeling they might - poke through - if you dont try with all your might - to hold them back = and there it is - anxiety - because you are caught between good an evil - you must be good as you fight evil. This is why clear fights - self defense - is so clear - as a sword is sharp = it is not muddled. There are no questions. To navigate the grey world of moral inequity - slip tongues - tongues held - tongues cut off beefore they can speak - or get a work in - is so much easier. It is almost - a physical relief.
The thing in the room, poking, like a half seen convex "jabklo" inside of me, on a black and white screen, what a terrifble gift to ahnd to a maiden. The witch did. The witch did. And there it stands. It follows. It holds that black charred apple in its hand. It is there, for the next one. What awful thing is this. Teeth. Crackle. Charred apple.

I read somewhere that Marelene Dietrich did have a good sex life. How stupid.

Oh wow. This morning I am really grateful - for my talent.
It started off with an email I composed to an ambassador but was interrupted by medical service about making an apppointment for a colonscopy. I wonder if on a tombstonoe someone could just list all their life's appointments and leave it there. So much interruption. Social media doesnt help. I looked then at the website of gallery I like after a conversation yesterday with a director of a gallery I like here and he said - only this painting sold - she always does faces - you can see how it can hang nicely in the living room of an upper middle class family. He is very right. We were so daring in the 1920's! And at the turn of the century when we demanded unions, the right to vote, and spat at the great capitalist barons. What existential dread has filled the souls of those meant to think. Thinking is a rare bird. Comfort, crap, lifestyle tokens, which evolve from a consciousness of entertainment, have overtaken us.
So I am grateful. After a period of great pain. And sadness. To see clearly into the vessel of truth motivates others who crave it.
But, these are the good ones. The real ones. Things of substance. Not those shadows, on the wall of Plato's cave.
That collector who told me I should paint. To make money, I guess. It's so foreign this thing, the stetcher, rather better for upholstery. That is what painting is.
I saw acrate, recently, by Basquiat, who has himself become bars of gold. He is currency now. Beyond his wildest dreams. It's such a sadistic plot, to ignore the suffering of a junkie, and launch them, like, what taste or feelings does teh average banker have? as a public offering, on the stock exchange/whatever space where slave bodies were sold and traded, shipped. Merchadise. Those warehouses, where they storied new arrivals I believe is was South Carolina - all part of an enormous ecosystem that profited at every step.
And now for the village: I realize the village, in Ukraine, the forest, the cohesion, the support, the tears, the smiles, the laughter, the fun, the achknowledgement of one's accomplishments, the touch, the hand that extends to hold yours, I was raised by wolves, I telll people, but that would have been a luxury. No, i was raised in a vacuum. What a terrible space - nothing can grow there. So, I am grateful, for my talent. No, I'm not great with people, unless it's about harnessing energy, organizing it, making bigger things happen. But where am I when I am not a leader? Quite lost. I never had an oven. I don't know to cook. Kitchens always, invoke, a kind of real terror. Foreign objects. Bad places. Why not a welcoming one? I found this in the houses of collectors - and that is skewed. Outside business - a void - a tunnel without wind. No wonder I was such a shiny object to lesser flies. Easy prey. That is shitty, but, not of my doing. I just read the fantastically false narrative of my half sister, the oldest, who was, as was all, dealt a nasty hand. What a fantasy. What a child-brave attempt to make sense of the nonsense, to alter the story, to create a narrative: that is kind. What a puppet to a manipulative hand. Whole facts - whole wives - eliminated - as if a story can do this to human flesh, living, breathing, being, breeding.

niedojebane
ti kurwa

I understand why those who see farther are shown with their eyes closed. They are dreaming of something more - they move past the horizon. Tiresias.

It's strange to go through awful and difficult things and what you are that the first thing people try to do is either shun you or take advantage. You have to deal with the world alone. And fight them. I think of how fascinated I was as a teenager and now, by Celtic tribes and culture and how there was a belief that if you strayed past the borders of your tribe - the Tua - the walls - the lines - you lost your identity. You lost your protection. You were in a magic and dangerous world - where you power evaporated.

I think of how my work, my creative work, comes from such great depths. The darkest spaces. I pull a thread from the pitch-black places - so vast so interior - such dimension cannot be measured - in the space of time - there is no place - no location - only what the work dictates - it is like a direct hit - to something inside the viewer that lies deep under the layers of existence.