Monday, 24 August 2009

Happiness: Brief but Good

..."The beach is a place where a man can feel
He's the only soul in the world that's real"...

The Who - Quadrophenia


I felt very modern – as in Modernism the artistic movement – while spending my weekend in the amazing medieval citadels of the Costa Brava in northern Spain. As I stayed in Begur, a former feudal stronghold, which was finally destroyed by the canons of Napoleon’s army, I was able to reach out to the neighbouring towns of Peratallada, Palau-Sator and Pals.
The mystique of those old towns scattered within the geography of the sinuous Hills of the North transports you to another time and place, where simplicity and endurance were vital. For such reason, the olden towers still gaze upon us with pride; they will still be there when we are long gone…
The marvellous sound of the Middle Sea under my balcony inspired me to write in Spanish, just one time, and dedicate these rhymes to my mother.
They seldom drink tea in such regions, you may replace with garnatxa wine, at your leisure.
I send my special love to faithful Frenchy Bastarrrd, LUX AETERNA and the lovely Pandora.


El mar,
Mi madre es el mar…

El Mediterráneo lame las rocas
Frente al castillo de Begur.
Escucho su canción,
Como si las sirenas de Ulises
Me llamaran por mi nombre.

Miro las rocas,
Las tenues luces de la bahía…

Las Islas Medas,
De las hijas del Sol,
Inspiran mis versos tardíos
Cuando en menos de dos horas
Saldrá el padre para despejar la Aurora.

He deseado este sol,
Tantas veces para mi madre!
He ansiado
Tantas veces darle el sol!

Este mítico Mar,
Este “Mar Nuestro”,
Mar eterno
que capturó a César
y a los griegos que nos legaron su cultura.

Las olas lamen la bahía
En la que Napoleón probara sus cañones;
Y sin embargo sus logros
No lograron mitigar la piedra
Del antiguo atalaya.

Mi madre es el mar...
Y a sus ojos profundos
Desearía legar por siempre
Las visiones de todos los mares
Surcados por hombres arcanos
Cuyo único testigo es la roca.


The pictures are my own. Begur Castle at night plus the view of the Med from my apartment.

Monday, 17 August 2009

Have you ever been afraid?

"Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?
The Shadow knows!"


Have you ever been afraid?
Have you ever seen the unseen
Peaking from underneath the mattresses
In the death of night?

Has your mind ever fed
From increasing paranoia?
To think you will never escape it,
Yourself and the way that you are.

Have you asked forgone Gods
To aid you and give you safe passage
Through this hell we call Life?

I can answer yes to all.
I know damnation when I see it,
Well enough to know,
I am positively damned.

Uncanny recollections,
And distant echoes from faraway places…
Knowledge begets fear
And infinite respect.

A word to the wise,
Seeking freedom comes with the high price
Of losing your mind.


A strong blend of Ginseng tea can help put away our ominous thoughts...
The image belongs to darklings favourite Hieronymus Bosch, and is called "Death of the Reprobate".

Thursday, 13 August 2009

Hello it´s me

"Hello it´s me, haven't seen you in a while
I wished I talked to you more when you were alive
I thought you were self-assured when you acted shy
Hello it's me."

John Cale & Lou Reed
Songs for Drella


Dear Friends,

I have been missing for a while, I know I am to blame, but as I have been very busy in Barcelona, I believe I might have a bit of an excuse.
Since my arrival things took a turn for the worse, all plans went awry and once again I was faced with no other answer but patience. On the Southern front, a beloved member of my family has come down with a serious illness and might leave this world soon. So, as it is, everything is stalled, frozen and all attempts at change are futile.


I cannot write,
I want to write and exorcize
My inner demons,
My soul.

The hand wanders,
The tip of my nail bangs the letters,
I force myself to type,
I am after all a scribe.

An old remnant of a bygone era,
An analogue being trying hard to survive
In the technoccult world
Of now.

My skills are nothing.
Who needs a writer, who needs a scholar?
Who needs a scribe?

I cannot seem to find my way,
How can I be of use,
When all I have to offer
Is hardly utilitarian?

I lose people every year,
The wise ones who need not learn
Any more from this wretched world,
Though I stay.

I stay to bear witness
To the new eon,
When man becomes machine
And poets are useless.

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