CC BY
8Humanity space International almanac VOL. 3, No 3, 2014: 496-509
"Album Leaves" (excerpts) M.I. Ognyaner
D-81541, Германия, Мюнхен, ул. Энтенбах 14
Entenbach Straße 14, München D-81541 Germani; e-mail: ognianer@hotmail.com
Key words: music, psychology, dreams, shizorealizm, experimental prose. Ключевые слова: музыка, психология, сны, шизореализм, экспериментальная проза.
Abstract: Imagine a ménage à trois of a sort - a Boy, a Girl and the Music... The Music is the most jealous partner, refusing to be simply a timid accompaniment - it is much more the director of this theater. One can never know whether it shall come to a final fight between the two great Loves, nor which of those shall win if it does come to that. This is an insider's look at the (in)famous "agonies and ecstasies of art" - based on experience, love and music.
Резюме: Представьте себе любовный треугольник - Мальчик, Девочка и Музыка. Музыка, эта самая ревнивая возлюбленная, отказывается играть роль послушного аккомпанемента - скорее, она является режиссёром этого театра. В любой момент между человеческой любовью и художественной страстью может вспыхнуть бой - и невозможно предугадать, кто же выиграет... Взгляд изнутри на давно ставшие стереотипом "муки и радости творчества", основанный на собственном опыте, любви и музыке. [Огнянер М.И. «Листки из альбома» (отрывки)]
Sergei PROKOFIEV Sarcasm No. 2, Op. 17
Once upon a time there was a Tiny One. He lived with Tzuna and was bewitched. An evil sorceress laid a curse on him: he could neither appease his hunger nor quench his thirst ere he made up a tale of food and drink; he'd have no breath ere he made up a tale of air; he'd know no rest ere he made up a tale of closed eyes and pillows -and so it went each and every day. His was a complicated life, as you'll surely have guessed; his head was so swollen with tales that he would have choked a long time ago, were it not for Tzuna who made it her daily chore to write down the overflowing words with coloured pencils on a large sheet of paper.
One fine day they were sitting by the fireplace - Tzuna drawing words with a red pencil, Tiny One finishing a tale about a book which he's longed to start reading for the last three days -
when suddenly someone knocked at their door. But of course! it's the fairy godfather, a fairytale wouldn't be caught dead without one of those. You know the type: must be kind; will send his darling godchildren to seek their fortune; fortune is situated at some suitably remote location; getting there and back is to be done in an impossibly short time since magic won't survive past midnight, nor fortune past midday... oh my, we do digress so.
The godfather settled in the easy chair and enjoyed a long smoke while Tiny One and Tzuna fussed around him, offering tea, coffee, dinner and dessert. Finally he put his pipe aside, firmly declined all offers and from the depth of his coat procured a tabloid, on the first page of which an obituary was ticked off with a purple marker. Tiny One quickly made up a story about how this obituary was his own, sighed with relief and read out loud:
"An earthquake of a local magnitude occurred yesterday in the village of Joyeuse-Island, county of Florence, damaging a bookcase at Rio-Negro-StraBe 7, app. B-3, first floor. The deceased books were laid to rest at the Libronecropolis in full accordance with the ritual of the Pan African Epiphanic Zen-Sunni Synagogue of the Seventh-day Anabaptists. Those wishing to pay the last honours to the dearly departed should consider a wire transfer: our account number is 3720974, Safra-Bank, Helsinki."
Having read this, Tiny One stared at his godfather in surprise and opened his mouth as widely as he could to ask a multitude of questions at once - but the fairy bastard has evaporated, leaving behind his pipe and a phfft on the chair. Tzuna bent her shoulders, shrugged her brows and started preparing Tiny One for the journey. Such was their custom: know you not what to do, pull on your boots, put on the fur coat, wind the scarf round your throat - and go to blazes.
Upon arriving at the Florence train station, the first thing Tiny One did was to rip the scarf off his neck - 'twas an exceptionally hot summer. He used the fur coat to cover a deputy commissioner of the animal welfare society sleeping on the platform bench, the boots he hurled at the head of a drunken porter roaming nearby - the sneaky thief obviously intended to steal the gift from the wretched welfarer. And so, naked and barefooted, Tiny One plodded towards Joyeuse--Island to see for himself the damaged bookcase and to lay a blessed
fig's end on the books' grave.
Tiny One hoped to find the Libronecropolis empty, but some antiquated chap was hanging around the grave. "Welcome," he mumbled delightedly at the newcomer. "Let us begin the breakage of your curse. Go on, tell me all your tales and don't skip a word. Finish before midnight and the curse will loose its strength." Tiny One was taken aback at first, but the old geezer tapped his watch, snapped his fingers - and Tiny One's tongue started whirling like a windmill!
The very instant Tiny One finished his tales it struck midnight. "Attaboy! you made short work of it. Now take this sack of coins and run home this minute, I bet Tzuna has grown ill with waiting."
.and they lived happily ever after. Coins were aplenty - one for each tale. They bought a huge house, a red car with a honk and a chauffer to boot. Locals respected Tiny One. When passing his home, they took their hats off and told each other: "Now then, he's a good sort. Reputable lad, this one is." Of course, Tiny One did miss his tales something awful, and Tzuna pined over the loss of the coloured pencils and sometimes quietly cried in the corner, remembering how much fun she had had drawing motley letters on white paper - but that's all pish posh. If you have coins aplenty, and locals see you as a "good sort" and "reputable", then you'll manage just fine even if you did loose your curse.
Gyorgy LIGETI
Etude No. 14 "Coloana infinita"
... the first words of this story are written after the story to warn do not read this story it's about how bad a story can become lifeless like dolls on a string moves obediently am looking at her and see a world in a grain of sand hold infinity in the palm of hand is too much no use just one good one is enough and to get with the program one would need a programmer to be do write listen thoroughly and see that one stays focused no excess words to be in the zone we call it concentrating they don't like concentrates freshly squeezed is better:
... why play with dolls must be a barbie doll human because cactus is human too only unshaven and misunderstood by women
over four-and-twenty blackbirds and starlings are almost the same old same old fucked up colibri no cursing cheap shot of language aftertaste floods my mouth:
... why the stream of consciousness waterfall of thoughts niagara is pretty i want it not very much though don't want anything see i am unfocussed already wrote it was interesting when:
. why read write the word why no need i do word variations on my own theme but my own is very small and i suffer but don't show why:
. very loud piano:
... i told you not to read this:
. why:
... thought pot distraught shot through the name of a writer I love to read fairytales but none will shoot through my brains pierced with a pointed skull splinter scratches my hand i am unsartred underchandlered decortazared vonnegutless everybody has left me and i think i think i think:
Franz LISZT
"Valse Oubilee" No. 1 in F-sharp Major, S.215
Her breath is woven into my skin like a fine thread, binding my chest with viscous signs of an ancient script. Barely touching my lips, her breath rolls on the tongue like the light-golden juice of a freshly plucked mango, scorches the larynx, paints my cheeks with sugary traces. Her breath tickles the roots of my hair.
Her fingers are gingerly teasing my body as they glide down. Her fingers radiate magical power, but she will not use it - making my head spin is so much more interesting! All the nights of the world are in her fingers.
Her hand grasps something solid and stiff. Nail gently skims the bulging vein, little finger slowly moves upward to the firm springy berry above. Now we are playing for high stakes. I dip my hand into Tzuna's hair, hazelnut locks stream around my palm. She looks at me and I at her, I try to lick off, suck out all the sweetness of her lips but that is impossible - the more she gives the sweeter she grows. I surrender and lean back on the pillows.
Tzuna flares her nostrils as she inhales the aura of our minds.
Her lips pensively grasp the rigid sceptre, the symbol of her power, her tongue grazing upwards as if to remove an invisible peel from ripe fruit. Each touch sends me flying higher. As I hit the clouds of cerise, lilac, amethyst light, I grab Tzuna by her hair and make her let go of the prey - it is my turn now.
My hand softly squeezes the grainy triangle. A mellow chime from the depth of her body echoes my attack. I foray into the velvety abode, my lips merge with tangy-sweet petals while my tongue finds the precious pearl and starts teasing it, leaving only to return again and again.
. behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair! Thy bosom is firmer than words, softer than glances; shoulders are whiter than a dream; thy hair is as a milky way; thy legs slender as a beam of light; thy waist guards the mystery of my offspring -
Tzuna grips me in a whirlpool of tight spasm just as it dawns upon me - she is my wife! I love - my wife! I whisper into her ear: "You're my wife!" Woven into a braid, we plummet from insane heights and fall into an easy, deep, blissful slumber. Our sleep is an embrace, our legs entwined under the blanket. It is I - with my wife.
Alexander SCRIABIN
Etude in C-sharp Minor, op. 42 No. 5
Why am I here?
I feel uneasy in the dusky gloom of the large gallery. Empty gallery covered with tapestries. Narrow gallery crammed with antique furniture. Five candles are guttering in a candelabra; evil shadows scurry along wooden panels and rustle in corners, looking sideways at me from under their abominably long eyelashes. It's a plot. Why am I here?
I'm supposed to save someone. Someone takes my hand. No -I take her hand. Little girl with a pale face, almond eyes and short hazelnut hair. She is freezing, her icy hand is chilling my fingers. We walk through the gallery. The shadows glide after us, throwing their thin legs out in a ridiculous fashion. We pull the heavy doors ajar and enter the library.
The library is filled with the smell of stale cigar smoke. Golden engravings on the dusty books' spines reflect the light of my
candle. The shadows are hiding from us, sprawling out on the oak floor, but we can still hear their malicious hissing. The girl grips my hand tightly. We go through the library into the grand salon.
It is warmer in here. The fire is lit. Logs sputter and shoot sparkles. The shadows scamper right and left, gesticulate spiritedly and slide down the walls from the ceiling to the floor. The girl wouldn't mind staying here for a while, she looks with yearning at the cozy armchair, but I press on.
The dining room is as quiet as a chapel - only mice scratch at the sideboard. The kitchen is cold and smells of burnt bones. The clock in the study ticks so loudly that the shadows inadvertently slow their pace, their shapes twitching with every click of the noisy time.
Finally we get to the stairs. Grey stairs. Stone stairs. Steep and worn stairs. They go down and out of sight. I hold the girl's hand in mine tightly as I start down the stairs. It is slippery, my heart is sinking with each step. The girl walks smoothly and evenly, though, as if her feet don't quite touch the floor. Her hair isn't hazelnut anymore, it has turned fair. Her hand has grown warm. Now she is the one leading me. Why am I here?
The shadows are out of our sight. They're breathing down my neck. I wheel around sharply in the hope of catching them unawares, but they dash under the handrails. I turn back to walk on and see that there are no more stairs. We are in a brightly lit atrium dripping with gold chandeliers, marble columns and ornate alabaster stained-glass windows.
The girl lets go of my hand, her eyes cast down, her hair white. I must save her. From whom?
The gold chandelier at the atrium's end. The chandelier bristling with crystal pendants. The chandelier burning with the power of a thousand candles. The chandelier grows black. It's the Dark Man! like a drop of poisoned ink he slowly spreads.
Listen. Someone else will save you. Please. I can't. I don't know how. The Dark Man spreads around the atrium, filling every bit of space with his body. His dark finger points to the girl. He says:
- This soul is mine!
I won't be saving you. I can't. I'm scared.
Wake me up.
Frédéric CHOPIN
Mazurka in F-sharp Minor, op. 6 No. 1
... in the morning they'll don their Sunday best spacesuits to fly to the Moon for a crater walk and a picnic. As expected, Moon will prove to be just as we see it from Earth - round, yellow, shining with an opaque glow as if lit by a thousand searchlights. Tiny One will revel in weightlessness right away; Tzuna will be wary at first, but shall soon get used to it.
The crater will prove to be tricky: smooth as a baby's bottom in appearance but actually pitted with minuscule cavities. Tiny One will be tripping and admonishing outer space with an expletive; Tzuna will be whimpering softly and pressing a handkerchief to her grazed knees.
Upon reaching the crater's floor Tzuna will stop in her tracks, frown and breathe through the nose, soothing her stinging lungs. Tiny One will simply collapse and express his sense of accomplishment in a loud "Phew" before commencing a search for rocks flat enough to sit on.
Tzuna will already have taken the food out of her knapsack -fresh rolls, camembert and tomatoes - when Tiny One will suddenly grab a bottle of cider, pull the cork out with his teeth and pour the joyful fizzy liquid onto a rock. Tzuna will inquire whether there's a method in his madness and he'll answer by telling her to rub the rock's surface. Soon they will clearly see the word "Written" carved in elegant italics. Tiny One's ever-fevered imagination will blaze up in anticipation of a huge discovery and he'll rush to explore.
There will be only half a bottle of cider left in the end - to make up for it ten flat rocks will be spread out in front of them, scrubbed to shine like the moon. Tzuna will be the first to put the words in the correct order, reading aloud: "Words - Of - The -Prophets - Are - Written - On - The - Subway - Walls." Irate, Tiny One will spit on the "Prophets", kick the "Words" and skip around the crater like some sort of lunar grasshopper, all the while addressing space-roaming idiots who flew eleventy million miles to hoist a flag and carve a song line on the rocks with jolly and unkind words. Tzuna will look at him and giggle - once, twice, thrice; Tiny One will do his best to get cross with her, but a smile would pierce
his face like a comet - and they'll burst out laughing, holding their hungry sides and not bothering to wipe large clear tears.
Having laughed to their hearts' content, they will climb the rocks and do justice to artless delicacies which compliment the lunar landscape so well. Done with her food, Tzuna will shake the last drop out of the bottle and blow on its rim, shrouding Tiny One in a cloud of thick creamy sound.
Then they'll do a lengthy flight around the Moon, fighting zero gravity for their clothes. Fastening the last button, Tiny One shall ask:
- What do you think, Tzuna: had the prophets understood even a particle of their prophecies, would they have dared to keep prophesying?
- Yes, - Tzuna will answer without a pause.
- Why?
Tzuna will adjust the spacesuit on Tiny One, blow an invisible dust speck off his shoulder and whisper into his ear:
- Because they are prophets.
Claude DEBUSSY
"Soirée dans Grenade" from "Estampes"
Waves of pre-sunset lavender light rolled all over the café. Sharp fluttering shadows tapped arousing Latin rhythms on plastic tables. Another day was drawing in with leisurely grace. Tzuna's espresso was long gone, she was eagerly kneading the pavement with her shoes in a perfect imitation of a young filly while Tiny One took his time smoking.
- So, shall we?
They roamed the courtyards and the alleys, stopping to check out an old house or a plaster statue with a chipped nose; went in an old shabby cathedral, admired its thirteenth century stained-glass windows, said a prayer, kissed, went out and again walked on and on and on.
Twilight caught them on a small round plaza strewn with tables and waiters skilfully navigating the narrow space between. Three musicians took its centre - two were sitting on the ground, hugging their guitars; standing in front of them was a young scraggy
lad with a flute. They were playing brilliantly, wildly and intently, radiating freedom while meticulously calculating the unpredictability with which sounds and harmonies will cut through the nervous tissue of their audience. The moment the flautist spotted Tiny One and Tzuna he cut his meteoric improvisation short. After a pause he brought the flute back to his lips and, his eyes firmly fixed on theirs, began a new tune.
Intricate melody was coiling with deliberate capricious ease -just as a trickle of cognac would while streaming into a snifter. It was following precisely the curves of Tzuna's body, lifting her breasts, stroking her back, hugging her waist. Tiny One chocked with rage. How dares this savage arouse Tzuna with his talent! But Tzuna shook her head and pulled on Tiny One's sleeve, urging him along.
They met the night in a narrow alley. Antique lanterns with intricate designs gave dim and mysterious light, barely illuminating hog heads and straw-wrapped bottles of rustic wine in the windows of small shops. The moon flirted with them from behind the pointed roofs. Tzuna took Tiny One's hand, entwined her fingers with his. Tiny One looked into her eyes and forgot where they were going and why. Only now did he see that the musicians on the plaza never tried to take Tzuna away from him - on the contrary, they charmed her especially for him.
Tzuna led Tiny One through the maze of passages, alleys, archways; finally she stopped at a small courtyard and looked around. It was dark and barren but for a stack of empty wine skins in the corner. Tiny One pushed Tzuna onto the ox hide covering the stack, leaned to her, ran his tongue over her lower lip; Tzuna threw her arms round his hips and pulled him closer. They melted into a long kiss, flinging themselves upon the mercy of the muffled flute still ringing through their mind. Tzuna tugged at his zip, pulling thick fabric apart with her fingers; Tiny One placed his arm over Tzuna's shoulders, pressed her close to him. He entered her slowly and gently; Tzuna sighed softly, bit into his lips - and they exploded in a mad dance which, so it seemed, made the Earth's crust sag.
A quarter-hour later they left the yard. The lights were out, the moon hid behind the clouds, a sleepy tower clock lazily struck the time for other people. Oblivious of everything, Tiny One and Tzuna looked at each other, kissed and walked on.
Felix MENDELSSOHN (arr. Sergei RACHMANINOFF) Scherzo from "A Midsummer Night's Dream"
A veil of white silk sinks onto my eyes. I'm falling asleep. Not sleeping, just going to. With my closed eyes I see a myriad of sparks running through my head - they snatch bits and pieces out of the darkness, one never knows what will be lit next. Now this is.? Something shiny. Something steely. Something prickly. A needle? A needle. A needle! I grab it, tap it on the music stand, give a sharp preparatory beat - and the orchestra obediently throws a handful of pizzicati right in my face. A couple of those land on my tongue and melt, coating my taste buds with piquant tartness. My mouth is overflown with thick transparent saliva - I have to spit.
Creamy bubbly foam spouts onto the red marble floor, boils up and rises in a fountain. Players flee in panic, rendering me voiceless. Deeply offended by this, I spit again and enter the fountain. There I find my guardian angel, his face alight with an icy blue glow, his gaze grave and mournful. He picks me up and throws me skywards. I wave at him as I fly into a whitewashed ceiling. A large night moth flies next to me; I want to hear her opinion on the meaning of life but she gives me a coquettish slap on the face with her wing and tells me not to be a naughty boy. I tell her about Tzuna, my previous flights, the hut and the cave; about the spider which spins a web for the whole world. The moth says the spider is an old friend of hers, but I don't believe her. She argues, assures, giggles, her general behaviour becoming that of a lolita at a school ball. I grow bored so I bid her a polite farewell and get back on my way, darting through the ceiling into the sky. There I hover for a while before casting a look downwards, and - I see a room. but it will already have happened later.
I absent-mindedly scratch my chin and rummage my thoughts in search of another adventure. Then it dawns on me - I still have the needle, don't I? I should try it again: breath in, raise the bows, strike the chord. No, nothing. Can one conduct with it at all, I wonder? No, not really, says a mellow voice from behind my back. Who are you, I ask. I am a fairy, that's my wand you're holding. Give it back, please. What'll you give me instead? Why, are you in need of anything? asks the voice, clearly puzzled. Isn't your life already
good? I feel awfully ashamed. Forgive me, I whisper. Here, I whisper. Take it. Please.
And now sleep, orders the voice sternly, I have enough on my mind without having to chase you. I grin apologetically. I know the fairy isn't cross - not really. As she tucks me in she sees Tzuna peacefully asleep under a warm blanket. So pretty! you should introduce us next time. Of course I will, I say, but will you come again? I will, I promise I will, now do go to sleep. Good night.
She gives me a kiss before leaving. Pity I won't remember it, I manage to think before I fall asleep.
Maurice RAVEL
"Ondine" from "Gaspard de la nuit"
If I were a poet. I wouldn't be writing poems. Not a verse would I write. If I were a poet:
I would take a razor. I would draw with it on my skin. A fine line. The beginning of a hieroglyph. Which means "Long Life". Lengthy, drawn-out life. Long narrow path. Grey. Dusty. Flanked with pictures. Some of them funny, some of them sad. Some - scary. Varied pictures. Drawn so well. Seems like they're real. Not drawn. Seems like one could. Ignore the path. And walk into the pictures. It just seems like that.
The line is pretty. Very fine. Red. A droplet on the right of it. A picture on the left. A picture of an igloo. A yaranga. A wigwam. I don't know what it's called. But I'm there too. I have long tangled hair. And a young wife. I fish each day and ask myself. In unintelligible gibberish. Why. I am tired of fishing. It's boring. To catch fish. And look at it thrashing around - each day. Silvery, slippery fish. I won't be tricked. The fish is grey and dusty. On the inside. And on the outside too, but you don't see it. Seems silvery and slippery to you. But I know - it only seems to you.
It seems to you I made all of that up. The path and each day. Seems to you - there is no each day. Days are varied. Seems to you. I know. All days are each. Mouldy. Don't believe me. I'm begging you. I am dusty. Nonpoet.
I keep on drawing. The hieroglyph. It means something. Something bad. Scary. Painful. Still boring. A torn curve. Coils
along my hand. Cobra coils. I coil. My desert is dusty. Full of mice. I'm hunting. Tastes good. Man comes into my desert. I'll bite him. It isn't true. That cobras strike only out of fear. I'll strike because. I envy him. He sees many pictures. And I - only a desert. Yellow. Dusty. I coil in the sand. Each day. And he can leave. The desert. It only seems to me. But I am a cobra. I can just strike. Without thinking. He can't.
It seems to him: would one think long and hard. One could draw a picture oneself. But I won't walk in it. Even if I did draw it. You can't walk in pictures. They are just pictures. Not real. Slippery. But you glide along, not giving a damn. You can't do that. I'm telling you. But you don't believe me. Do not believe me. Please. Just don't leave.
You are leaving. Walking in the sand. In the snow. The snow under your feet is silvery. You believe it. The snow squeaks. I squeak. Under your feet. Each step of yours - I squeak. Seems like a melody to you. You hum. The melody. Which I don't squeak. I don't know how to squeak melodies. But don't you believe me. Your steps aren't each. They're varied. Even if it only seems to me.
I try following in your steps. But underneath me is a dusty path. It's noiseless. No melody. Only lines. With droplets on them. Pretty.
I'm tired. I'll sit for a while. Muscles ache. Droplets bump into each other. They're pathless. They don't know where to go. Rolling along my hand. They enter the picture. But they feel unwell there. It's slippery. They can't keep in the picture. Fall. Grow mouldy. And feel good. Nothing seems to them anymore.
I stand up. To go on. I don't want to leave the path. Something interesting will come. At the end of the path. There is no end. I know it. It ends at the middle. I won't have anywhere to go. But I go on. I'm thinking: if you go on and on, you'll come somewhere. It only seems to me.
You're already at the end of the path. Your path is made out of ends. You are always came. I am always go. Wait for me. We shall walk together. Droplets fall from me. And turn into pictures. Catch them, do. They are heavy. Won't let me walk fast. Those pictures.
A droplet falls. Straight on his head. He's wearing a suit and a
tie. Very handsome. Opens his umbrella. Mould grows all over his body. He daubs perfume right under his nose. To cover the smell. But mould devours perfume in a flash. It takes many a bottle a day. To cover the smell. He suspects. That there are people. Who can do with just a droplet. He, too, wants that. As he roams the streets after work. He peers into windows. Looking for people with droplets. He envies them. Wants them to teach him. Wishes them not to know how themselves. He's under my window. Sees a picture with me and droplets. Seems to him: he is me. It only seems to him.
The hieroglyph will be ready soon. Only one last line left. Angry droplets are boiling up. On my skin. Is that it? Won't you save me? Pull me out of the middle. Into an end. Give me an end. You have so many. I'll dig my fangs. Into your hand. And demand a reward. For the song which you hummed. Along with my squeaking. So what if I didn't believe it. The main thing is - it seemed to you! Give me. Give me the picture. I see it. I can walk into it. I just mustn't be afraid to fall. Then I, too, will go to the end. And beyond.
Droplets had fallen. I have no more. But I see the end. I know now - the path doesn't end at the middle. I just won't get there. Tell others. So they won't sit down midpath. And you. Must go on. Don't turn around. I feel good. I am a poet. From the last droplet. I shall make you a poem. Only I won't write it. I couldn't write it. It only seems to me.
Johannes BRAHMS
Intermezzo in B-flat Minor, op. 117 No. 2
Hello, Lord. Give me a light. Light my day and my cigarette. Do not let me stray from my path; teach me to be content. Content, but not replete. Happy, but not homeless. Free, but loved - teach me please. Give me much of everything, Almighty. Leave me my beloved. Take my enemies away from me - make them happy so they may forget me; make them alive so they may love me. Give them faith, I beg of you, for nothing is beyond your power. Love me as I love my neighbour, for I am good.
I have lived loving you; I have lived arguing with you; I have lived ignoring you, renouncing you and your intolerable grace. I had lived everyhow, Lord. Don't scold me, please! see, my arms are
opened unto you - take my embrace; do not shake me out of the palm of your hand without care, for it was said: everyone is a child of God. Do not break your word, Almighty.
Grant me concentration. I am tired of flying through spaces overshadowed by your blessing; I cannot endure the wealth of your worlds and spirits. I have seen what there was for me to see, and goodness rends my insides. Give me shelter, Creator, resolve at least some of my matters! make my mind keep its place, give it a niche, a footing - I am losing my Earth. My eyes are dim with tears, I know not where to go, I know not what to do; as the Spirit of God upon the face of the waters, I whirl through a labyrinth of a single straight line where there is neither an end nor a turn. Bend my path, Lord, fill it with a mystery around the corner - grant me some hope, Almighty.
Hear my quiet gratitude, o Lord. Won't scare you with a hail. Take these gifts from the bottom of my heart: a candle, alight and warm; a tempest, spinning and wild; the dark wind of my desire; easy tears of my humility; the pounding of my drums - all is yours, o Lord. With might and main I am calling for your help, but you are weary. And so am I - weary in your image, after your likeness. Absolve me my soul, farm it out to me; I shall redraw it in a different image, after another likeness - it might get easier for both of us.
I love you as one loves one's parents. I crave you as one craves water. I draw you in charcoal on walls and in oil on canvas. I write you on paper. I create my creator such as I need him to be, for it is not my destiny to see him. Drawing you as I imagine you to be, I accept you as you are. Forgive me my prayer, forgive my gratitude -do not heed me, o Lord. Gently I kiss your forehead; may your sleep be refreshing, your drink cold, and your thought kind. So it was in the beginning, is now, and will be for ever. Amen.
Получена / Received: 19.12.2013 Принята/Accepted: 07.07.2014
