(Feranjis : Amharic for foreigners)
It's no secret that the stars are falling from the sky
its no secret that our world is in darkness tonight
they say the sun is sometimes eclipsed by a moon
you know I don't see you when you walk in the room
So imagine this:
To go seamlessly, like air, unnoticed, invincible, floating, across borders and crashing into lives. With only Nietzsche, John Steinbeck, Paul Theroux and your blank journals to keep you company. Not skulk on the surface and merely scratch it. To sneak in, take off your shoes, and your socks, hey have an ice-cold drink, play at peek-a-boo with the littluns (Lord of the Flies), and then to sit there. For as long as it takes. Days - Weeks - Months. Who knows? To watch, smell, taste and feel and touch. To prod, to question, to provoke, and to listen - Attentively. To imbibe, to jot down, to put to paper, in those blank journals; for blank spaces, to render visceral landscapes not in waterpaints but in wordpaints. To hear words. Spoken. They're sounds you know. Have you ever listened? Timbres? Nuances? Subtleties in meaning? To record dialogue. With wordpaint. Using a fine wordbrush. The chatter of the night. Can you hear it? Precisely. Scribble-scribble. To transport, to transport you my darling, my sweetheart, as if by magic carpet to where I sit; the choking dust, the toxic sun, the verdant bitter harvests; to where I am, to what I feel, what I am thinking, the taste of my fears and the bitterness etched on my tongue. To hold your hand and to take you gently, to take you by your dove white wrists, to take you to partake in me, in being me, at that moment, in time, somewhere. Scribble-scribble. To render a person - to describe the 'essence' of a thing without wallowing in cliche or affectation or pretension to artistic merit. To quite simply see the world through my eyes fogged by my tears and the stink of my sweat. Scribble-scribble.
To feel. To feel the oneness of being alone, in a forest of foreign signs, foreign words and feranji faces. To feel at one with Betelgeuse; up there struggling to be heard through the din of a galaxy of faces, bad faces, unscrutable, malicious faces, burnished and regal; they're all evil-doers you know. Have you ever felt that? That aloneness? Just you. That feeling of primitive man. Ancient cave man. Course you haven't. Nothing but you and the stars. Scribble-scribble.
Love...we shine like a burning star
We're falling from the sky
Tonight.
To feel the listless torpor of waiting. That 'in-between' place weighing heavy on your temples and squeezing your brain through your ears. Waiting. Waiting for the moment of departure at bus depots, at the airport, at the train station. At the airport - where neon is blinding and scratches. You scratch yourself red in boredom. All of life is here. Not going anywhere. Where all is still and nothing much happens and time is on vacation and fear is king; and then the sigh and release of final departure. Your shackles slither away. Is it the journey or the destination I wonder? What matters? Journey or destination?Here's a thought: Can one travel without destination thus emancipating oneself from the banality of travel? Deep stuff. That'e me. That's my experiment. Yes. How so?
Freedom from destination. When there's no destination the mythical destination becomes everything. Here - now - then. The present is everything. No worries. Scribble-scribble
Freedom from time. There! There goes my watch, in the river, down the ravine, down the latrine. Fuck off watch! Hope you drown shitty little watch!
Freedom from luggage. What luggage?
It's no secret that the stars are falling from the sky
its no secret that our world is in darkness tonight
they say the sun is sometimes eclipsed by a moon
you know I don't see you when you walk in the room
So imagine this:
To go seamlessly, like air, unnoticed, invincible, floating, across borders and crashing into lives. With only Nietzsche, John Steinbeck, Paul Theroux and your blank journals to keep you company. Not skulk on the surface and merely scratch it. To sneak in, take off your shoes, and your socks, hey have an ice-cold drink, play at peek-a-boo with the littluns (Lord of the Flies), and then to sit there. For as long as it takes. Days - Weeks - Months. Who knows? To watch, smell, taste and feel and touch. To prod, to question, to provoke, and to listen - Attentively. To imbibe, to jot down, to put to paper, in those blank journals; for blank spaces, to render visceral landscapes not in waterpaints but in wordpaints. To hear words. Spoken. They're sounds you know. Have you ever listened? Timbres? Nuances? Subtleties in meaning? To record dialogue. With wordpaint. Using a fine wordbrush. The chatter of the night. Can you hear it? Precisely. Scribble-scribble. To transport, to transport you my darling, my sweetheart, as if by magic carpet to where I sit; the choking dust, the toxic sun, the verdant bitter harvests; to where I am, to what I feel, what I am thinking, the taste of my fears and the bitterness etched on my tongue. To hold your hand and to take you gently, to take you by your dove white wrists, to take you to partake in me, in being me, at that moment, in time, somewhere. Scribble-scribble. To render a person - to describe the 'essence' of a thing without wallowing in cliche or affectation or pretension to artistic merit. To quite simply see the world through my eyes fogged by my tears and the stink of my sweat. Scribble-scribble.
To feel. To feel the oneness of being alone, in a forest of foreign signs, foreign words and feranji faces. To feel at one with Betelgeuse; up there struggling to be heard through the din of a galaxy of faces, bad faces, unscrutable, malicious faces, burnished and regal; they're all evil-doers you know. Have you ever felt that? That aloneness? Just you. That feeling of primitive man. Ancient cave man. Course you haven't. Nothing but you and the stars. Scribble-scribble.
Love...we shine like a burning star
We're falling from the sky
Tonight.
To feel the listless torpor of waiting. That 'in-between' place weighing heavy on your temples and squeezing your brain through your ears. Waiting. Waiting for the moment of departure at bus depots, at the airport, at the train station. At the airport - where neon is blinding and scratches. You scratch yourself red in boredom. All of life is here. Not going anywhere. Where all is still and nothing much happens and time is on vacation and fear is king; and then the sigh and release of final departure. Your shackles slither away. Is it the journey or the destination I wonder? What matters? Journey or destination?Here's a thought: Can one travel without destination thus emancipating oneself from the banality of travel? Deep stuff. That'e me. That's my experiment. Yes. How so?
Freedom from destination. When there's no destination the mythical destination becomes everything. Here - now - then. The present is everything. No worries. Scribble-scribble
Freedom from time. There! There goes my watch, in the river, down the ravine, down the latrine. Fuck off watch! Hope you drown shitty little watch!
Freedom from luggage. What luggage?
pair of jeans
couple of t-shirtsa poncho
a years supply of contact lensescompass ;-)
detailed maps (but not so detailed to raise eyebrows with the military authorities)2-3 books (travel lit. incl 'Grapes of Wrath' by John Steinbeck - who could make the surface of the moon sound mesmerising)
Journals for jotting. For rendering landscapes. For wordpaint. For wordart. My art (excuse the pretension)passport
funds
cameraDeparture date: July 27th.
You ready?
Sure?
Do join me. It's free. Just like life!
Love...we shine like a
burning star
We're falling from the sky
Tonight
A man will rise
A man will fall
From the sheer face of love
Like a fly from a wall
It's no secret at all
Yes the sheer face of love
There's no secret to life at all...
