eternal drafts, dusty, salty winds

Frank has just sent me this picture to my e-mail. He is an old friend of mine, a young brilliant lad I met two years ago.

Frank is a loner, so am I, he plays with fire, he's going beyond himself he often says. I can scarcely understand Frank's behavior, He loves Rossini and Albion. I prefer Rachmaninoff and Brahms. Both of us, dwell the murky night. The moon, reddish tonight, hides cunningly behind foggy, milky, dirty clouds. Frank goes beyond himself, I remain still watching the boats sailing away towards the sun, Frank lives in the sun, Frank is made of fire, and plays with it. I left him sail, eternal drafts, dusty, salty winds will push his ship to a circular flame, in which we all shall die.

Comments

Kev Cruz said…

What's the photo...is that blood?
Ouch!!

8:50 AM

Darko said…

Hey Kev. Ain't got a clue. Seems to be ink.

3:19 PM

Volan's last will.

This is a picture of the envelope I received. On September the 29th I received a letter sent from London Metropolitan Police’s forensic department. The envelope contains Volan’s death report. I am still recovering from such a terrible moment. As Volan’s closest (and perhaps sole) friend I am in the obligation of publishing these lines on his own blog, as it was his last will. In strange circumstances my dearest friend Volan passed away in the dawn of the 23rd of September in Homerton Hospital in London. His body was carted off from the churchyard of Saint Paul’s Cathedral after a mad night out with Siobhan (Sweeny), -an Irish-Scottish blues singer whose Volan had just met few hours before in the surrounding areas of Anexo Bar, close to Farringdon Station. At the moment that the ambulance arrived at the place Volan showed a critical state and almost without vital signals dying a while after indoors, in the above mentioned hospital. The death certificated shows a very cryptic language ...

Vomiting in Old Kent Road.

Darko's last post is dated back to 2008... have all this years been a dream, a nightmare, am I back to life, back to death?... Shioban! Shioban... where are you? I died and got back to life... or vice versa. Shioban didn't I see you in the Middle Kingdom? Didn't I? Where have you gone Shioban? Irish Muse? Back to death from life... and a sketch she made in 2006, back the "deadly ol' smoke" Back form the toxic earthly smoke, life deterrent, as I walk covered in tar and sweet pop music, baijiu. Shioban!... you are young, I am gray.... Shioban where have you taken my bones? am I ashes, tar or smog? I still have got that ugly punch you directed at me nose, that night at Kingsland road, I landed, smacked my head to the ground only to wake up at Lewisham... or near, Shioban, you crazy Irish death.... was it Old Kent and Rotherhithe where we vomited solitudes that night? Shioban.

norman mclaren

Norman McLaren was one of the most significant abstract filmmakers of the British inter-war period. Born in 1914 in Stirling, Scotland, he entered the Glasgow School of Fine Arts in 1932, where he became interested in film and joined the School's Kine Society. His earliest extant film, Seven Till Five (1933), a "day in the life of an art school", was clearly influenced by Eisenstein and displays a strongly formalist attitude. (more)

Nevermind the bollocks!

Search This Blog