TRAVEL DIARY

A weblog regularly updated by Jodi Rose.

Sunday, June 10, 2007

4:40 PM
Posted by jodi rose

... I wonder how many people realise most of my headings and sometimes parts of the text are references to pop songs, art and books? [Jeannie Lewis album, circa 1980] 'red it's the colour of passion, the colour that the bull runs at.. never out of fashion, though it's often told 'get back'. the colour of blood, the colour of the rose, the colour of a ball bouncing on a clown's nose; red... it's the colour of life'

It's not all fun and games here, am currently sitting inside the bulgarian cafe with free wifi in friedrichshain, eschewing the beautiful sunny day to organise a sea of admin for the german officials. Think they can't help but be impressed by my organisational capabilities if nothing else, at last count have around ten support letters and various documents of plans, projects and other administratively required things.

Had a strangely enjoyable overnight bus ride back here, which I had been dreading to no avail. the first three hours seemed to involve equal driving and stopping for cigarettes and rest breaks, including a rather worrying twenty minutes in an all-night bus garage with tense technical conversation going on. was all ready to change buses, but then we sped off onto these dark narrow country lanes - nothing like the autobahn trip I was expecting, then pulled up in berlin half an hour early. slept fine for a few hours at a time, if a little twisty. not much difference to the regular interruptions to my slumber by the freight trains in my most recent abode.

Speaking of which, it's another of those extremes I appear to crave and enjoy so much. Walking from this addams family refuge of frees spirits and fellow wanderers (aka beautiful misfits and lovely outcasts, depending on your point-of-view) back into the modern world is quite an adjustment, especially after a few days spent dealing with dead rabbits, hanging out having picnics in the back yard, cycling through the deserted industrial streets miaowing for the lost cat, (who soon found himself again) continuing to work my way through the excellent record and literature collection, and have inspiring conversations with visiting fellow wanderers.

Something from john bayley's incredibly beautiful 'elegy for iris' struck me with more than usual intensity, talking about writers:

"What he wrote down was more real tto him than what he had actually seen that day or the one before and was now writing about.

Only memory holds reality.

At least this seems to have been his experience, and that of a lot of other writers too - romantic souls who... made the discovery that for them to remember and to write was to create their lives, and their sense of living things.

The actual experience was nothing beside it, a mere blur, always on the move, always 'disappearing'."
p264

Which resonates so strongly with my current state of being.
The burst of poetry from that thunderstormy day was inspired by - finally - typing up some of the writing I did a year ago in sturovo.

POEM CRAZY

"When I care enough about myself,
I wish not only for things,
but for a way of life
and a way of being.

So often we shrink our dreams
and expectations to a small,
dank room of desire
with no windows,
not to mention doors.

I think what we dream or wish for ourselves,
no matter how limited,
is what we get.

We're told not to be greedy.
We don't want to be disappointed.
'Don't get your hopes up'
We've heard many times.

'Be realistic'

Poetry takes us to a realm where it's both possible to discover what we deeply wish for, and to begin to imagine it; the first step in making it happen."
p168

'Nothing comes into being until there are the words'

'According to ancient Hebrew wisdom, sounds, or words, produce reality. Letters and words are ELEMENTAL CREATIVE FORCES central to making things happen.'

Yes.
I excavate back to the source
the unspeakable, inaudible vibrations
and what they tell us -
how we can express and connect
communicate and be changed by each other
this is it

'Poetry is uncontainable; and therefore dangerous, ignoring the established order. Poetry and freedom can't be separated. Poetry takes us places we might never have imagined we would go. Poetry can be incendiary, revolutionary, outside bounds and rules and systems.'

YES.
My life is poetry.

[same thing, just with a little additional context]

Writing to a friend, a fellow sound artist just back from recording the sounds made by his ears in a high-tech science lab in copenhagen:

'Ah dear, I remember that feeling so well - needing to plan things and being stressed about it all - but it feels a very long way away right now. Have done so much work in the past few weeks on 'letting go' and 'being present in the moment' that I seem to have achieved some kind of zen state of grace. It's really nice. I have no idea of my future beyond tomorrow - quite literally - but it's absolutely fine.'

Indeed it is damn fine. Although a few possibilities are taking shape, and if the German authorities look favourably upon my suit, I will be covering the Australian sculpture exhibition celebrating 400 years of connection between the Netherlands and our fine country, which is to be opened by Queen Beatrix and features a very glamorous artists ball.
Glad I brought my ballgown ;) Managed to get myself on the invites list, and supported by Robyn to write a piece for Real Time - she said, it's time you did some work girl - ah hell, I know! - but also that 'I really want to read some of you writing.' How nice. It was a friend at art school who told me he read everything I wrote as poetry. Hell, you should see my to-do lists. They're epic quests :)