mmoje

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Katowice

Canon EOS500D + Zuiko 28mm 2.8

© Łukasz Furczyk

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I grow old under an intensity Of questioning looks. Nonsense, I try to say, I cannot teach you children How to live.—If not you, who will? Cries one of them aloud, grasping my gilded Frame till the world sways. If not you, who will? Between their visits the table, its arrangement Of Bible, fern and Paisley, all past change, Does very nicely. If ever I feel curious As to what others endure, Across the parlor you provide examples, Wide open, sunny, of everything I am Not. You embrace a whole world without once caring To set it in order. That takes thought. Out there Something is being picked. The red-and-white bandannas Go to my heart. A fine young man Rides by on horseback. Now the door shuts. Hester Confides in me her first unhappiness. This much, you see, would never have been fitted Together, but for me. Why then is it They more and more neglect me? Late one sleepless Midsummer night I strained to keep Five tapers from your breathing. No, the widowed Cousin said, let them go out. I did. The room brimmed with gray sound, all the instreaming Muslin of your dream . . . Years later now, two of the grown grandchildren Sit with novels face-down on the sill, Content to muse upon your tall transparence, Your clouds, brown fields, persimmon far And cypress near. One speaks. How superficial Appearances are! Since then, as if a fish Had broken the perfect silver of my reflectiveness, I have lapses. I suspect Looks from behind, where nothing is, cool gazes Through the blind flaws of my mind. As days, As decades lengthen, this vision Spreads and blackens. I do not know whose it is, But I think it watches for my last silver To blister, flake, float leaf by life, each milling- Downward dumb conceit, to a standstill From which not even you strike any brilliant Chord in me, and to a faceless will, Echo of mine, I am amenable.

Mirror by James Merrill

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© Emilia Makówka

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Stairs

Canonon EOS 500D

© Łukasz Furczyk

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The radio blares "Dialogue of Souls," and the woman who hated clouds watches the sky. Where is the sea now? she asks. Where is it from here? What is its name?— this rain on a morning ride to school, winter, my seventh year, my father driving through rain, his eyes fixed on a world of credit and debt. On the radio, devotion to the lifter of harm from those who despair, knower of secrets with the knowledge of certainty. Not even the anguish of those years, the heavy traffic, cold and wind could have touched me. I was certain the palm holding me would be struck again. Chance allows for that and for stars to throb in reachable depths. Filled with grief bordering happiness, I didn't care if I was safe, whether the storm was over, only that it came, the slash of lightning, the groaning sky, and the storms we made, how rain stripped everything of urgency, how to the lifter of harm rise those who despair.

Rain song by Khaled Mattawa

[mmoje]

suddenly I feel endwarfed

by your life in the open

by my necessity to measure up

the ball to a stream

I might be a heart-felt companion

but it's me who's missing

and I'm doing it to myself

posing you up:

stretched hands, behind your worded face

it is so hard to remember

- your life is not in any way more fluent

faster more complee

you're at times silent

and you stop to wait for your sugar to melt

it is so hard to keep you human

behind the cold glass

that's been hushed on from the inside

[mmoje]

vette89 is one of the very rare true-spirited music gurus, so pay attention!

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The man moves earth to dispel grief. He digs holes the size of cars. In proportion to what is taken what is given multiplies— rain-swollen ponds and dirt mounds rooted with flame-tipped flowers. He carries trees like children struggling to be set down. Trees that have lived out their lives, he cuts and stacks like loaves of bread which he will feed the fire. The green smoke sweetens his house. The woman sweeps air to banish sadness. She dusts floors, polishes objects made of clay and wood. In proportion to what is taken what is given multiplies— the task of something else to clean. Gleaming appliances beg to be smudged, breathed upon by small children and large animals flicking out hope as she whirls by, flap of tongue, scratch of paw, sweetly reminding her. The man moves earth, the woman sweeps air. Together they pull water out of the other, pull with the muscular ache of the living, hauling from the deep well of the body the rain-swollen, the flame-tipped, the milk-fed— all that cycles through lives moving, lives sweeping, water circulating between them like breath, drawn out of leaves by light.

"The Man Moves Earth"

~ Cathy Song

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Here's where I live.

Stairs

Canon EOS 500D + Zuiko 28mm 2.8

© Łukasz Furczyk

[mmoje]

I know I would probably be a bit controversial with this - but I think this recording is my favourite Pathetique. To speak even more bluntly, listening to Barenboim straight afterwards made me think "god this is so much more shallow". What I like about Kempf is the brutality really, vitality, guts, though it is obvious he slightly lacks the very melodic of B., and the links are at times way too imperfect (the second movement I find extremely strange, but perhaps I'll find the logic after a couple of more recaps).

[mmoje]

if I don't come forgetful

may I so present:

a twice-seen thin red line

a shirley movie, the one, where he

shows up in the background by means of music,

steps out to the seat next to me and accompanies

in the nigh when I break into a moment

of clarity

a twice-read katzir (the world

runts in two since I've known him)

the sights of prague

everlasting park walks where he held me

a box of quotes

a pidgeon-hole of thoughts

(if I don't come forgetful)

the hand I lay on his arm

all of this, may I herewith present

to the omnipresent gods

of all-but-one face

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I have wanted other things more than lovers ... I have desired peace, intimately to know The secret curves of deep-bosomed contentment, To learn by heart things beautiful and slow. Cities at night, and cloudful skies, I've wanted; And open cottage doors, old colors and smells a part; All dim things, layers of river-mist on river-- To capture Beauty's hands and lay them on my heart. I have wanted clean rain to kiss my eyelids, Sea-spray and silver foam to kiss my mouth. I have wanted strong winds to flay me with passion; And, to soothe me, tired winds from the south. These things have I wanted more than lovers... Jewels in my hands, and dew on morning grass-- Familiar things, while lovers have been strangers. Friended thus, I have let nothing pass.

Monody to the Sound of Zithers by Kay Boyle

[mmoje]

Jarmusch’s latest Only Lovers Left Alive caught me at an awkward moment. Left with a bit more cynical hope, eyes open to the idea that perhaps, in the light of recent disasters the truth is… I do need some centuries before any kind of even partnership can happen. It’s a good, productive thought I think. So here, embracing the moment, the haunting opening song.

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Allow us to introduce you to the quirks that make Witkacy the prototypical hipster.

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©Lukasz Furczyk

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by kcemy