finding mozart

Smoke all around me,Smoke from the mouth of made up women in pretty dancers legs ,it drifted up around there headdresses and multicoloured feathers .And then there was smoke from a real machine blowing all around my throne that i sat on because; i was the queen.Ruling the crowds ,coming across on the screen as the Queen of Mean, strong and fearless,when inside me there was nothing but smoke and had you bent me and pressed my body out of my huge dress nothing but bleak smoke would have come out; je ne veux pas travailler ,je veux fumer.But no.not even that.No poets no music no No,just schhhhmoke....And then i heard it ,it was the same compilation of chords as in the magic flute.I sat and waited for the director of the musicvideoclip to boom at me in Liam Neeson's voice again but in my head i was actually sitting beside my friend Daphne and i was 13 years of age doing my first part as a Queen.But i was'nt singing right then.Three girls were singing the part of three boys ,the chords soothing my ears ,my imagination.She walked into the livingroom joinging us kids:Ingeborg Bachmann a writer friend from Austria ,a bosom friend of Daphnes mother.Smoking ,smoking looking sad.Why was she sad i asked Daphne when she got up from the piano to drink some tea.Oh Daphne said,she's in love with a composer and he loves her too but he's gay.That seemed weird to me at the time.I could worship Mozarts music i could worship the thought of the object of my passions but they had to exist to become mine at some stage.Was i pragmatic?I hear the chords again now in a newly written song :they are mine in my memory in my head and body and soul and life and even in space now ,but what about the objects of my passions .All smoke?

falling

It was even better then last year: it was worth braving my way down to this festival for.There were these incomparable 25 minutes of poetry by CK Williams ,he went off at his usual pace spinning the sentences, his upper body in a movement that reminded me of the orthodox ones praying at the synagogue.He went into this trance, or maybe i did.The rare times i hear this man read the world seems the right place to be for the duration of his reading.You fall ,you fail,you get up,you succeed in getting up you listen ,you learn,you dream and it's all there it's all allowed.Heidegger and Vallejo can be brushed away by a simple mon amour,mon amour in the middle of a poem,we are reminded that without the essence of life,love there is nothing, no poetry,no existence After the reading we have dinner,i sit beside CK admire his grandchildren on a picture,admire his love for them,admire him for his warmth his being such a "Mensch".We are with other people who can all magnificently write their way through life.We speak about my father and his work ,his poems and i grow a deep sadness.I see a late september afternoon on an empty northern beach ,we are sitting in the warm sand,our hands and feet recognise the burn of the middaysun still there still held in the ground.We play,my sister and I.Her hair is covering her back in a thick golden mane ,i follow its swing when she runs towards the water where my father is wading his feet in the lukewarm sea.He is talking to a poet friend.They are talking poetry i think ,a six year old with dense copper curls and a head full of fantasies.I am happy for my father to be walking and talking poetry ,i think nothing will ever change in my life after this moment in which i am allowed to watch and hear poetry in the sea air in Bergen aan Zee in the sealight that shines on my mothers head,she's swimming out there in the flat shimmering sea . I,child, don't think i am looking at the poetry; just life.My life.

air

Yesterday all i needed after that lunch, where very good and respectable writers were being honoured with prizes and laurels,was space and air.There were large bottles filled with coloured water on the tables,so nobody would steal any drink ,that would be up to twohundred a bottle if the drink were real some ultimate petit bourgeois uttered on the way out OUT.I'd had my fill ,well actually the food was scarse on the plates, of words and important people.I wanted to stick my (substantial)nose in the air like a wolf or a biiig cat and sniff the smell of freedom.I wanted to roam the streets of a different city then this one on soft soles and breathe in very deeply that spiky smell of sun and spices combined.I wanted the dust and the heat and the wringing suspense of the feeling that finally something absolutly great was going to happen.Like the exclamation of the trumpets at the beginning of the Dies Irae in Verdi's requiem tata ta TAAA there it is ,it's happening?What?Even if it does'nt happen that way it's the anticepation of it all combined with the schhhmell of promised freedom in your head and your heart starts racing ahead of you or buzzing in your head and YES there it is ,a song ,a tasty song in your mouth a broadwinged flutter in your throat and your body is lifted up .Was i that crazy when i walked along the coast on my way to Sidi Bu Said with the sea so blue so blue down below and the road sweating white under my golden sandals and me singing an arab tune under my large straw hat with the man embarassed and correct in white ,suit,white under his hat walking beside me.?This limo stopped and the woman who would'nt take off her shades asked me to sing at her party that night.But i declined then.I would Never do that now,I would go and sing arabic modes for hours standing on my toes ,my nose in the air smelling the fullness of the freedom of being there...

songlines

That's what i put down as the subject,but it's so much more then music,although ;music is everything.I'm wearing a woolly hat with glitters on it today because my hair is wet and its bloody cold and i wanna keep my ears warm.Actually i 've been so cold lately that i can't think of anywhere better to be then in Budapest in a public sulphur and steambath ,naked and boiling with all the other naked women because in these baths men and women are kept seperate.I want to be lifted up by one of thes enormous women who can massage the bejaysus out of me.Nothing left but then i- am- a- flatfish feeling and my brains shrunk to nothingness and watered down into the hottest pool.Where i spotted two women in bathingsuits once.Wearing pearls and chatting to each other as if at a Hungarian teaparty.To my suprise i could follow their conversation;it turned out they were dutch ,that's why i could understand their rant.But why the bathingsuit when everybody is naked?I suppose there are many ways of showing one is a rebel.See now i've followed my songline back to Budapest, where i sang the soundtrack for a movie and i had to pour my words and music inot the mouth of an actress was was actually singing my lines.She refused to open her mouth because she thought it looked UGLY.Yes that,could be the case if you 're esthetics are stuck at Hollywood level and you can't appreciate the visual abandonment in song or music.Oh must go must sing must add more tomorrow,sing along please

georges perec

These last days it has become clear once again: the camelias are out pink,red,white,sticky fat juicy flowers reminding us of a dame in the 19th century dying of consumption in the arms of her lover,who left her because of a difference in social standard.How do we buy social standard these days in ireland with loads of CASH.I am homesick for georges Perec and les choses,the things,a book full of stuff enumerating useless stuff crap people obsessed with stuff .Spondoliks as WH used to call money.Money much needed that we do not want to think about.What about Georges Perec?I could have met him twice but i stayed home and hung in front of my tall parisian windows dreaming...I had not read W and life a users manual then, otherwise i would have rushed to meet him in Le train bleu and eat raw steak with him,his favoured dish.I stood in front of his tombstone in the sunshine and read the names on it: his aunt and georges himself were the only ones buried there.he hardly survived her,dying at the age of 46.I would like to have a much needed conversation with him NOW.Georges?Oui Judith? C'est quoi qui te rends le plus malheureux, c'est quoi qui te fais vraiment peur?Can we go and live under a bridge and drink absinthe ,or shall we continue to steal the eggs from other peoples nests so we can write and sing and write and die young...ou plutot non?

friends

How is it that i have been dreaming lately,night after night that i am getting bills for my friends and my family:BILLS.Real ones in euros and dollars ,667.14 cents for downloading porn from one of my closests friends who is not madly into porn .Its the 14 cents that kill me.These bills are very prominent in my dreams,what do i owe my friends?Have i not been supportive enough and are they now dressing up in (celtic)tiger skins and demand Money as an expression of my true and devoted love for them.I am on my way down from having a major Up working with the Rep of Loose letting my voice go and improvising with these utterly supportive musicians. Now its back to intimacy and leaning on the words and arms of friends again.Music by Falla and Britten is waiting for me.Tonight they will be my friends.Light words on light chords should rock me back into my chosen cradle.Poems are waiting to be written, i can hear them knock while i am waisting my time trying to figure out these dreambills.As if real ones are'nt bad enough. Read an article about Maurice Sendak the childrensbook writer an illustrator .Where the wild things are...wish i was there growing more hair,sharp teeth,wicked feet and a voice of 5 octaves so i could be a base and sing the commandatore in don giovanni ,ah how great would that be :a hairy singing satue shaking hands with a weak specimen pulling him down into hell and me,the base turning into a soprano again living with the wild things.Garhrg in e minor

matter of the mind and maybe the heart

Could i have shared the admiration for Napoleon that Heinrich Heine and Stendhal had?Their emotional abandon when it came to admire Napoleon led them to write great poems and even follow the Great Soldier around as far as Russia.Much as i like to schlepp these great writers books around the globe with me and live in admiration for their (un)wise words on the page ,they live on in my mind and a bit in my heart too i'd say,but admiration for a public figure?I've never done it.I sat in bed yesterday resting my voice for an exciting singing gig tomorrow,rereading Tolstoys nearly sensual descriptions of the Russians battles against Napoleon in War and Peace.Don't think anybody has ever supassed his magnificent descriptions of these grim battles.What do i know anyay, i needed expert advice while working on my new novel ,about arms and how to properly shoot a person. I can only admire the poor sod who followed Napoleon sitting comfortably on his horse Meringo to Russia and the big snows,while leaving his heart behind ,kept in a jar in a cupboard in Venice by his webfooted mistress.This is all described in "a passion" by j Wintertone ,again a brilliant tale of what blind admiration leads to.The soldier survives and goes back to venice to have loads of webfooted kiddies with the mistress.What's all that got to do with admiration.Heine ,Stendhal the miserable soldier and many others poured their full hearts contents into the admiration they felt for the rider of Meringo.See that's how i visualise him, a small man on a great horse posing as the king of the world, definitly the world's biggest chancer at the time.I'm taking my tricorn off for him ,just to slam it even harder back on my head again:i need shelter from the rain and the wind in this country.But what about my lack of heart for the matters of admiration ?Have i been riding my imagined Horse for all these years ,without an army to follow me or a couple of countries to rule?No ,i don't want to rule either .Except on stage where i will sing my heart out until it's empty and ready to be fuelled with the love and admiration of my public.Can I leave now?Steady speed into space?