One of the things I missed this year.
With plans for a trip to Bilbao ruined at least I am finding little information about my beloved Victor Erice new work - Sky and Stone
I find it really inspiring that in the last decade (and more) he dedicated his time and visual genius to create works based on other people's artistic creations - focusing on them and creating sub-realities around art-works that already exist on their own, adding new ways of seeing and connecting with them.
My dream is to invite him to make a visual installation on one of the hills in my hometown ;] Luckily dreams are not like plans and they can't be ruined (not in the same way anyway) so I'll keep building the vision till one day I can see it happening.
The importance of writing letters to poets...well I can only compare it with 6CO2 + 6H2O + light. One more ingredient and you might have a poem dedicated to you. The gesture of a short note embroidering the eternal silence. Some poets are weakly encrypted - they don't ask for too much. Just write them a letter. That's all.
I remember writing to this (then) young poet, now teaching professor, about a poem or two that I liked. He was fast to reply and reminded himself about his 'grand time' in Bulgaria in 1996. Funny but I think my family was also on a holiday in Sozopol that exact year. Small but not so lonely planet. :) It's always worth the time to write to a poet, especially when you get the 'warmest wishes' and a few more sips of inspiration in reply.
"Fable" by Mark Yakich
Once upon a time
there was a lonely fox; she was
lonelier than a wooden rowboat in a field.
She happened to come to a hill,
and fell in love with the first wolf she saw.
Already she loved its long lashes
and its freckled wrinkles,
but the eyes stopped her.
Apart from God nobody ever
found those eyes as beautiful
as did this child–like beast.
So at night the fox went up the hill,
stopped before the set of eyes,
and never moved from there any more.
She had wanted a life of chasing butterflies,
but instead stood by one mustard iris.
When, at last, the wolf opened its mouth
it was not to kiss the fox
but to let the world crawl in.
I remember my fascination with the German poet and writer Theodor Storm when I was 13, and even earlier the stories of Erich Kästner (especially The flying classroom) really played part in my growing imagination. Later on, a great many names of German language literature followed - some of them Hesse, Rainer Maria Rilke, Günter Grass, and in recent years Thomas Mann and Arno Schmidt, all of them really important and forming my world of ideas and taste in literature.
That's why I am very delighted to share with you my first text translated in German. 📖 👓 ✏
My deep gratitude goes to a good fellow and inspiring peer Mitko Mitkov and Franziska Opel who translated and edited the German version.
You can now find the text published in German and English at the online platform of Hartikel magazine. I guess I am really lucky to be able to connect with people outside my tiny sphere of thoughts, visions, and emotions. Thanks for stopping by.
Lockdown 2020 - Hertikel Magazine
I guess a lot of people experience what I do at the moment. Living in a so called human farm, a house populated by emigrants, who are not in particular friends and barely even speak to each other, the reason being not fluent in English or just a decision not to interact even when necessary. We are 10 in a 5 bedroom house. I mainly sit in my room, feeling like I am in an aquarium as my room overlook the garden and has a glass door. Looking at my Romanian housemates who just laid a blanket on the grass and started playing cards. Their funny way to create a shade makes me smile. Some memories of long gone summers on the Black Sea shore come back as wavy memories - the peaches in the sand, the families playing cards and board games on the beach, my crazy attempts to dig a tunnel and hide in it...You see..in a way you can never be fully locked, you can always sit on the grass and imagine a sand instead, no one can intervene in any way, there are boundless territories and yet you can never fully hide. The tunnel has two ends.
Me and those ten people are like seeds from ancient tribes, desperately covering our own little piece of land, trying to hide from each other and still staring and struggling to understand what the other is doing, saying or thinking. We share the deepest of fears, not knowing each other, how are we going to protect ourselves from the invisible evil God of misfortune. We manically clean the door handles, the sink and everything we are sharing because we have no other choice but being together and keeping each other alive. Silently. Struggling to keep that clumsy dance of mimics and gestures.
As we make our supper in respectable silence my Romanian housemate is showing me a tiny red capsule. We can share?, she says, politely reminding me we are both celebrating Easter next week and I might want to color some eggs. And I am humble and thankful for whatever they would like to share. There is sudden pump of oxygen in my tiny aquarium. I have a sudden vision of a desert mountains and oceans between four glass walls and hundreds of traces, long forgotten paths, leading to this day and time