Marri

http://www.marrri-nikolova.tumblr.com/



'If I knew myself, I'd run away...'




I pick a word, phrase, sentence, sometimes even a whole chunk of text from what I wrote yesterday, the day before or when I was eleven. Then, I begin a new story or poem with it: with a new emotion, new perspective, new soundtrack in the background. I like to think that everything I have ever written is interlinked, that my full stops button up what I see, with open eyes and with closed. I like to pick the word that described my gloomiest day and paint over it, dissect it in a new writing, sometimes punch it and let it bleed, sometimes let it deform and grow misshapen into something else. Better, or worse, doesn't matter. Every passion deserves to be lived to its extreme. That's writing for me. It has flaws and contradictions and ugliness, it challenges, it moves, it shocks, disturbs, doesn't let you sleep, it is tender and thunder, and drips off your fingers and sometimes is the only rhythm in which your body can move. And sometimes is as hollow as life can be, and sometimes is velvet and thick. Here is a little bit of my writing, if it is thick: cut it, if it is hollow: echo through it


PS: my fascination with the aberations of human mind and the pervesions we are capable of results in rather dark stuff. I find myself writing about serial killers and serial victims, about rapists and raped, about death, aborted illusions or life, nuances of sorrow in the contours of fear. I find myself asking how, and why. How and why wickedness occurs. How and why hands strangle and caress, how and why fear and contradiction can seduce, and tempt, and terrify. How and why self-destruction begins and grows like a flower. I find myself shifting the perspective, voicing out what the pervert might whisper and what the victim might scream, and I wonder who interfered with the record and collaged the whisper over the scream and they begin to sound the same...
In writing I can be as self-destructive and contradictory as I want. I can be reckless, and nihilistic and vulgar, and I can be lost...I can selfishly kill all my characters when I hate them, and even more when I love them. Just to shock my creative impulses and provoke a reaction. Reaction between the ideal of what and how I want to express and the limitation of what I am actually expressing. Cold water over creative impulses. Cheers to the provocation and the misery that we can't get out of our own minds... In writing I can frame my fears...and when I am done, I can hang them upside down and watch, from a distance. Darkness is much more elegant in art than in life. I aspire elegance in writing. Elegance in being the anti-thesis. Of myself. The anti-thesis of my euphoria about life, the anti-thesis of my hedonistic happiness. And yet, in writing I remain a child...eager and learning, digging in the dirtiest ground (human subconscious?) ...digging out the worst, the worms, and with a childish innonce question their heinous swerving bodies... I play a tune and they swerve, shrouding and abject...and they gnaw,and swarm, and crawl in rhythm...till it dawns on me..every worm is a quiet lunatic thought...My dark perspective doesn't mean I suffer from suicidal tendencies... But that I aspire to reach the brilliance of Lynch on paper....

People always ask you where you come from. I wish they branded me having in mind that I come from a place that was a sufficient context for me to inscribe my love for the mountain, the dark wood and the depth of the see. I wish they didn’t register the poverty or saw it romanticised as if the lack of material things inspired the poor selfishly to guard what they have inside. When they ask me where I come from I wish they understood that I come, like all others, out of a context. Contextual space versus geographical places. Context of a home in which we were taught that it is a talent to know how to give, not how to get and keep. Around that, nothing. An autumn, perhaps. Colourful. Rainy. With a hedgehog on its path. If it didn’t belong to a context, it would sit there, in the middle of an autumn path, incapable to move. Living things belong to spaces of time with a soundtrack and the wind. Living things belong to contexts, not to dead physical realities. Where do I come from? I come from a place that gave me no other choice but to dedicate my love and help to stray animals. A context which bred love and courage to help them all, to draw a rainbow with what drips off my fingers, to fight for spring and survive the winters….

……

Descriptions always fail. The violent taking of breath in my early morning jog, the quiet steps in the mountain, the dissolved warmth while doing yoga, the light scattered inside of me when the pulsating universe streams through my ecstatic soul in rhythmic contractions, my black holes which suck out mysteries, the passions ravaged…Sat in the car next to my mother, my laughing sister and our dog in the back. Landscape made of patched together trees with a sea and a mountain. The summer collaged on top of them when we drive past.Descriptions of me? Descriptions always fail. Today rains. Zoom in and all you see is stories raining. They all have taste, and colour, and a soundtrack. Zoom in and all you see is a fragment. Descriptions always fail. I run uphill. Stripped down of expectations and demand for miracles. My world is a wonder enough. And if it is not, I will close my eyes and paint it so…..

….

People always want to know where you are going as if trajectories fill with colour an empty heart. But most journeys are taken motionless. As for moving, Heraclitus might have said that one cannot step twice in the same river, but Cratylus outsmarted him with the constatation that one cannot step even once in the same river. So, if I could hold my reality still, I could put some of my perceptions into categories, fixate a horizon and try not to contradict myself. Yet, both things and people are in constant movement and movement entails change. I wish people asked me whether I am moving towards something better perhaps. The others are empty questions hanging in a house I deserted long time ago and would once again desert…or not. Night skies full with light, that’s what we people are. And if we leave enough goodness and beauty behind us, we do shine bright after we are gone. After the pace. A trace. And then grace.

I am idealistically and consistently self-destructive (if the world lies in Kafkanian ruins, I will still argue its esthetics), I write, and dance, and run barefoot and melt the ice cream before eating it, and I am chaotic and absorb everything that happens around me, and I will stubbornly defend my hedonistic happiness, and I am self-destructive enough to own up to my contradictions. But I guess the most of all, I live my passions, be them tragical or euphoric, I have chiseled them out to be their own raw nuclei, stripped down of unnecessary politeness, and remain the very essence: intense and hard enough to be philosophically cut apart. Live the passion to its extreme and then dissect what you have taken of it in an art object. So, what sweeps and ravages and kills the being and its heart, leaves an esthetic trace….

I believe that ‘the only reason angels can fly is because they take themselves lightly’. You will never hear me hypocritically longing for freedom…nobody put me in chains. But whatever I say…:



Don’t fall

on your knees.



You will never know

the tickle

softly pressed

between my bare feet

and the green grass

of my path.

Me.



With this

you ask

for memoir

and wonder

why the petal

of a winter flower

melts

softly pressed

between your hand

and the wind



Ice

cracks

because

it

is

thin

not

because

of

us



I was

born without a seed

and my shape is figured

with a tickle,

touch for birth,

and touch for death

and touch for being.

Touch between

the skin

and the green



With this

you ask for memoir

and wonder who I really was



Not my dreams

and not my words.



A petal

softly pressed

between your hand

and the wind

melts.

Don’t touch

and never ask.

Be like grass.
Green











PPS: I am a Bulgarian who is currently doing her MA in Germany, so writing in English adds a third language to my already lunatic mind. So, feel free to correct grammer, I joined WitersCafe because I want to improve my writing (rather than scare people with death-talk). All criticism is appreciated!


























https://soundcloud.com/#digibeta/csp006-nicolas-jaar-essential

https://soundcloud.com/digibeta/csp006-nicolas-jaar-essential


What would you do if nothing else could be done?
Dzen Coan

'Nobody can humiliate you without your own consent'
Eleanor Roosevelt

' If one does not know to which port one is sailing, no wind is favorable.'
Seneca

"To make a prairie it takes a clover and one bee, One clover, and a bee. And revery. The revery alone will do, If bees are few."
Emilly Dickinson


'Angels can fly because they take themselves lightly'
Gilbert Chesterton


'To be creative means to be in love with life. You can be creative only if you love life enough that you want to enhance its beauty, you want to bring a little more music to it, a little more poetry to it, a little more dance to it.'
Osho

'You're missin' the point. The success of the band was irrelevant - you raised their expectations of life, you lifted their horizons. Sure we could have been famous and made albums and stuff, but that would have been predictable. This way it's poetry.'
Joey The Lips, 'The Commitments'