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Seattle 18
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Expedition Contributions



Joined: 20 Jul 2005
Posts: 47

PostPosted: Fri May 12, 2006 5:08 pm    Post subject: Seattle 18 Reply with quote



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chrisqui



Joined: 20 Mar 2006
Posts: 5
Location: Mainz, Germany

PostPosted: Sat May 13, 2006 12:51 pm    Post subject: voiceless faces Reply with quote

Voiceless Faces

Voiceless faces enthralled in the soft rhythm of banjos. Each strokes a familiar pattern and dreams of a world never to be, hidden behind unuttered hopes. There is no voice, no sound leaving their deepest parts. They are not one with music. The instruments and the bodies are separate entities, each yearning to express an unknown desire – such as silent hunger and mum need. The music is only background.

The hat covering her dark curls had been owned by her father and his father. A family relict reminding her of times long gone and the excruciating pain of the bitter loss. She strokes her white instrument in a way her soul can be stroked nevermore. Healing hands, creating music out of a vacant substance – lost in time – no feeling evermore.
On her journeys she has seen the world and yet never seen the world. A mental traveller, her eyes have taken in the signs leading her northwards from one place to the next. Yet the excavated road of her chosen journey leads nowhere – a vertical journey lacking a horizon. There is no end to the stony path of time and no arms are opening up to take her in. She digs into the past yet cannot lift the dense material encapsulated in the pitiless ground on her own.
Thus, she continues to linger in the dissolving environment of music, meant to distance self and longing in a singular moment of sheer bliss. Yet even the music cannot embrace the fragmented substance of herself. Only hands can gather the strewn pieces in need to find a balance like wings in darkened clouds.
The black poncho covers her but like a moth dying in the pursuit of light she is drawn to the fiery background. She is not able to leave the circle of radiance it sheds. Her isolated figure is encircled by two bodies and the colour red. Her life - red, black and white.

Suddenly voices fill the air.

And when I dreamt thee
I found a place in me.
The voice of my heart
Mum and soundless, discard,
Only in the land beyond
A voice, a face, a sound?

The other one, leaning in to hear voices in and out of tact, concentrates her eyes on her instrument, not willing to look up and resting her eyes on erased faces. She fears the reflection of the others on her inside. The lil pink petal has been carelessly sewed to her hat. The cotton thread pushed the quick decay of the flower on, cutting into the flesh of its stem. Yet it still dances in the wind, echoes distant music and vibrates in tune with the fierce quality of a flamboyant colour.
This other one holds her body tightly, grasping her lil instrument like a shield. Her entire body tenses to the chords. Her fingers cannot keep up with the melody of the others. Conscious of passer-bys and their annihilating eyes, she covers herself and returns to childhood afternoons filled with hide and seek. She clears her throat yet no sound is generated by the air passing her vocal cords. Only a raspy cough leaves the empty cavern of her throat, a doomed opus on a scratchy record.
Once she believed in the liberating quality of music. Back than she still danced to the voices of the great ones, loosing herself in music, in feelings uttered and emotions felt. Her grandmother would watch her shaky movements with a twinkle in her deeply wrinkled eyes. A house filled with music. Yet with her grandmother’s death music no longer turned into joy and it left her life.
Losing the wordless dialogue of music still haunts her sleepless nights, making her weep in tune with the unsteady rhythm of her heart. There is no pattern to her life – only a grey wall.

And what did I do while the other two players of music kept to themselves, shutting me out of their individual scores? I played the banjo, kept the tune, lead the melody, and did not forget to let my voice be heard in far-off buildings ending in nooks and crannies. The imaginary old man towering at the window above the onlooker’s eyes, beyond the highest boarder of the frame, has been drawn there by the singularly mute vibration of the voice inside of me. I lean into the instrument and yet pull myself away from it, leaving a gap. The instrument is not me. Yet it has become an extended part of me by my own choosing. It utters themes where words fail. Its squeaky voice turning into the scream I cannot utter. The old man rests his eyes on us and I change the rhythm of my song unconsciously. His eyes must rest on the top of our heads. I cannot see him but I can feel him. He takes in every detail of the disguises that we offer him. We are three players of music – three vagabonds – nothing more. And what is he? I imagine him in his tiny flat above a market place that has seen better days. There is no other face coming up beside him to hear our music. Does he listen to the music or does he shut our attempt at vibrant chords out of his life, not understanding dust covered hats telling their own story?


Last edited by chrisqui on Sun May 21, 2006 12:15 am; edited 2 times in total
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dani darko



Joined: 13 Apr 2006
Posts: 6
Location: Mainz, Germany

PostPosted: Sun May 14, 2006 11:45 am    Post subject: Get up, you're late Reply with quote

I.
Get up, you’re late
Rush down the road
To catch the rising sun
And influence your fate
Try to influence your fate

Refrain
Be prepared
Before the next teardrop falls
Be prepared
Before the earthly winds stop blowing

II.
Get up, you’re late
Feel the rhythm, grab your bones
Powers of our nature’s silence
Remain to soothe your pain
Try to soothe your pain

Refrain

Be prepared
Before the next teardrop falls
Be prepared
Before those little thunders come crawling

Break
What is the colour of the night?
Break it with your flashlight
What is the sound of mania?
Break it with your hope

Refrain
Outro
And be prepared … (4x)
_________________
music nonstop when i close my eyes
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staffehl



Joined: 20 Mar 2006
Posts: 7

PostPosted: Sun May 14, 2006 1:33 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

Greenhorn and Bowleg

Ayayaya!
There was an ugly greenhorn
With a moon-shaped face –
Ayayaya!
And an ugly girly
Who had two bowlegs.
Ayayaya!

And when they met at the dancing hall
All the people there screamed:
Ayayaya!
Oh, what an ugly couple –
I almost can take no breathe!

Ayayaya!
There was an ugly greenhorn
With a moon-shaped face –
Ayayaya!
And an ugly girly
Who had two bowlegs.
Ayayaya!

And then they danced and danced
Until the morning light
Ayayaya!
And by their movements and twisting
They turned to beauty that night.
Ayayaya!

Ayayaya!
There was an ugly greenhorn
With a moon-shaped face –
Ayayaya!
And an ugly girly
Who had two bowlegs.
Ayayaya!

But then the dandy Andy who was jealous
Provoked a fight –
Ayayaya!
Because he fell quite in love with
The girl that was not ugly that night.
Ayayaya!

Well, the ugly greenhorn was a pacifist
And the ugly girly was already his.
Ayayaya!
And so they danced and danced
Until the breaking dawn
Ayayaya!
The beautiful bowlegged girly
And the moon-shaped green-horn!
Ayayaya!
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Miriam Kuroszczyk



Joined: 21 Mar 2006
Posts: 14

PostPosted: Mon May 15, 2006 9:54 pm    Post subject: Seattle 18 Reply with quote

I didn’t love you

When they say the reason is you and everthing is excellent and fine, I can’t believe it. I changed who I used to be. No me. No more. Hope you’re feeling happy now, they always say. When fantasies become reality, when planets crash to entertain – then their destinies smile. Touch me. Now I’m alone. I used to sing. Before drunken crowds. Take me to hell and back in moonraylight. Through liquor dusts. Friendly as lily pads in morning dew. So complete. Betrayed by spirits, I wonder how one can still love. Loved and cherished and gone. So long. Words are only thoughts. Loud. Heavy. Silent lies. I fell like angels. Wings cut off. Good show. Prime time laughs.
Paint your face. Use the magic of oil. So true. Staying. Covering. Bad times, too. Luminous as 6 a.m. summers. Heaps and heaps of homes to shine in motherly longing. Great memory, they say. Thick brushes to caress canvases. Slow motion. Slow hand. No end. Bury lines of berries under plumful paste. Oily of skin. Soulless. Can’t shake love like champagne bottles to revive the sparks that once made you happy and free and dizzy. Twisterwise. May get short-time foam. That’s it. Melt emotions. Do something good. Like freeing birds. They need to fly. Who doesn’t? When they feel like dried tomatoes, when they say they drown in peace, they want you to drown, too. As cartridge wrinkles on old tomato surface. Oily. Gone from life. No more brushes. No more stroking. Smoking, maybe. Next time.
Crazy how they remain here. Remain silent. See girls falling off bridges. Into creams of pity. Cracking. Splashing hearts. Rags all over. Shining like rubies. Been trees. Wise men speak. Words like quicksand. Demanding. Devouring. Digesting. Shots Hawaiian style brighten weary wounds. Life staring at me. Everyone’s for you, they say. Dream on. That’s where the difference is. It’s all in their thoughts. All up to me. Exhibit your life, I think. New me. Knew me. Bubbles bursting in my blood. Liquid poison. Kiss me.
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