No Camera

Letter to old friends

Posted in Dreamland by ION on 07/11/2008

Dear all,

It is an illustrated day.

I’m sitting at this very old desk, writing this letter; giving words to people I don’t know. So, I begin to write although I don’t feel aware of what you’d expect me to tell you. Maybe this letter, maybe these scattered words, sampled randomly from the dusty surface, maybe this dream that will finally reach you or reach others, strange people shaping their lives far from here, or even these pages, full of truth revealed in sleepless investigations in secret rooms, finally find their way in a binary trashcan.

I dream myself; someone somewhere in summertime. The dynamic range of my nervous system is limited. The clock says “Night”. I’m lost inside a faceless solitude of a huge country house but I am detected by my GPS inside a gray smoky room, arguing with yellow wires or titanium machines. I am recording the ghosts having a party in the yard.

I feel unseasonable. I put all sounds in memory; funny crickets and fat frogs, drunk cicadas and devilish locusts creeping on my bed, thirsty mosquitoes buzzing by the microphone capsule, the orange cat twins hunting a diamond blue dragonfly, murmurs resonating, violently cutting silence’s threshold, distant dogs waking for lost loves, my neighbor screech owl singing on top of my piano chords.

I took the way back but I missed the tracks. Following the fairy of the meadow, came to a reed forest, by a calm beach. “Is this the place?” I asked.

But I will sit here silently, giving you details about a picture that one day we all shall see. A picture from a letter to old friends. A letter gone missed behind locked doors, that shall remain locked, until one beautiful day, someone will rise from all the fairy tales of this world, showing us the truth, and we will all follow.

I know I am not genuine. I am just symmetry of weak interactions. I am a lepton in the chaos of creativity. I move, so I create, too. Giving movement to a world, wrinkled like the water, in the shoreline of this beach. As long as I remember all fields near remained unpruned, waterlogged by the melancholy of solitude.

I face the dark next to the sea where the few frail stars are lost behind the horizon. There, where in any occasion we all escape and we all drag our hopes under a stagnant time. Here I am, trapped between logic and justice, with the invisible alloy of my transmitters, giving birth to my daylights.

I hear your voice. Now I see your face. I am awake. The silence remains.

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2 Responses

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  1. etta said, on 07/11/2008 at 4:45 pm

    Poem for iON [version 3.0.beta]

    Waves spoken

    by the sea

    break free

    and satisfy

    the sand.

    ~etta

    [As first posted in my blog on 5 September 2008 in response to your album updates “You & Me”] Thanx for giving us this window on your beautiful soul, G.

  2. eyEaRt said, on 07/11/2008 at 5:52 pm

    Det är bättre av en hämnare nås
    än till intet se åren förrinna,
    det är bättre att hela vårt folk förgås
    och gårdar och städer brinna.
    Det är stoltare, våga sitt tärningskast,
    än att tyna med slocknande låge.
    Det är skönare lyss till en sträng, som brast,
    än att aldrig spänna en båge.

    ~Verner von Heidenstam


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