(marginalia vitae)
The sand has lost all colour. No, maybe it is the colour Of small, sharp stones that Make up gravel so simply. Yes, the colour of the sharp, Grey, cold and merciful. Her song went unheard. She And the sand now are intimate. Intimate much more than one desires. Grey, cold and so sharp that […]
Read More Anguis fragilis. Slowworm.vējš parauj smiltis un pērnās lapas un kūlas stiebrus vecos kapos un kopto pagalmu kaktos, kur kaķi, vārnas un lustīgi sīļi svin pavasari starp gandrīz dīgstošām zīlēm, snieg- pulkstenēm un dažiem purpura krokusiem puspavērtiem. virpuļo sīkumi, skaidas saskaitās pulkos, pārlec žogiem, dzīviem un stiepļu rombiņos sapītiem, vīnogu- lāju noklātām zvirbuļu laktām, aizšvīkst līdz strazdu amata […]
Read More ko vairs atceros*My kid brother died Aug 2, 2005. This is his lay. This too is his lay, only written as a scene for a Creative non-fiction workshop on Aug 2, 2018, inspired by the excellent Inara Verzemnieks, a professor extraordinaire. (and the only person who has ever praised me for writing silences, which has perplexed me). […]
Read More A beer candeath is efficient. what else shall i say – it is efficient to the last minute detail. which makes it … deadly, i guess. or welcome, if one knows of its coming, and knows its purpose – to release the living from the burden of life. Terry Pratchett is among my favourite authors, together with […]
Read More upon the event of death of Terry Pratchettwatching films and people use gravestones (graves) as the point of focus (or reference) of talking to their loved ones who have passed on, i wonder: why go to the places of decomposed bodies to talk to one’s loved… do not people carry them inside themselves, always, ever?
Read More that bit about where we keep our dead loved oneseven when death is but passing, it towers and looms over the traveller home; the things important on the linear path get brushed under the quiet rock, the immense carpet made by transcendent hands; death is but passing – you know it, and i, and yet we stay
Read More comparativelyturpat pie celiņa, it kā aizmidzis, zālīti apsedzies, kaķīts atlaidies; pelēka vilniņa, viss melnās strīpiņās, dzeltena pakakle, pusviru actiņas- guļ kā tāds plausītis. zīlīte atnāca, zvirbulīts pieleca, ne ķepa nekustas; tepat viņš staigāja, draudziņu meklēja, murrāt murrāja, cilvēku gaidīja; rītiņa agrumā apstājās sirsniņa, mauriņa lizdiņā, kaķentiņš aizmiga.
Read More kad dzirkstele aizlecthe roads had all gone muddy, and the trees were far from budding. it was late april in the 1980s, and as it happens in our family, another funeral could not proceed with dignity. because the lorry that had the coffin just got stuck in the mud and nothing would move it. and all the […]
Read More it was long ago about now, and is one more storythe kitchen is ever dark, and cold, and cave-like, and sombre. starting the fire, on gas or in the cooking range. the quiet determinism of those present in the house for the morning. the smell of sadness, the unspoken collectiveness of all people waiting. the setting-up of the pots, the pouring of water, the measuring […]
Read More funeral coffeeand again. for the past nights, i have been dreaming of losing her again. or not losing. it all is so confusing. my rational mind tells me- all that could have been lost, has been [lost], and there is nothing, nothing at all to be done about it. my body memory, morphic memory, tells me that something […]
Read More exp +360he formed the definition of what poet is, in my world. and how to see the world. Imants Ziedonis. The Master of Clarity. Passed on to the next world on this day. i am happy he did. and i hurt, as a poet and as a latvian. let his journey be light. you will have […]
Read More and now he has moved on. a tribute to a poet, a national consciousness, a man who had barbs and a heart to loveit is midnight, and the tree roots have grown over the faces of the ancient statues of power and strength, and faithfulness. at the table, cards folded in hands the two sat, unblinking, unmoving, speechless amidst little half-empty glasses of shots. the light flickered, unresolved gleaming on the horizons where what was met […]
Read More when a wake is impossible because the people are too different and just would not talkskumju putns izplešas vējā un tumšmelnām spalvām ieķeŗas mākoņu malās. viņš plīvo starp zemi un debesīm, starp to, kas varēja būt, un to, kas nenotika. viņa kājas iejūk vīnogu zaros aiz loga, un viņa sirds sitas stiklos, klusumā, pārtraukta. sarāvies kamolā, skumju putns tup uz palodzes, un ir krietni pāri pusnaktij; viņa acis aizsedz mēnesi, […]
Read More pilnmēness/ pustrijos naktī// joprojām nav iespējams gulētbecause there is a great gift that cannot be earned, only received with humbleness and joy.
Read More the midwinter thing…have blessed time, all of youuzdāvini man sapni. pilnu ar … madarām; ar tikko paspētu skolas zvanu, ar ozona molekulām mazliet ieplēstā kolbā. uzdāvini man sapni. kur nav ilgu iesildīšanas; nav neatveŗamu durvju un zirnekļa tīklu pār vecām kartēm. uzdāvini man sapni. pilnu ar … ķiploku receptēm; ar gandrīz negaisa mākoņiem, ar asfalta smaržu zem raibi rūtainām riepām. sapni kā […]
Read More nekas nav pazaudētsthe annual ‘lux perpetua’, etc etc post. i can forget. no problem with forgetting. but my body does not. the annual dissonance. clench the teeth, cook something complicated like chicken tikka masala (in this country one has to spend hours hunting the ingredients), clench the teeth, hide. the dead walk in my dreams, and i […]
Read More et lux perpetuaRe, vēja nav, un kociņš neviens nekustas, Un laikam neplūst arī gruntsūdeņi. Un melnās svītras nodzēstas no tāss. Un sausā eglē apklusuši dzeņi. Bez vēja tavi mati klusi guļ. Un nešūpojas aste cielaviņai. Un brūnā māla bļodā māte sviestu kuļ. Bet debesīs. Un nav ko prasīt viņai, Jo debesīs. Un neviens kociņš nekustas. Gar manām […]
Read More bet varbūt arī tāshe was. those words taste strangely. she is my mother, regardless of her status with life or death. do i have words for her? do i have memories? on the scale of one to ten, as a mother, she was about 5. on the same scale as a friend, she gets 12 minimum. but i […]
Read More she who took me into this worldmin moðor forðferde. i think it was the best for the given circumstances, she died like the active person she was. in action. for which i admire her. and also. i think the this was the best variant of all the possible variants. this is what she wanted, how she wanted to go. fast. neat. […]
Read More predictably but too soonone of our cats (the one in the pic, where he sleeps on the laundry, as was his custom) got killed by falling snow and ice from the rooftop. now the farm is un-catted, cat-less, bereft of a noble hunter.
Read More avalanchein the face of death, all our little games lose sense. it is the ars moriendi in our parts, to talk of passing on like it were a trip to somewhere else. ‘if something happens, you know who to call. because they will know where the death-clothes are. and the money is..there. and i am […]
Read More i, too want to be out cold drunk and have no responsibility, but i apparently cannotwhen your teachers die, when the greater ones move on, forðfaraþ, what is left in the world? the breach in the net of the world is patched up by us, the lesser ones, the followers, the disciples. we are not carried by the net. now we are the net, and must carry others. this is […]
Read More briefly in memoriamWe thank you for giving […] to us, […] family and friends, to know and to love as a companion on our earthly pilgrimage (BCP, Burial of the Dead, Rite II) To know is to love. To love, is to know. In the process of our journey here on earth, we meet strangers. In the […]
Read More Formal patterns on a journeyI remember my dog. He was… let’s say, of German Shepherd ancestry. Which means he was big, greyish-yellowish-something with a black saddle and face. And two large soft ears that stood upright in question and in answer. We were loyal to each other. He could hear my whistling a mile away, when I whistled the […]
Read More Memories, shadows… hounds, hauntsThis is for you, little kid. I, the eardstapa, will sing your song of death. Because I could not mourn you then and there, I will mourn you here and now. Drink another beer, whichever place that is you are currently gone to, drink and have fun. Grass Still green. Leaves Still brilliant. Sun So […]
Read More The day of maybe has come