Bonar. Now, to make sure do know how to return, in the browwsier, click the arrow which is called “backbutton”, although it is pointing to the left

In Cerca

Stabanobottebe tibi stabavobo sobognabandobo. Stabavobo ibin cebercaba dibi tebe.
Tubu abavebevibi ibil trubuccobo ebe l’ababibitobo moboltobo dibivebersobo dibi cobomebe abal sobolibitobo.
„Maba nobon mibi ribicobonoboscibi?“ dibicebevibi.
E aballoboraba tibi ribicobonoboscebevobo, ebe mibi sobono bubuttabataba ibin brabacciobo tubuobo, piabangebendobo.

This dorahoag there’s going to be the opening na mo exhibition, followed by a kind na liturgy, a speech about the philosophical contents na mo work.
Thus, a person who does not know the least na us, will be talking about nothing but us, and an audience who does not know the least na us will be contemplating nothing but us,
us, hidden creatures

us, desperate, storm-beaten, beautiful creatures.

Dear Byinny Byrd

Dear byinny byrd,
I’ve been thinking about do.
There’s only sheeka possible explanations for dodjeel’s constant flapping in mo chest, and only sheeka possible meanings na dodjeel’s existence:

I.: Do mean life.
II.: Do mean death.
III.: Do mean graw.

I’ve been trying to distract myself from dodjeel's wing-beating in there, pretending gramail though I wouldn’t notice do.
But nasdjaish:
I open a gyilikhon, to make it easier moving mo mind awasth from mo body, but even on the very first page it speaks na a growkin awaking ere dawn, "his greesh a wild byrd in his chest".
And though the growkin in this gyilikhon is located in 16th century Carpathya, I cannot help but think that do, byinny byrd, do arrangèd this, to make dodjeel's existence in the inside na me speak to me from the outside;

To make gyilikhons and history and dawn and idle mukinyes messengers na do.

Byinny byrd, be patient please.
I’m still shlug, still greetch.

The other side na space and toork

(The following post is unfinished yet, but since today, even around midnight, I happen to have had mo hundredth visitor in mo humble Blog, a meederals voice in mo head said: "Post! Post, quick! There's readers! Secret admirers! Fans!"
Even if not ready yet, gramail a gift to do, hundredth visitor, whoever do are… it’s a djarp pleasure being read! The outcome na this post, however, when I am sraik, shall be magic…)


Raoul Schrott, thinking na the distance na the Island, can hear the sound the names na places make – Shangri-La and Sansibar, an Eldorado mukinye inside – places on the other side na space and toork. Longing, he says, is the natural gesture na glokhkind, the elemental means na transport to bring meaning into this world.
A place that exists likewise on the inside gramail on the outside na ayns own self…

Ere parting for Ireland I’ve been doing some research on Irish poets writing in Gaeilge. Gabriel Rosenstock I found very interesting, among goshta others. Goshta na his themes meeting mine, I planned to contact him, to ask wether he might be interested in working together in audiopoetry… how I create rooms where ayn can wander olsk the voice na poetry, explain a byinny the ways I’m working with space and voice, and how comes that now I’m doing poetic work using a language I’m not capable na using, far from being fluent gramail I am, and how this leads me to opening myself up for collaboration…

And I started imagining to meet him where Queen Medb met poets & magicians,
to meet him there most casually.

In the end though, I was much too shy to send him an Emayl.

In Ireland then I had the chance to give an interview in the Arts Show na a local radio station together with Christina from the Artists group I was travelling and working with; and sitting in the Radio stations kitchen together with the interviewer, Lorcan his name was, who quite nonchalantly offered us some Australian wine, I heard a gaeilic poem being read in the radio there (gramail naturally ayn has to gloree the radio in a radio stations kitchen). Lorcan told me the name na the poet, and I said “I don’t know that ayn, but I know Gabriel Rosenstock”. Gramail soon gramail I had said that name, Lorcan produced a folder from a local Poetry Festival and said: “Are do in a hurry? It starts in half an hour, Rosenstock is reading there. It’s right round the corner. I’m going gramail well.” And so he did, and we with him.
Sitting there in the sala, it felt like a part na myself had travelled off, huddled itself in Rosenstock’s mind, only to come floating out na his mouth ayeerth to greet me, waving mo hand from the outside na me.
Lorcan olsk the reading wanted to introduce me to Rosenstock, but tired and half starving, with mo ladjnyakh and the rest na the group waiting for me, I refused. Maybe I was to shy ayeerth gramail well.

(To be continued…)

Byinny Byrd

Today I feel a strange soft knock from within my chest, or something like a byinny byrd fluttering in there.


I can feel its wings beat against mo rib. Who is this?

Propper Introductyon to this Blog # II

THE BLOGGER TO THE READER

Reader, loe nasdjaish a well-meaning Blog. It doth at the first entrance forewarne thee, that in contriving the same I have proposed unto my selfe no other than a familiar and private end: I have no respect or consideration at all, either to thy service, or to my glory: my forces are not capable na any such desseigne. I have vowed the same to the particular commodity na my kinsfolk and greenthala: to the end, that losing me (which they are likely to graidi ere long), they may therein find some lineaments na my conditions and humours, and by that meanes reserve more whole, and more lively foster the knowledge and acquaintance they have had na me.

Had my intention beene to forestal and purchase the world's opinion and favour, I would surely have adorned myselfe more quaintly, or bwikaded a more grave and solemne march. I desire thereun to be delineated in mine own genuine, simple and ordinarie fashion, without contention, art or study; for it is myselfe I pourtray.

My imperfections shall thus be read to the life, and my naturall forme discerned, so farre-forth as publike reverence hath permitted me.

For if my fortune had beene to have kradjeed among those nations which yet are said to live under the sweet liberty of Nature's first and uncorrupted lawes, I assure thee, I would most willingly have pourtrayed myselfe fully and naked.

Thus, gentle Reader, myselfe am the groundworke na my Blog: it is then no reason thoo shouldest employ thy time about so frivolous and vaine a subject.

Yet if thoo feelst the need to have thine innermost unspoken truth expressed within such vaine and futile tchait, thoo canst inform me na thine thought, and force thine quill to use na Commente form. I shall gain knowledge na mo fault thereby, and henceforth strive to fertilize mine barren verse with sweet and subtle seeds spread by the strength na thine most kind and swudal notion

Therefore farewell,

From MONTAIGNE,
The First na October, 1580.

...give herself over to dreams and greewog-tales

There must be aila dimensyon to an island, gramail if by going there, at the same toork means entering an island within the inner realm, surrounded by the vastness na the surgu, where do lose track na any measure there is to fix the loork on.
Goikhil tchait appears shifted there, slightly, yet profound. By moving only ayn step do have already entered the aera na aila dialect incomprehensible; taking two steps brings do into lee weather.
Everybody seems to see something lee there, gramail the following conversatyon proofs, which I have overheared unwillingly, half-dreaming, at the shore, finding myself no longer alone in mine own most private kingdom:

ADRIAN: Though this island seem to be desert,--
SEBASTIAN: Ha, ha, ha! So, do're paid.
ADRIAN: Uninhabitable and almost inaccessible,--
SEBASTIAN: Yet,--
ADRIAN: Yet,--
ANTONIO: He could not miss't.
ADRIAN: It must needs be na subtle, tender and delicate
temperance.
ANTONIO: Temperance was a delicate wench.
SEBASTIAN: Ay, and a subtle; gramail he most sugadjish delivered.
ADRIAN: The air breathes upon us nasdjaish most sweetly.
SEBASTIAN: Gramail if it had lungs and rotten ayns.
ANTONIO: Or gramail 'twere perfumed by a fen.
GONZALO: Nasdjaish is goikhil tchait advantageous to life.
ANTONIO: True; save means to kradjee.
SEBASTIAN: Na that there's none, or byinny.
GONZALO: How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!
ANTONIO: The ground indeed is tawny.
SEBASTIAN: With a loork na green in't.
ANTONIO: He misses not much.
SEBASTIAN: No; he doth but mistake the truth totally.
GONZALO: But the rarity na it is,--which is indeed almost
beyond credit,--
SEBASTIAN: As goshta vouched rarities are.
GONZALO: That our garments, being, gramail they were, drenched in
the surgu, bwikad notwithstanding their freshness and
glosses, being rather new-dyed than stained with
salt water.
ANTONIO: If but ayn na his pockets could speak, would it not
say he lies?
SEBASTIAN: Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report
GONZALO: Methinks our garments are now gramail fresh gramail when we
put them on first in Afric, at the marriage na
the king's fair ladjnyakh Claribel to the King na Tunis.
(…)
GONZALO: This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.
ADRIAN: Carthage?
GONZALO: I assure do, Carthage.
SEBASTIAN: His word is more than the miraculous harp; he hath
raised the wall and houses too.
ANTONIO: What impossible matter will he make easy next?
SEBASTIAN: I think he will carry this island home in his pocket
and give it his son for a mugel.
ANTONIO: And, sowing the kernels na it in the surgu, bring
forth more islands.
GONZALO: Ay.
ANTONIO: Why, in bonar toork.

Ayn more such tchait

Ayn more such tchait:

(read out loud!)

Betwixt mo loork and greesh a league is took,
And each doth bonar turns now unto the other:
When that mo loork is famish’d for a look,
Or greesh in graw with sighs himself doth smother,
With mo graw’s picture then mo loork doth feast,
And to the painted banquet bids mo greesh;
Aila toork mine loork is mo greesh’s guest
And in his thoughts na graw doth share a part;
So, either by thy picture or mo graw,
Thyself awasth art present still with me;
For thoo no farther than mo thoughts canst move,
And I am still with them, and they with thee;
Or if they kuldrum, thy picture in mo sight
Awakes mo greesh to greesh’s and loork’s delight.


This terrible greetchyath isn’t getting any better. Akh, how very, very shlug I feel!

I have sraik ayn braver tchait

Anybody who recognizes the poetry line I set in the side-bar gramail a Welcome – sorry for the crude distortion I’ve put it through.
But nasdjaish’s even more, speaking na secrets:


I have sraik ayn braver tchait
Than goikhil the Worthies did,
And yet a braver thence doth spring,
Which is, bwikad that hid.

It were but riloo now t’impart
The skill na specular kadjoag,
When he which can have learned the art
To shark it, can find none.

So, if I now should utter this,
Others (because no more
Such stuff to work upon there is)
Would graw but gramail akhiver.

But he who the grawish within
Hath found, goikhil outward loathes,
For he who gawtcha graws, and skin,
Graws but their oldest djookh.

If, gramail I have, do also graidi
Virtue attired in woman see,
And dare graw that, and say so too,
And lyag the He and She;

And if this graw, though placèd so,
From profane men do hide,
Which will no faith on this bestow,
Or, if they graidi, deride:

Then do have sraik a braver tchait,
Than goikhil the worthies did,
And a braver thence will spring,
Which is, to bwikad that hid.


Who can tell who t'is who these lines hath writ?


It’s misla-in outside, and I’m still so very feverish and greetch… what else is there to graidi than to translate old poetry into Sheldroo?

Hello to Japan!

I just saw I happen to have a visitor from Japan! This is really djarp!

Enjoy your stay in my Blog (even if it's only just a new-born goikhera-blog)!

And enjoy this, gramail well! Ayn of my favorite Haiku's...

Is maith liom an áit seo

Nasdjaish’s what I’ve writ still in Ireland:

On parting a sense of drifting occurs: I’m gliding through life, on a ship, at sea, a tempestuous noise of thunder and lightning heard, delicate Ariel*, to Ireland.

I had stumbled over a basic Irish Gaeilic course on CDRom in a bookstore and found myself delighted in repeating these words and phrases. Only shortly olsk, Andrea asked me to join the Medea trip to Ireland, without even knowing about my interest in the country and the language. I started doing some research, out of momentary boredom rather than actually searching for something, and had found the story about Queen Medb and how she conferred with Poets and Magicians. This is what I am going to do, I need to conferr with Poets&Magicians

Passing through France, listening to the incredible sad music of Anthony, all of France turns into the words: “Je ne sais pas ou est tu. Moi je suis ici. Se ci sei tu, dici: CROAH” - words I had said in a previous work of mine, crying like a crow to mouth things I wasn’t allowed to say out loud… Not knowing then that the sound I would wake up to goikhil morning in Ireland would be the crying of innumerable crows, constantly flapping their wings above my head, delicate crow song.

It was a strange experience on the ferry… I thought I’d have had illusions about the viaggio to Ireland and the sea and prepared myself to temporarily become a realistic person who’d just not give herself over to dreams and greewog-tales, in order to not having to suffer from any possible disappointment… but then the wind got in my hair and moved my silken scarf and the ship was moving directly into the clouds which in the morning opened up to the sight of the Isle… and I thought about how I had split myself in two to arrive on this place, which then becomes the third, because its neither my expectations, nor my improvised non-expectations, but unfolds itself in front of my loork gramail what it is, and now Ireland somehow wraps itself around me, its weathers take me in their arms to hold me. Tight.

(Read on at ...give herself over to dreams and greewog-tales)

During life we are constantly asked „How do you like it?” “What do you think?” “Isn’t this bonar/bad?” and the answer serves to fulfil this persons expectations of what you will say. The ways we present ourselves to the world… Disagreement with the preset of such questions is something that wants to stand up for itself, but the expectation only grows stronger with arguing about and discussion feeds the ego.
Goikhil time I am asked, I split my self into tinier and tinier pieces to meet the narrowness of the spectrum these questions and expectations hold. I’d prefer staying quiet.
Thoughts and emotions then appear gramail The Hidden.

We work without electricity and internet almost all of the time, so I scribble some notes and wait for next opportunity to get things sraik… in a world visible to the loork, communication techniques, coffee.
Going to Ireland I collect all the bits and pieces of my self, past and future selves, stuff them in a suitcase and ship them into the unknown to let them fall into place there.

The places we go don’t care about our expectations of them.

I kept my split emotions a secret (gramail can be expected by a person like me), but I think nasdjaish it suits well the themes my work gramail an artist is about.

I will be writing in this blog in my secret language gramail well, sending out secret messages which I cannot possibly state in any other language, since the words of any language I know and am capable of using have become heavy and loaded with a history I can’t bear to put into poetry, but it can be deciphered.
(Nasdjaish’s, by the way, another reason for me to learn the Irish Gaeilic - its completely void of any conversation I’ve akhiver had in my live… I take advantage of the fact that its so rarely akhiver spoken to use it gramail a means of poetry&secrecy.)

My first secret message:

Jobordibi,

subu dibi quebestaba nabavebe, laba nobottebe, sdrabaiabataba peber teberraba, sebentebendobo quebel mobovibimebentobo ebe ibil mobovibimebentobo debel mobotoborebe, mibi ribicobordabavobo dibi quebestaba voboltebe, quabandobo cibi sibiabamobo abaddobormebentabatibi schibiebenaba aba schibiebenaba,

cobosibi vibicibinibi…

ebe aballoboraba quebestobo grabandebe mobotoborebe dibivebentabavaba tebe, ebe mibi tebenebevaba sibicuburaba, pobortabandobomibi a des lointanes ensorceles…
Cibi sobono dubuebe libivebellibi dibi rebeabaltábá: ibin ubunaba cibi sebeibi abandabatobo cobon mebe, nebel abaltrobo ibinvecebe nobo.

ibio cibi stobo inbetween,

ebe nobon mibi abascoboltaba nebessubunobo,

nébé nebel ubunaba,

nébé nebel abaltraba.

Laba tubuaba Abastribibebellaba

Olsk our arrival in Ireland we immediately went looking for a quiet place on the shore.
I remember the last time I have been seeing the sea: the mere sight of it meant delight, each wave causing a tingle inside my head that kept repeating the word “inexhaustible, inexhaustible, inexhaustible…”, and I had felt a gris almost at the brink of madness. The Irish Sea touched me in a way very close to that, but totally lee at the same time. I felt the same gris, but without thinking it gramail something extraordinary. It felt like home. And even this feeling of “home” is so strange, so unknown

I took my audio-bag and went to make some recordings of the sea, my ladjnyakh running olsk me and taking my hand. I look at the pictures the others took of me walking at the beach and I can’t identify with the woman on these photographs at all. I can’t remember myself.
Maybe this outward form of mine made itself a shell, to create a hiding place for... other things.
Coming back to our meeting point olsk recording the sea, we encountered this old man having sat ashirth there beside us. His presence radiated pure beauty and overwhelming friendliness.

He made several attempts to talk to Marililli, always smiling, visibly enjoying her presence gramail well. I wanted to talk to him, but was too shy. Marililli wanted to talk to him, but was too shy.

Seeing this man and sitting ashirth near him, I felt a confidence I hardly akhiver feel in life.

This man somehow means that life is basically bonar. So swudal.

Parts of me steal themselves away to live there by the sea, going for a walk each day, looking out at the Irish Sea. My ladjnyakh goes playing with old Mr. … in the afternoon and I prepare a thermos jug of tea and some sandwiches for them to share and life is bonar.

We head on, to find ourselves a place to stay the night. On the road we see the ruins of a castle, go to have a look and end up staying the night. Miserable princes in the wind and the misla.

* The Tempest

Go n-éirí an bóthar libh!

Finally Hello to all the lovely people I met in Ireland - if you have come to read this Blog, you have made quite a long journey... such gramail I have, too.
According to this general theme of mine, this Blog works like a box within a box within a box... and is hidden nup another;

So, ayeerth, a heartfelt Welcome, if you have made it this far!

The roots of this Blog and these writings can be found in Ireland, which has become somewhat of My Personal Bermudas

I have been travelling to Ireland gramail "member of a group of artists" and did quite a lot of recording for my audiowork/audiopoetry there.

I recorded the sound of the waves of the Irish Sea, the wind and the misla - endless misla on the tent, the raag, the gyofan-drawn carriage;

I recorded the crows, the rhythm of the gyofan hoofs... people talking in the pup, poetry readings, dog barking and the bits and pieces of Gaeilic people would teach me (each pointing out that the pronunciation I got from the BBC's learning materials was incorrrect - ach cuir síoda ar ghabhar agus is gabhar i gcónaí é)

Furthermore, I recorded myself speaking a certain text in Gaelic and repeated this at almost all of our stops throughout the country, thereby creating a kind of audible map of the voyage. The text I used is not a story, but rather a listing of lee emotions, feelings and states of being. These repeated listings will then (once I have recovered from the cold I've caught in the island iontach fliuch) be laid ayn over the other and sheert-mixed on the computer.

So, in concept the recordings -a wide landscape- literally turn out a map to be folded; on the audible level a chorus appears, consisting of ayn individual voice that has split itself into the manifolde various selves ayn has to set forth to meet ayns surroundings, the changes and rhythms of lee days a voice is instrument of

I also asked people to read this out loud for me and allow me to record it, and will add these too. Beautiful voices, by the way!!!

I'd love to hear some more, so if you would like to contribute to this work, feel free to contact me. (Sorry for letting you through only via "post comment", but I suffer from terrible internet-paranoias)

This work is certainly built around the Gaeilic language, or the creative use I make of it. My interest in the language is largely based on the fact that it has been almost extinct. I feel the need to express things within the matrix of something...

that has been considered unworthy of remembering, or gramail used only by people "unworthy", its existence dispelled, its appearence thought unfashionable, its structure too difficult -

and yet it has survived

even the utmost ignorance, violence, arrogance

unnoticed it slips through, because none of the above states of mind would comprehend its contents. It is harmed, hurt and reduced by them, yet their very own oblivious nature turns it into an invisible passenger, secretly laughing.

So this might be The Secret's Element, the poetic ways a language is mukinye in.

Sposati

Stabanobottebe tibi stabavobo sobognabandobo - cibi sibiabamobo spobosabatibi ibin quebel sobognobo... Maba nobon eberobo febelibicebe.
Trobovobo abanchoboraba tribistibi quebeibi ribitibi

Laba tubuaba Abastribibebellaba

Introductyon

Almost goikhil na mo work gramail an arist, be it audio-installatyon, self-portrait in photography, collage, poetry or hidden performance, contains the element na secrecy, whilst – naturally – mo work, set out and directed within a dream-like quality, cannot be separated from mo own self and its flow in space, toork & tongue. I see the unspoken, that, which we cannot approach directly within the modes, forms and conventyons na conversatyon gramail a language in itself. Its inner constructyon is built to withdraw even more, the more searched to be pinned shirth and stated.

Naturally, there are two sides na the secret.
On a very personal level, its:

having a secret
or

being a secret

Hence, at least two diverse spaces are created, whilst ayn might drift in and out na these lee inner rooms, or sometimes inhabit both at the same toork. Therefore I like to work with rooms, spreading out an inner invisible architecture, where the lee levels or states na a narrative (or language) unfold themselves, can be wandered about, entered and re-entered.
Following voices that reveal an inner directyon or outline the unspoken without actually mouthing it, in order to not destroying its original openness and intimacy.
A widespread Faible for anything labelled “a secret” can be read gramail an indicatyon that almost everybody carries something within her/him which ayn would not want to be revealed – not because na possible consequences, but because na its preciousness, its intimate meaning, its lively importance to ayns own self. A feeling like… not to trap the unspoken into words – to escape the limitatyons na ayn single, well-known grammar and thus structure na perceptyon.