wild thing

"Never love a wild thing, Mr. Bell,' Holly advised him. 'That was Doc's mistake. He was always lugging home wild things. A hawk with a hurt wing. One time it was a full-grown bobcat with a broken leg. But you can't give your heart to a wild thing: the more you do, the stronger they get. Until they're strong enough to run into the woods. Or fly into a tree. Then a taller tree. Then the sky. That's how you'll end up, Mr. Bell. If you let yourself love a wild thing. You'll end up looking at the sky."
— Truman Capote (Breakfast at Tiffany's: A Short Novel and Three Stories)

i love wild things.

i cant give my heart. i can only open my heart to let the wild in. and keep it open so that the wild thing is free. is free to leave. and free to come in. if it gives no damage inside; if it gives damage then the door will be closed next time. or the third time. i always give a second chance. but not a third. and yet there is no rule to matters of the heart. "the heart has reasons that reason cannot tell..."

when the wild thing leaves, the heart still remains. there is the emptiness left. an emptiness filled with enrichment. an enrichment that the wild thing introduced to the heart. and the heart that has introduced its own wild side to the wild thing.

i used to give my heart or try to keep wild things stay in my heart. that only brought a wrong feeling of possession. destruction. if u trap a wild thing, it will destroy your heart until it breaks it apart to flee.

love is a feeling just too far away from posession. it is an openness of the heart.

an openness. something closer to freedom.

and easier said than done, of course. i am practicing, indeed. we are, all.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z9DVJE_bhVU&feature=related

The Troggs - Wild Thing

the lizard knows it all: the prince, the tree and the giraffe

ev.k; collage in progress; oct.2010 onwards; vienna

i make mark each time i arrive in the studio. this month, i have not made any marks. spent more time in the semperdepot and outside on the streets and around and in places.

time to continue making marks. one or two.

looking for MEryem / 15th district on a helloween

i come across the masked Turkish boy twice. the second time he sees me, i am already on my way back, defeated in my search. he tells me about the change in hours. i thought it was 11 pm; he tells me it is 10 pm. so i try once more to look for the adress.

with a touch of the pen; filling in the blurry parts; i go over the night of looking for her

the street lamps are actually spacecrafts, watching over us, making sure: alles gut

*

stories and other fragile things (always striving)

a fish about to slip back into the sea

suk; naschmarkt

on the way to semperdepot

karlsplatz, accidental rainbow, only on sunny days onlt at thr right angle

monument to the fly; october 2010; vienna; schillerplatz

"Stories are made up by people who make them up. If they work, they get retold. There's the magic of it."
*

"She seems so cool, so focused, so quiet, yet her eyes remain fixed upon the horizon. You think you know all there is to know about her immediately upon meeting her, but everything you think you know is wrong. Passion flows through her like a river of blood.

She only looked away for a moment, and the mask slipped, and you fell. All your tomorrows start here."

*

"..It occurs to me that the peculiarity of most things we think of as fragile is how tough they truly are. There were tricks we did with eggs, as children, to show how they were, in reality, tiny load-bearing marble halls; while the beat of the wings of a butterfly in the right place, we are told, can create a hurricane across an ocean. Hearts may break, but hearts are the toughest of muscles, able to pump for a lifetime, seventy times a minute, and scarcely falter along the way. Even dreams, the most delicate and intangible of things, can prove remarkable difficult to kill."
— Neil Gaiman (Fragile Things)

A longing to wander tears my heart

near karmeliterplatz; 2nd district

in front of the akademie, schillerplatz; 1st district

3rd district; near kardinal nagl platz

on the way back from the Gloriette, it was already dark. just stood still by the trees along the road. stood still and thanked the trees for their beauty. stood still and i watched and listened and smelled. shut my eyes and i could see. i cried to the beauty -to the presence- of the trees that day. a winter night i cried to the beauty of the trees. the trunks. the branches. the roots. leaves. slight movements in tune with the wind. i was seeing the trees these trees for the first time in my life. fascinating. fascinating. absolutely fascinating. imagined the fluid exchange between the earth and the veins of the tree. imagined the trees breathing. i thanked them for the air. for the freshness in the air. i cried to the stillness of the trees. to the silent witnesses of history.

(this was after our conversation with franziska at yak&yeti. she suggested that i go to the zoo and to the gloriette. i did so. )

*

Hietzing is the 13th municipal District of Vienna (German: 13. Bezirk, Hietzing). It is located west of the central districts, west ofMeidling.^[2] Hietzing is a heavily populated urban area with many residential buildings, but also contains large areas of the Vienna Woods, along with Schönbrunn Palace.^[1][2]

*

"Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

...
When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. (... ) Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness."
— Hermann Hesse

by my door at 00:35 midnight / i fly

‎"...if we expended all our energies solely on taking care of our own needs we would stop growing. In that respect what we call "soul" can be viewed as the surplus energy that can be invested into change and transformation. As such, it is the cutting edge of evolution."
Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi

francys alys postcards

handmade notebook with a crow

skeleton leaves; transparent; fragile

and a lovely card starting with : canım kardeşim! (dear sister; my life sister)

ah and the rose; the rose that sealed the envelope: she is a poet; yes she is a poet; my friend; my sister

after my flying exercises at the shonbrunn

after adoring all the trees, and telling the trees how adorable they are

and after meeting lovely womenpower friends

and after just being thankful for all the amazing people i ve met so far

and after the lovely luch with franziska at yak& yeti

and all the conversation regarding mainly "the flow"

this package from Cigdem; her card; her presents just grab me by my heart&soul

all right, i feel the wind under my wings

and so i fly!!!