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01.04.2019, Mazzano Romano

Kõrged soe-õrnad õhuvood kannavad mustakirjuid linde tema aknast mööda. Kevadvalgust kumab üle kuldsei katusekivide. Tema kehas on tõusnud kuumus ja nahk võbeleb. Midagi on temas sündimas ja peakoor on murenemas. Päevi, päevi on pea valus. Siinsamas vanalinnas on ta leidnud end kaardistamata alalt. Ta püüab näha tundmatuses juhatust, kuid ei näe enam midagi. Kõik linnud lendavad ta selja taga, nende poole tagasi pöörduda ta ei saa ja silme ees haigutab seletamatu maa, milles ei erista mäge orust ja orgu mäest. Ta otsib teda silmadega, ta ei tea teda, ta ei tunne teda. Nad on pärit eri kohtadest, kuid temagi otsib teda. Templite sambad on langenud ja vaid need kiskjalikud kulmud on tõeliseks jäänud. Ta ei tea, kuhu astuda, ta ei tunne seda võõrast maapinda. Ta kardab neid silmi, ta kardab, et need näevad teda ennem, kui tema ise. Sügavsuitsuroheline ja suitsuhall looritavad ta sõrmed ja silmad. Ta teab nüüd, et tal tuleb jääda paigale. Ta on naine. Ta leiab oma tee selles tundmatus mõõtmeteta paigas, ta tantsib, ta tantsib südame avatuks ja esiemade silmad avanevad tema õlgade tagant. Ta on naine. Ta kannab, ta sünnitab, ta loob.

 

03.04.2019, Mazzano Romano

Taevas tõmbus tasaselt tumedamaks, vähehaaval tõusis tuul. Väikese vanalinna kiriku kell seisis tumehallide pilvede taustal paigal. Südame all tõusis igatsus. Väga vana koer istus pingi kõrvale seotult ja vaatas oma kastani-pruunide silmadega eikuhugi. Tuul keerutas paberitükke ja Tuulelille tütreke jooksis keerdudele järele. Polnud enam neid silmi, mis alati olid, kuid kohale oli jõudnud uus vaim. Kui juukseist libistas ta oma sügavsuitsuroheliseks värvitud sõrmed sellest vaimust läbi. Lõpmatult tumehall taevas kattis kõik tähed.

 

04.04.2019, Mazzano Romano

Taevas oli jäänudki sinkjas-halliks. Niiske tuul keerles kitsastel vanalinna tänavatel. Algasid kevad-vihmad. Hingan kõike seda hallikas-rohelist, tume-sügavat ja tunnen et ei saa küll. Ihus on murdunud sügavikud, mis soovivad kevad-tormi uputust, et nende põhjast tärkaksid tumerohelised taimed, ülespoole pöörlevad. Nendel maastikel on endiselt katoliikliku müstitsismi hingus talletunud, tasaselt üle liigirikka mägi-oru-mäe. Mägipuudelt tõuseb sooja auru läbi külma õhu. Loodus ja majad on tumedaks kastetud. Igatsuse pisarad tõmbavad rinnakorvi krampi.

 

05.04.2019, Mazzano Romano

Saabunud on loomise aeg, koos olemise aeg, looduse loomulikkuse aeg. Nii palju on jäänud kõrvale, nii palju on maha pudenenud ja see on uue sünni hetk. Iga hingetõmme hingab pruuni – kastani pruuni. Maa juured juurduvad sügavale, need tugevad puud seisavad kindlalt kesk tormi, mulla lõhn, see on kuivanud vere värv. Maa element, puu ja metall. Tänulikkus on näidanud, kui palju on hetki, mida tänada; kui sügavale pisimasse laskuda võib. Nüüd tuleb mul andestada iseendale ja ma andestan. Oli raske andestust paluda, kui palju süüd oli sisse ehitatud. Pole mingit ühendust loodusega, kui süü pole läbi elatud, täielikult teadvustatud ning andestuses valgustatud. Ma ei laula enam Andestuse poole, ma kuulan end selles laulmas. Ja selles on tänulikkus iseendale. Ma näen ennast, ma olen siin ja praegu, lihas ja luus. Kastani pruun aastaaeg on alanud. Templite müürid on langenud, kirikute tornid kokku kukkunud, kõik marmor-põrandad on kaetud kujutelmade kildudega. Müstitsismi hing lendab suitsu-värvitud looduse maastikel, kuid inim-tehtu on tühjenenud. See on loodusjõudude tants. See on looduse kingitus, bioloogia alkeemia, keemia teadus. Kui tark on loodus, kui hooliv! Kogu rakutasand on täis jõulist väge ning pruun, tihe suits tõuseb Maa sügavatest süvikutest. Ma annan andeks vaimu kalduvuse vead, ebausaldusväärsed ja alalised eelhoiakulised mõtte-mustrid, mis käesolevat hetke ei teeni, vaid hoiavad pimeduses teel olevaist kingitustest. Ma annan andeks ja lõikan need läbi; igal korral. Puhastav suits. See on tumepruuni kevade lõhn.

 

 

 

 

Mazzano Romano TEMPLITE MÜÜRID ON LANGENUD – THE WALLS OF THE TEMPLES ARE FALLEN, segatehnika paberil – mixed on paper, 45 x 44,5 cm , Kaia Otstak 2019

 

01.04.2019, Mazzano Romano

High, gentle-warm airflows carry black-coloured birds past her window. The spring light gleams over the golden roof tiles. Heat has arised within her body and the skin flickers. Something births within her and the scull is cracking. Days, days there is headache. Here in the Old Town, she has found herself in an uncharted area. She tries to see guidance in the unknown, but sees nothing anymore. All the birds fly behind her, she cannot return to them, and in front of her eyes dehisces an inexplicable land, in which there is no distinction between mountain and valley and mountain. She looks for him with the eyes, she is not acquainted with him, she does not know him. They come from different places, but he too is looking for her. The pillars of the temples have fallen, and only those predatory eyebrows have remained real. She does not know where to step, she does not know the strange terrain. She is afraid of those eyes, she is afraid they will see her before she does. Deep smoke green and smoky gray veils her fingers and eyes. She knows now that she has to stay still. She iss a woman. She finds her way in this unknown dimensionless place, she dances, she dances her heart open, and the eyes of her foremothers open behind her shoulders. She is a woman. She carries, she gives birth, she creates.

 

03.04.2019, Mazzano Romano

The sky darkened evenly, and the wind rose gradually. The bell of the small Old Town church stood still against the backdrop of dark gray clouds. There arose a longing under my heart. A very old dog sat tied to a bench and looked nowhere with his chestnut-brown eyes. The wind twisted pieces of paper and the daughter of Windflower ran after the twists. No longer were the eyes that always were, but a new spirit had arrived. As through the hair, she slid her deep smoke-green painted fingers down through that spirit. An endless dark gray sky covered all the stars.

 

04.04.2019, Mazzano Romano

The sky had remained blue-gray. The damp wind whirled through the narrow streets of the Old Town. The spring rains began. I breathe all this gray-green, dark-deep, and feel like I cannot get enough. There are fractured abysses in the flesh that wish for a spring-storm flood to let the dark green plants, the up-whirling plants, to sprout up from the bottom. These landscapes are still storing the breath of Catholic mysticism, flat over a species-rich mountain-valley-mountain. From the mountain trees, warm steam rises through the cold air. Nature and houses are dipped in the dark. Tears of longing pull the chest cramp.

 

05.04.2019, Mazzano Romano

It is the time of creation, it is the time of being with, the time of the way of nature. So much has left by, so much has fallen down and it is the moment of the new birth. Every breath, senses the brown, the chestnut brown. The earth roots are growing into the deep, these strong trees standing up in the middle of the storm, the smell of the soil, it is the colour of the dried blood. The element of the Earth, the wood and the metal. Gratefulness has shown how many moments there are to be thankful for; how deep into details it will go. I now need to forgive myself and I am. It was so hard to ask forgiveness, how much guilt there was built in. There will be no connection with the nature, if the quilt is not lived through, fully acknowledged, and enlightened with the forgiveness. I do not sing anymore to the Forgiveness, I now listen myself singing to it. And there is thankfulness towards me. I can see myself, I am here and now, in flesh and bones. The chestnut-brown season has begun. The walls of the temples are fallen, the towers of the churches collapsed, all the marble-floors are covered by the smithereens of the delusions. The spirit of the mysticism flies through the smoke-coloured landscapes of the nature, but the man-made is emptied. The dance of the natural forces are here. This is the gift of the nature, the alchemy of the biology, the science of the chemistry. How wise the nature is, how much it cares. All the cellular level is full of forceful power and the brown, thick smoke arisen from the deep abysses of the Earth. I will forgive the mistakes of the mind-set, the non-trustful and the ongoing preconceived thought-patterns that will not serve the present and keep away of seeing the gifts that are in the way. I will forgive and I will cut them out; every single time. The purifying smoke. This is the flavour of the dark brown Spring.