#01
"Let's explore the connection between our dreams and our perception"
- Ilya Shtutsa
I never remember my dreams. Or perhaps I avoid to dream while I'm sleeping! The best I can get from my unconscious life, and just on the best mornings, is a fuzzy idea around something that I'm doomed to forget 15 seconds after waking up. It happens I got one of those impressions yesterday. I can assure it was related to grass and green, but nothing else comes to my mind, just grass and green. Therefore, I'm sorry, but a poem is my only option. I wrote one about the grass some years ago, and I've managed to find where it is. I read it, and it seems to me that it is obscure enough to be validated as a secretion of the deepest regions of my mind, or, at least, a damaged nightmare. I took some vitamins and changed the poem to English, or something alike. Today, I tried to photograph with it in my head.
The grass is silence, abbey of the Earth, a blow of dumbness
flowing from your eyes to where nowhere ends.
The grass is light, sigh of fate, place where you see
the dust you will be if God is a goat or a cheetah's dream.
The grass is a sea, a hungry mermaid, a courteous belly
of voracious insects, which trample and piss who sits therein.
The grass is slothful, a tamed passion, Romeo and Juliet
without death or sex, blood or rage, just love undreamed.
The grass is white; grass is the dark; the grass is a rainbow.
Green doesn't exist: it's just a reflection of the souls of saints,
crickets that scream, birds that laugh, flowers that poo.
The grass is a delusion: hidden in the gardens or other charms,
it is just one more lazy rhyme for easy lovers. However,
free in the air... the grass is the water of all of the wonders.
#01
"Let's explore the connection between our dreams and our perception"
- Ilya Shtutsa
I never remember my dreams. Or perhaps I avoid to dream while I'm sleeping! The best I can get from my unconscious life, and just on the best mornings, is a fuzzy idea around something that I'm doomed to forget 15 seconds after waking up. It happens I got one of those impressions yesterday. I can assure it was related to grass and green, but nothing else comes to my mind, just grass and green. Therefore, I'm sorry, but a poem is my only option. I wrote one about the grass some years ago, and I've managed to find where it is. I read it, and it seems to me that it is obscure enough to be validated as a secretion of the deepest regions of my mind, or, at least, a damaged nightmare. I took some vitamins and changed the poem to English, or something alike. Today, I tried to photograph with it in my head.
The grass is silence, abbey of the Earth, a blow of dumbness
flowing from your eyes to where nowhere ends.
The grass is light, sigh of fate, place where you see
the dust you will be if God is a goat or a cheetah's dream.
The grass is a sea, a hungry mermaid, a courteous belly
of voracious insects, which trample and piss who sits therein.
The grass is slothful, a tamed passion, Romeo and Juliet
without death or sex, blood or rage, just love undreamed.
The grass is white; grass is the dark; the grass is a rainbow.
Green doesn't exist: it's just a reflection of the souls of saints,
crickets that scream, birds that laugh, flowers that poo.
The grass is a delusion: hidden in the gardens or other charms,
it is just one more lazy rhyme for easy lovers. However,
free in the air... the grass is the water of all of the wonders.