feather heart

forever is nothing
the drips and drops
follow and fall
forever is nothing
there is you
and my heart
too tender and new
shedding the skin
releasing the leaves
it can hold the old
it can hold the tired
but new

i think we were flowers once
swaying
and smiling
taking in the truth as it comes
i think we were flowers once
me and you
equilibrium
and balance
forever is nothing
there's just flowers

my heart is feathers
and i want the wind
to come and carry
my sun
to yours

and for me
new is new

exquisite

So the thing, mainly, is - I want my life to be exquisite.

And what I mean by this is that I want flowers, to sometimes see the sea and enjoy the little things.
Enjoy being, have good hair, eat good food.
Sometimes wear a big sunhat and maybe have a glass of wine.
Have a meaningful conversation with a stranger.
And sometimes not-so-meaningful ones with my friends.
I want music and birdsong and Nature.
Tastes and sounds and textures.
An exquisite life has people in it.
And joy in everything.


That's what I want and that's what I mean about an exquisite life.

Poetry, and sunlight, and freedom.

Freedom.
Above all, freedom.
Always.



Also, I have a problem.
I am fully aware that this makes me one of THE most ungrateful assholes ever to have walked the face of the Earth (..too dramatic maybe) but here goes - I hate my voice.
Not the sound of it, having it.
Especially lately.
It feels like, I'm blaming my voice for some things that have happened recently.
I know rationally this is ridiculous, but this keeps swimming to the surface.
This feeling of hatered towards my gift.
I'm too scared to say this out loud so therefore I'll write about this.


This is what is holding me back, this is the feeling that means that I'm holding on tight to my own tail and then wondering why I can't run forward.
This is the thing I keep coming back to.
All my restrain and life-boundary seems to be wrapped up in my voice.
All my freedom lies in it too.

It's so hard to muffle the voices saying it's not enough.
I guess by that way of thinking it will never be enough.

But I don't know how to shut it off.

But I can tell you here and now my friends that this needs to be solved, because if every time I sing it's going to feel like going through a meat grinder I will need to change profession.
And I don't want to do that.

So therefore.
A solution.
Turn off the voices, silence the chorus of disapproval.
I'm too good and too young for this.


My life was different when it was a theatre life.
It was very different.
So this really is all tied to the voice.
But it would be extremely stupid to run from this.

And one thing I have to stay away from is people who fuel any destructive fires.
I've got enough petrol as it is, thank you very much.
I rather need people who are gonna help me get rid of anything and everything flammable.


It's busy, in my head.


I wanna get free.
So I can use what I have been given.






And live my life, the exquisite way I want to.




With love.
Yours truly.
M.

Everests

So, A. and I spoke about this thing, a long long time ago.
The idea of Everests.

Personal Everests.
And the fear of them.
And then I felt this question - when was the last time I climbed an Everest?

So, therefore.

It's time to climb the Everests.
All of them.
One at a time.
But it's time for the Everests.
And climb them we shall.

End of 2013.
There's still some time to go.
Time to do things.
Not loads, but there's time.
Time to be productive, time for things, and Everests.

Time to focus on what's important.
Ourselves.
Our family.
Our friends.
The people we want to communicate with.

He is able, who THINKS he is able.
And she who thinks she will climb her Everests, shall climb her Everests.


Today was a great day.
Listened to a great lesson, with a teacher I really really like.
So this is SUPER exciting.
Then went to the cinema with the Spaniard to watch a MUSE CONCERT.
Which was INCREDIBLE.
So intense days.
Crazy good, but intense days.

So now I'm going to try and get to sleep.
A rehearsal tomorrow.
And some lovely meetings.

Everests.
This is what I'm leaving you with.
E
VE
RESTS

Think about them.
And be brave enough to go for the climb.

With love and light.
M.


PS.

!!!! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B-hJq1GSV8Q
Please listen to this.



---

An Invitation.

Come, winter - rip us all bare.
Past the hot veins, and tear the cosy flesh.
Freeze us, entirely, claw down to the bone.
Remove the impatient muscle.
Watch the name
the title
the numbers
and the figures
tumble away,
fly off
(like they never were)
become one with the white.

Just leave the core.
So we can mingle, touch each other past the pretense. 
Press curious tongues against the icy void,
The heart of the bone.

Let the wind rage through - cold and impersonal -
As we stand, (un)moved, ready to confess.
Let it coil its way around my ever-fragile skeleton,
And caress my truth as I uncover yours.
No warmth, no heat.
No lies.
All unravelling, together, in near-perfect sync,
Faced with what we are.

The storms will start fuelling a different kind of fire.
Barren, bare, raw.
But true.

Come, winter.
Please.
Rip us all
bare.

poetry

"Ma ootasin Sind sellel külmal päeval. 
Ma tean, et Sa ei teadnud. Nüüd siis tea: 
Ma ootasin Sind. Sellel külmal päeval. 
Ei, vabandama tõesti Sa ei pea.

Kõik otsustati väljaspool meid endid.
Ma ootasin, sest mina tahtsin nii.
Kõik otsustati. Väljaspool meid endid.
Ma teadsin, Sa ei tule nagunii.

Ei, ära ütle, et Sa oleks tulnud,
kui oleksid vaid teadnud, võinud vaid.
Ei, ära ütle, et Sa oleks tulnud.
Ma vihkan valesid. Ka ilusaid."

Doris Kareva.


This poem has my heart.

Yours truly.
M.

poetry

There's always some saving grace in poetry.
And that is something nice.

Yours truly.
M.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Viggo Mortensen

Maria's inspirational men, number 3.
At least.













And so ladies and gentlemen.
Let's look at Viggo.

Son of a farmer, spent his childhood everywhere - Venezuela, Argentina, Denmark.
In addition to acting, he is also a poet, a photographer and a painter.
After graduating from university in the States, he moved back to Denmark, driven by a need for a defining purpose in life. During this time he worked some odd jobs, including dock worker, truck driver and flower seller.
He speaks English, Danish, Spanish, French, Swedish and Norwegian.
He is a super horseman.

Oh, he is also a jazz musician.

The versatility, the languages, the quality of his work, the films.
I just find him so awesome, so talented and warm.

Viggo.
M.

"Life is short... I like to pay attention while I'm going through it. Whatever I see, like anyone else, I'm going to filter it and create my own idea of what it is. - on painting, creating music, writing poetry, and taking photographs in addition to acting."

out out, anyone?

So, here I was.
On the trolly bus, on my way home. Thinking of the quiet Friday night ahead, spent analysing the poems that the tour-songs are based on.
All no-make-up, dirty hair, random flip-flops, having spent the day with the Spanish one, dumplings and sunshine.

So, as I said, here I was.
And lo-and-behold, one of my homies sends me a message saying that she absolutely wants to go out and no one's taking the bait.
To which my answer was: "Have I ever said "no" to you, my dear?"

I've now done my hair, my face, and I just need to get dressed.

THIS IS SO GOOD, let's be honest.

Why? you may ask.
Well, that's because the next time I have a free weekend the calendar says "3rd of August, 2013".

That's why.

So off I go, to Yolo- and Humourland.

Peace.
M.

this poem

I love poetry. I really really do.
And this just, I don't know why, as it is with poems, just hits the mark.
It just gets me inbetween the nerve-endings of my ribcage.
Every once in a while I'm just so happy to find one like this, one poem with this effect.
I hope you'll like it, some of you enjoy it, and that a few of you who love poetry will love it to the unreasonable extent I do.

12.22.
M.