#desperateprimitive

On a night, blew by plateau breeze, by Mont Blanc, My path crossed with a bard; He sang me a tune of clear waters Far lands and his bare foot on the wet soil... Daintily, carried me to familiar village paths and to meadows on which he sang before to ladybugs and spotted cows. The mountainous soft wind coloured the hills to purple. On the night, we found a quiet hill under the brightest consolations Gazing at a little piece of sky; He gave me a little journey of moving stars On the way back to the meadows for a late sleep, The ravishing shadow of sycamore in the night sky, whispered an ancient lullaby of this unique haphazard.

‘The Hero’s Journey’ and A Carpet It should have been magic when the ‘hero’ began the journey. And when the far tunes of a stranger daintily carried me to the familiar village paths and to the meadows on which he sang to ladybugs and cows, To a homeland from randomly crossing roads… And gave me his voice of clear waters, And there was magic in a gaze at a little piece of sky on the hill I’ve heard the magic in the sound of that unique tree, whistling an early dawn lullaby for mountains, harmoniously moving his hundreds of branches in the notes that were carried on the plateau breeze… Long after the dancing tree, and green starry hill, On a night, her ancient words, heard by ears, spoken to soul, hurled us to north and south with a balmy wind. She cloaked us with a velvet magical blanket and warmed by breathing on us a fairytale… And thinking back, as the spell might have begun when the ‘hero of night’ have decided to ride for a late and missed road. Simply, It was the boy in the fairytale, who lit a candle every night. And the carpet… The one, building castles in the air, Who turns the fabric, the smell, and spices, into a carnival. Embellished by the luminous wings of gliding little fairy-mosquitos. If you see Judith the storyteller somewhere, let her remind you…

Tale of Ursa Major ‘Village Tales’ project continues with a Pacific northwest native folktale... This is the tale behind the constellation Ursa Major and a legendary fish. Once upon a time in a village of north Pacific, tough days began for the village as the famine period has come. Fishermen were coming back home with empty buckets and villagers were starving. And one day a giant fish showed up while 3 fishermen were sailing. They suddenly realized the fish and chased it and when they could reach him, because the fish was that enormus the fight between fish and fishermen went on for days. At the end of the battle the fish was brought to village but the fishermen could not survive. To remember these three brave fishermen and honour the fish, the villagers named the constellation Ursa Major after that giant, legendary fish. Thanks to Paul...

Fairy Chimneys, Cappadocia, 2012

'...And the sea was there, forty feet away and getting closer, and the sky over the sea, and the sun going down the sky. And it was cold, and it was the high point of my life. I'd had high points before. Once at night walking in the park in the rain in autumn. Once out in the desert, under the stars, when I turned into the earth turning on its axis. This time I was not alone. I was on the high mountain with a friend. There is nothing that beats that. If it never happens again in my life, still I can say I was there once.' Ursula Le Guin, Very Far From Everywhere Else

In a second the soft wind blew, everything stilled down. Corns stopped growing to hear the zephyr, leaves stayed where the breeze set them the second before, chickens stopped clucking, clouds stopped spinning, hovering raindrops awaited, trees became silent. All which knew, was still. The moment has lengthened horizontally in a way we all knew. Even the goats listened, so the medlars... In that very moment, the zephyr whispered me a secret. Still silently. Then said ‘continue !..’ And I forgot. So then, it all reminds me of something which I never know. The road reminds me of somebody, somebody reminds me of somewhere, and it reminds me of that song. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q1tRVBjS4tQ If we then, sand and crickets, all tried to remember, it was about the road.

The day we arrived Vienna, we had a deep breath of comfort, relief and spaciousness in a royal way. A few days passed well in Prague but then, finishing all the touristic attractions and not finding any local alternatives, led us to Vienna. Hours of bus ride through small villages, quiet neighbourhoods and large, green plains has taken us to these Baroque lands. Walking down the large, bright streets among museums, cathedrals and royal gardens, horse carriages passing by, snow began to fall smoothly and in a short while covered up everything with a magical touch. Twilight and snowfall has repainted the huge garden of Kunsthistorisches Museum and Bibliotheca. I left my footsteps on snow covered grass and gazed the gracious building, gazed the centenary holes on grey, cold, porous stone, watched each snowflake under the old, wrought lamp, shining, floating and falling down gracefully. Following a long, snowy walk, the night has warmed again in Kursalon and notes of Strauss, Beethoven and Brahms have filled the hall. The rest is of the untold. Of re-listening the tales once composed and told by flutes, violins and piano. Of hearing among sparkling chandeliers, gentle snowflakes, horse carriages, waltzes, ornaments and candlelit sleepless nights in the Baroque timelessness.

After wandering between all monuments and churches and concert halls, having the shiny atmosphere every evening in Christmas market, tasting different mulled wines and trdelnik from each vendor, getting in crowd and at the end trying to find a pinch of locality and getting that everything is for tourists and even sometimes too much touristic (considering the untuned classical chamber concert in an old church and the prices and the ‘underground tours’ and not finding a real gulash in a cosy atmosphere) it was time to cross the Charles Bridge and to discover the other side of Prague. This side, in a complete look, was one of the few things I liked a lot about Prague. Small, simple, Middle European buildings, stone paths Kafka once walked on, hidden chapel in the woods, hills and narrow closes embrace with a dark and somehow local feeling that I can almost imagine the living rooms, the mornings behind open curtains. Mulled wine aroma and folk music was floating over the crowd but the sensation was of a chilly evening which gives the will of coming home. Prague