Siberia. An armored flat wagon. Herringbone light machineguns. Definitely, a bed: my own bed. The one I wear out with insomnia, not to sink into nightmares. Albeit always with grace,
Here they are, altogether. Rust iron plates as a paraphrase of the Philosophical Conversation by Giò Ponti. I don’t like some of them, for sure. For instance, I don’t like
I was introduced to them all, someone seemed inappropriate, some other moved me for his graceful pureness and elegance. Book pages, from Lernet-Holeinia to von salomon. From Ernst Jünger (who
I saw her dancing, you did too – I presume. A night long gone, a memory never fading away. She’ll always taunt us, our ancient fault. She unsettles us now
Leo Strauss. Ein Held. A Hero. His prose is enough to understand. An Old Marburger. Every single word makes sense. Nothing redundant, not even marks. Nevertheless, different stratified meanings unveil
I was looking for armored trains in Russian civil war. I stepped into this photograph. They were young men, just out of their boyhood. They ate their rations on a
At the beginning it was the Czech Legion’s armored train “Orlik”, active in Siberia from 1917 to 1921. At war, armored trains cut through the limitless lands from Ukraine to
I was looking for images of wolves. No pictures, no calligraphic etchings. I met wolf-warriors in their archaic Roman, Anatolian and Old Norse declinations. Symbols, Beasts, the transformation that yields
This is the Warrior King’s counterpart: Peace. The safety of the square, whose left side is open to let evil go away. On the back, Yehuda Halevi’s poem on holy
A medieval crown, The Gold of the Lombards. A golden mask. Lou Reed’s “Warrior King”: only by him the absolute rock’n’roll on cancer and death. A warrior king inscrutable and
The wolf means belonging to it. Robert Graves would have called it the banner of a clan. The Roman Knight’s parade mask. Between the eyes, the wolf, as it had
Hyperborean Apollo encloses the primeval link between the God who craved for bloody offerings, and his devoted kin, barely surviving far north, who sent magicians roaming the world holding a
I was still in my boyhood, when I met men with their Mensur scar on their faces. A sign of courage, of ruthlessness. One of them was a musician. When
We stepped into this place, long ago. We did not intend to, back then. Nor we do now, because this is the place where the world of the dead surfaces
They lost their own lives to gain immortality. No flesh, no sounds. Just their breath, like a slow and light wind. And their eyes: across time, across space. They see,
A sort of a petroglyph recounting a shaman’s journey in the spirit world. He’s gone, forever. He just left a trail. Reenact his deeds. Ride a reindeer. Track a magical
Dans mon Lit, pas dans mes Cauchemars