Birds flying in groups around the office


I usually see, when I am at work in the morning and paying attention to what is going on outside the window, or just happen to be gazing out of it, a group of birds flying in roughly circular patterns around the office building.


Now it is near nine in the morning and there they appear, the birds of nine o'clock: winging, scintillating, wings fluctuating, seemingly a bit like sine curves; curve-like wings, over the far off and whitish fields.

And again at 9:07, winging high in the distant sky in a shifting collection, some birds a bit up and some a bit down; they look so free, an image of freedom? How do they feel? Have they it solved, do they need nothing, are they free? Do they have a yearning, not just the yearning for sky (for that is their world), but a yearning for something else, beyond, now for them impossible, or something inexpressible?

9:21 : here again and closer, gone quickly now, after looking like small speckles as if peppered on the light-filled yellowed clouds on the Simpsons' light blue sky over the left side of the warehouse; gone now, lost to sight, anyway.

9:22 and nine 9:23: another and another smaller group pass?

Ten fourten; sweeping above like a squadron of bats into the blue blue air. Very swift they are.

Something older from this year's spring from Parukářka Park.

Above, the blue; around, the succulent, undeveloped green of spring, small leaves and buds, so firm, delicate and yet strong, untrammeled like the multi-foliate hearts of lettuces; around, the brilliant light and between, the almost neon-fluorescing leaves scattered in veils and pompom-growths on trees; a pure choir of still-winter trees, bare silver branches adding a purity and seriousness, a lovely contrast to the filled with vibrant and good and warming life growth of those trees that had sped to meet the uncoming spring more eagerly or quickly than the rest.

I lay in the grass, my head comfortably against the concrete of some sort of low, oblongular ventilation shaft of what I assume, from what I have heard, is some kind of bunker under the park. From the shaft  one could smell a delightful musty smell, a deep, earthy nostrilant from the comfortable bowels of the shelter, but only if one sticks one's nose practically right up to the grille. Lying in the grass, your nozzles would be lullabied only by the rough friendliness of the concrete and spring, the cleanness of grass and earth and air, ba*breathed out by the park.

So, I was lying here, lookin' (kong) at the changeful light on the robust, lapidary, yet tender, spring-shoot leaves of a tree above me. Mostly the light filtered from above, from a hard, firm and blue sky.  A delicious green-yellow translucence through the leaves marked them out in their delicacy, outlining their veins and ridges, illuminating them with rich colour, almost flash-like. The sky and the leaves were both so sonorous and chromatic, so bright and more over of the same quality of light-bursting brightness that, where the edges of both met they sort of fused together, giving rise to something that caused in me the impression of a kind of dividing, raised ridge between sky-edge and leaf-edge, as when two plates of gold rise to form a holy-seeming suture of awe-inspiring, electric power, two iridescent metals touch and their kiss causes a brighter frill of gold, magical, electric, a purified, more-than-they hem or suture.

Twice I saw dogs rolling in the grass, something I had never seen them do before. They got down own their back and with legs comically, stiffly held above, they rolled for all they were worth, grinning with lopsided, floppy jowls. And when they had got up and punctiliously, with an air of preemptive embarrassment following their bosses, they must have found they couldn't bear the thought of not having just one more roll and down they went again, almost chortling in delight (as I imagine), rubbing their hard, whip like, backs in the grass and earth. Were they doing it out of the satisfaction of it being spring, of feeling earth and smelling grass?

As I was lying there, soaking up the wide blue flank of sky and those particularly bright, poignant leaves, I suddenly felt a ripple, a surge, the impression of a parting of waters, of the invasion of a lover's kiss, and into the bright blue sea of the sky there surged the straight white, foam-leashing arrow of a plane, high and small and ever so sharp, twinkling in the white, rarefied light. It was spectacular and beautiful. The impression given was totally physical; I could feel the parted foam, as if the blue goddess's foamy lips had been parted.

*ba is a prefix meaning that a metaphor is being used more metaphorically than usual, the park was not really breathing strictu sensu, but poetically, which is understood anyway I guess.

Miles and miles of flimsy veil-like, diagonal, perfectly slanted and spaced slashes of frosting, so friendly and so friendlyly blue coloured.   condensed packed water, so beautiful
  riding high over light coloured innerlitlike (like! only like?) sky, light filled early weraly morning sky, I don’t know even if the sky sun is up, but somewhere behind hills or buildings it probably is, oh yes, brother, this is it.

Light trep ida tion of rain out the wind ow. It has been rain ing, how long I do not know, I have been look ing at the comp uter, but then I saw it, a trembling little need led silver move ment, silver frott age rap id move ing in the air outside bet ween the wind ow and the opp osite store house, dark gray, light sil ver, slivers so thin slim down dash diag onal.

Diag onal dash of rain, so many tons (? (Does it make sense to ask how much at all, beyond poetic convention and use?)) of water fall ing sp read out in long rinn els of drip drop fast dash dash flows, strai ght tremble ing on the flow, grey firm curt ain of large tonn age rain, flutt ered by turbu lence, begg ining the race amongst the clouds, long fall down mil es of air to be earth drink, drop melt diss olve into loam amongst foam of other fall ing drops, same nejtš ure.

Czech English Alphabet Poem without W.

ejbísídýíefdží ejčajdžejkejelemen oupíkjůestýjů víexuajzedd.

The grass

There is some frost in the garden
- of paradise?
- of delight?
- just so?

Alphabet poem

Abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz.

Five letter recombo poem.

Howpr ivele dged I amtos eethe fresh unsee nunsu ngmor ningq uickc hangi ngpom elopa thway samon sgtth eicys hoals ofclo udupo ntheh orizo nunse ensol itary purew ander ersdr iftso ffast movin gclou dsobe autif ulfor their unobs erved hushr ush. Tosom ewher eandt odiss oluti onand atone nessN otthi nking justo bserv ingen joyin gRoll ingth rough thesk iesov erthe floor ofthe world.

Šestipísmenková překombobásnička.

Jakpri vilego vanýse cítímb ýtževi dímčer stvéne opěvov anésko roniký mnepoz orovan éjítr orychl esemění cíúzké stézky letade lbarvy kantal upůmez ihejny mrakůu obzoru Nespat řeníos amělíc estova telétá hnoudá ljakop osouva jícíse mráček

Birdssunshyfiresidewaysmoving slurofsmoke

Leeing left a lisp o smoko
ina day of cloudsslipslitfire
o

o
birdbird bird lispbirdbirdbirdbirds shoot rocket like
past iron windows of firmkitchen
and the sun is bornagain in the heatyellowlit between chaiseslonguesofmistcompactedchinese clouds.

Vynořil o, vyšnočil o se z t my, nebo je to tma? Opravdu tmou?

Niebyto nievidno ještě nie
ješte ale tam sem z temné matrice
matk děloha
prostor inter těl selénéně mdle
za v okol v
protkano pod-tkáno podlest
popichovává matrici
oviněno oviněno zrním
dílem jej
březost v údolích
mlha lha mokra
težká mlha
syká všterbine nepodajný podajný kámen
lokna m lhy
loď
jenom pár mole kulů.

Fragile visions between sleep and waking

Recently I was coming back from Budapest in the train and being tired, having not slept much over a few days, I fell again into a state of being on the edge of an unclear dream, or a state of semi-slumber in the haze near the unguarded gate of sleep. It was as if I had fallen into the state that is the background of dream, the white, warm matrix of the sleeper´s world, though at first there was not much there I noticed in the form of imagery. There were thoughts, a muffled murmur of processes, things I find hard to define. I don't maybe remeber it in all that great detail. Then, though, I begin to see pictures in my mind, against the white vibrating substrate of my mind or, at least, of the visual system. They were clear, relatively abstract pictures. This capacity is something I have only developed recently, or at least recently noticed or began to make use of. This state I found quite pleasant, with a strange warmth in my body and wrapped in the comfort of sleep's borderlands, my power to keep from slumber´s edge coming and going, the tide of night lapping on my disappearing body. Yet was I still in contact with the outside world, though sinking into some other landscape or character of state. And I did not struggle against it. It had a feeling of soft cotton wool to it.

Considering these pictures, I came to the conclusion that I could observe three stages of this kind of imagination, at least at this time and in this instance. Maybe in the future and in other contexts it could be different. I tried to describe or categorise them and made the following system:  the first stage I really noticed was when I observed these pictures in this woolly, warm half-dream state. Since I am used to thinking about collecting things from what I see to use in my painting, I also was quite eager to see if these could serve this purpose to some extent. When I concentrated on them, or intended to use them for this purpose, they seemed to some extent to disintegrate. I perceived it as maybe being that some of the “filling” between the lines feel out. Then it was hard to reconstruct the original complete form, though much of the feeling associated with it was still present,. Then when I thought about painting it, and considered the problems associated with this, and considered how it would look on canvas, the image was transformed in some way again, and had less of the original concept in it, though not all had gone out of it.

Here are rough sketches of what I observed. I think they looked something like this, but of course the differences, considering the state or inner environment they were couched in, considering the way of access, makes it difficult to know what exactly the drawings retain of them, though when I look at them, I seem to remember the images I observed then. They are more like an echo, an echo obeying the rules of paper and pen, not necessary those of this state near to sleep. They are like fragments, like flotsam and jetsam of the mind, both the sketches and the images that made me make them, but that is quite interesting. It makes them exotic, like something seen where one did not expect it.

The top image at first seemed like vertical structure of peculiarly shaped flecks with grey-scale graduated colour but either immediately or after a little while was associated with the idea of a cliff or rock formation with a big light colored circle, maybe a sun or moon or planet emerging from behind it.

In the second was a flag very much like the flag of Bretagne, and in the background a dome reminiscent of the parliament in Budapest.

Trip to Černá Rokle

In the week, when it was sunny, I went to Černá Rokle (the "Black Gulley") near the small sleepy village of Kosoř not far from Radotín. As it turned out, it was a series of cliffs raised above a forest path; a dark wall of layered rock when seen from a distance but radiantly pale from up close. It could be an old quarry, taken over by the pale, light-filled pine trees and looked like something out of an old Western movie, saturated with bright white, high-pitched light, which had a clean almost antiseptic feel around it, tinged by a certain mystery. Around the fragmented boulders lay cream gravel; loose, cascade-nervous rocks. Sun-drenched pine trees stood at tension-filled distances on a scene yet only hinting at resin-fragrance (exuding what was like very faint menthol or a subliminal, rather exciting ozonic whisper). The pines were of that type with the roundish, rayed tufts of long needles. All of this exciting scene was redolent of aloness.I fantasised that I might be alone with the light and a single mosquito. If one is a bit careful, one can zig-zag up the cliff or rather a steep slope, and one comes up near Kosoř in a sort of thicket of dry whitish grass near a large brown field, soft as fecundity.

 

To get to the gulley in the first place, I walked from Radotín, taking the Zderaszká road up from town into the hills. You walk on the hot sidewalk by the road and after a few turns and kilometres find yourself on a shoulder above town. Going a little further you can see, on the right side of the road, a little grass-overgrown path going up into the woods. I decided to take it into the hills because the road was blazing and made far too concretely of asphalt to satisfy my spring-hunger properly; and as I found out, I would be well rewarded.

At first the path rises steeply for a couple of metres into pleasant woods, then you pass a small hut in a wide paddock or clearing, all green with delicious soft grass now, and then comes a forest graveyard, with only a couple of graves in one corner and the rest an somewhat down-at-heel fallow land. The one person whom I met during this part of the trip was here: he was an oldish man, loping along towards the graveyard, or maybe he was in some way involved with the chestnut horses grazing behind a screen of willows and firs next to the graveyard. He looked at me a little probingly, with narrowed eyes, or was I imagining it?

Here you come across a barrier across the road, which has a sign saying "Private Property", but also paradoxically enough a sign with the text "Pro pěší", which means "For Pedestrians", nailed to a tree just before it. I think the private sign refers to the graveyard or the stud farm  or ranch or whatever it is behind those trees. In any case it seemed possible to go ahead.

After a while of moving through the forest, all the brown trees forming a sort of festive, high canopy, you come to an unusual structure in the forest. It is a sort of horseshoe-shaped vale with steep sides covered in dry leaves and with one of those improbably shaped and lovely hills in the middle. The shape is like a bell, or a sort of mulch-covered illustration of a three dimensional parabola or other precise geometric concept. I know of another such hill near Karlík, which is near to Mořinka, though that one is much larger, this one is very small indeed, tiny even, one could say. Maybe this bell-shaped hill is quite typical for the Czech countryside, another related type can be found in abundance in the mountains of the České Středohoří (which seems to be called the Central Bohemian Uplands in English, that's the range between roughly Lovosice in the South and Ústí in the North).

There is a pleasantly spaced overgrowth of beech trees, so it looks a little like one is very small and walking through a giant scalp of thick straight, airy hair. This gives the forest a mixture of shade, cool and refreshing as water, and a light like the light of amber, or of church windows.

At this bell-shaped hill, the path splits towards the right and the left. The left seems a dead end but is interesting in its own right. Taking the right, you pass past a patterned black, green and magenta silk scarf someone has tied to a tree and into a trackless, lovely waste of a forest. This is pure nature, where the hills are languid and curvaceous like some sort of solidified waves. Walking over the leaves, you slide over troughs and over curved flanks. All around the long gray slender trees rest easy, their zebra-shadows patterning the floor of the forest in a patter of wavy lines and the endless foam of dried leaves crinkles underfoot. And all is clear and clean, so clean and alone; no-one is maybe within three kilometres of you on a good day.

I lay down there near the edge of the forest, in a deep dip in the topography, its wall behind me, the open field beyond, my body cushioned on the loam and the flimsy leaves, with flies pleasantly delecting some minute tit-bits on my arms, the almost scentless, clean smell of the forest was all around, the slight, nursing tang of the earth under my head, the sun filtering in through trees, which, it seems to me, is one of the most pleasant forms of getting your sun.

After lying there for a while the quiet hush of the forest, that sound without much sound transformed into secretive exclamations - the humming of an early bee, keeping away from me, interested in other things, my shifting in the leaves, the rush of the sun baking the air on the field, the alarm of a hawk, his strange, lonesome, beautiful cry. Though I can't remember its sound properly, I can remember something of its singing through me, like a totem, clear and profound like ice water, and seemingly wise. I set off, with the reward of the hawk's call, and the slight regret at not having seen him; man's maybe pretentious regret at the gulf between him and the animals, which he sees, rightly or wrongly, as purer than himself. Then one can walk further, across the humps and valleys of the forest but here already the soon-to-be-grain-bursting fields and the white spring sky and a pleasant, oblongish farm building on the horizon are visible from within the comfortable cover of trees.

The field here at the edge of the woods is soft and has the colour of milk chocolate and a texture comparable to heavy sand, so it is quite hard to walk on, and for this reason I walked along the line where the forest grasses and trees join with the field. In this way you come to a path leading left, amongst bushes, with a sort of very thick, leafy hedge on either side, and this leads directly up to the edge of the village of Kosoř with its bus-stop baking in the sunlight by a lovely large old buff-coloured ramshackle  building which may have been a barn, stable or storehouse.

If here at the barn you take a right turn, passing it and going through the village, you will see a yellow restaurant just after the barn and a board with information about the local sights, and then come to a kind of dip in the road, a crossing of the ways, a tight conglomeration of buildings, soon a red fence, and if one then veers off right here one will find a another little fast-dipping path going down into lush forest and following a stream of water. If you follow this, after a short while you come to Černá Rokle, which is to the left of the path. It flashes out white from between the trees.

Procházka do Černé rokle v Březnu.

27ého Března 2011:

Během týdnu, když svítilo slunce jsem vyrazil do Černé rokle, jež se nachází nedaleko ospalé vesničky Kosoř u Radotína. Jak jsem pozdějí zjistil, jedná se přitom o řadu útesů, která se jeví jako temná zeď vrstveného kamene když je spatřena z dálky ale zblízka zářivě bledne, popovýšena nad lesní stézku.

Možná ta rokle byl kdysi starý lom, který znovu dobyly staré, bledé, svetloplné borovice. Jevilo se mi to v tu chvíli jako výjev z filmu ze starého Amerického Západu, saturován jasným bílým pronikavým světlem, kterému byl vlastní čistý, trochu mystický, skoro až antiseptický pocit. Kolem roztříštěných balvanů lěžel krémový stěrk a volné, kaskádovitě nervozní šutry. Ponořené ve svitu, borovice stály o trošku napětíplné vzdálenosti od sebe a ještě jen naznačovaly vůní pryskiřice (vyloučily něco, co bylo bližší velmi jemnému mentolu nebo snad skoro podprahovému šepotu ozónu). Borovice byly toho druhu, který má oblé chumle dlouhých paprskovitých jehlic. Veškerému tomuto vžrušujícímu výjevu zvládla samota. Byl jsem sám se světlem a jediným komárem.

S trocha opatrností lze křivoklatě šplhat nahorů po útesu, nebo lépe řečeno je to spíš strmý svah - člověk vyleze nahoře blízko Kosoře do jakéhosi houští, převážně z bilých, suchých trav, blízko velkého hnědého pole, měkkého a plodného.

Abych se vůbec dostal do rokle, šel jsem pěšky z Radotína po Zderaszké z města do kopců. Chodíte po chodníku u silnice a po několika zatočeních i kilometrech se nacházíte na ramenu nad městem a pokud popojdete opodál uvidíte po pravici stézku porostlou zelenou trávou. Rozhodl jsem se, že by bylo nejlepší zabočit do lesa protože silnice žhnula teplem a bylo zjevně příliš konkrétně sestavena z asfaltu, aby moje hladovění po jaru ukojila uspokojivě, a jak jsem později zjistil, měl jsem být pro svoje rozhodnutí odmeněn.

Nejdřív se stézka strmě převyšuje, směrující do libezných lesů, pak minete malou chatrč v široké lučině nebo mýtině. Všude zde roste zelená tráva. Pak přijde na řadu lesní hřbitov s menším počtem hrobů v jednom rohu a ostatní prostor prázdný. Jediným člověkem, kterého jsem v té fázi cesty potkal loudal se zde - postarší muž šel směrem k hřbitovu nebo možná jeho cílem byla luka, kde se pásli koně za clonou stromoví opodál.

Koukal se na mě s úzkými  očima, zkoušející, nebo jsem si to jenom představil? Zde najdete závoru přes stézku. V její blízkosti jsou dvě cedule, na jedné je psáno "Soukromý majetek", na druhé to paradoxní "Pro pěší" a jsou připevněné na strom u závory. Myslím, že první cedule se možna vztahuje na hřebenec nebo ranč, nebo co tam mají. Nicméně zdálo se, že je možné pokračovat.

Po chvíli pohybu lesem se vším stromovím utvařujícím typ oslavného, vysokého baldachýnu, clověk narazí na neobvyklou strukturu. Je to druh údolíčka tvaru podkovy se strmými stranami pokrytými suchým listím a vprostřed jej se nachází jeden z onech krásných kopečků s nezvyklým tvarem - přípomíná zvon či takovou mulčem pokrytou ilustraci trojimenzionální paraboly či jiného precizního matematického pojmu. Znám ještě jeden takový kopec blízko Karlíku u Mořinky, ač tamten je mnohem větší, tenhle je maličký, skoro by se mohlo říct miniaturní. Možná jsou takové zvonkovité kopce celkem typické pro Českou krajinu. Jiný příbuzný typus se hojně vyskytuje samozřejmě v Českých Středohořích, to je celkem známá věc.

Tu rostou buky tak nějak krásně rozmístěně. Vypadá to, že by člověk se vydal jako najednou scvrklý a velmi malý cestou po skalpu řídkých, rovných, vzdušných vlasů či chlupů. Les plní směs stínu, chladivého a občerstvujícího jako pramenní voda a světla jako světlo jantáru čí vitrín kostelů.


U tohoto kopce s tvarem zvonku se cesta rozděluje jako hadí jazyk napravo i nalevo. Levá se zdá být slepou ale nicméně nepostrádá zájem - ověřil jsem si to ale nezkusil jít o moc dále po ní. Odbočující k pravici mineš vzorkovaný šátek, černý, zelený a magentový, který někdo přívazal k stromu a vejdeš do skoro bezcestné, krásňoučké pustiny lesů. Tohle je ryzí příroda, kde jsou kopečky, nebo se mi zdáli být, luxusně odpočaté a rozkošně zaoblené jako nějaké ztužené vlny. Chodiv po listech, hladce klouzáš po sedlech a oblouvitých bocích. Všude kolem odpočívaj klidně šedé štíhlé stromy, jejích zebrové stíny navzorkující lesní dno - vlníté čáry na věčnou pěnu suchých listí, která svraští pod nohama. A tohle vše je jasné a čisté, tak čisté a o samotě: není třeba nikdo v kruhu třech kilometrů v dobrý den.

Ulehl jsem si tam blízko okraje lesa do hlubšího sklonku v topografii místa, její stěna za mnou, otevřené pole za mnou, moje tělo opolštařila a pružila prsť a křehké listí. Mušci se příjemně pochutnali jakýchsi minimálních pamlsků v lesech chlupů na mých pažích. Všude kolem byla skoro bezpachový čistý pach lesů, mirná, uchlácholivý říz hlíny zpod mou hlavou, slunce filtrováno listmi, která je, zdá se mi, jednou z nejpříjemnějších forem jak dostat svou kapku slunce.

Potom, co jsem tam nějakou chvíli ležel ten tichý šum lesa, onen zkuk skoro bez zvuku se přetavil v různá tajnůstkířská výjádření - bzukot ranní včely, která se držela ode mě daleko- zájem měla o jiné věci; zněklidňující šustění mého posunování se v listech; chvat slunce, jak peče vzduch nad polem; alarm jestřábí, jeho podivný, samotářský, krásný hulákot. Ač si jeho zvuk přesně nepamatuji, vzpomínám se něco na to, jak mnou prozpíval jako totem, jasný a prahluboký jako ledová voda a zdál se moudrým. Vydal jsem se na cestu s odměnou jestřábího volání a trošku jsem toho litoval, že jsem ho neuviděl., toť člověkova možná trošku nafouklá lítost o propast mezi ním a zvíraty, která se mu zdají být čistší, ať je to pravdivé nebo ne.
Pak se dá jít dál, po boulech a údoličcích ale už zde pole, které se má za pár měsíců skvít, ba praskat pšenicí, je vidět z přijemných zakrytů zpod větvi, jakož také bílá obloha jara a kvádrovitý farmářský barák na horizontu.

Pole zde na okraji lesů je měkké, má barvu skoro čokoládovou a texturu, kterou se dá přirovnat k hustému písku, takže lze po ní jen stěží jít. Z tohoto důvodu jsem chodil po lince rozdělující trávú lesní od hlíny polní. Touhle cestou se dostaneš do ústí silničky, směrující nalevo mezi keři s takovými velmi hustými živými ploty po levici i pravici, a touhle se dostanete až na okraj vsi Kosoř a její autobusovou zastávku, pečící v slunečním svuitu vedle krasného strarého celkem zanedbaného baráku, který mohl být snad stodola, stáj nebo sýpka.

Pokud zde u stodoly odbočíš doprava, mineš ji a jdeš vesnicí, uvidíš hned po stodole žlutou restauraci a tabulku s informacemi o vsi, a pak přijdeš na takové místo, kde se terén trochu svažuje, křížení ulic, hustou konglomeraci baráků, pak červený plot a pokud člověk zde zatočí se doprava, najde ještě jednu, rychle sestupující stézku vedoucí dolů do bujarých lesů, skoro se člověků zdá do korum stromů a podél ní teče malá říčka. Pokud touhle jdeš, po krátý čas narazíš na Černou rokli, která se nachází nalevo od stézky. Zablýská bíle zmezi stromy.