an angel departed...

missed, but never forgotten... my love for maya is eternal and i'm grateful and fortunate for her words... 

Maya Angelou on Identity and the Meaning of Life

by Maria Popova

“Life loves the liver of it. You must live and life will be good to you.”

The light of the world has grown a little dimmer with the loss of the phenomenal Maya Angelou, but her legacy endures as a luminous beacon of strength, courage, and spiritual beauty. Angelou’s timeless wisdom shines with unparalleled light in a 1977 interview by journalist Judith Rich, found in Conversations with Maya Angelou (public library) — the same magnificent tome that gave us the beloved author’s conversation with Bill Moyers on freedom — in which Angelou explores issues of identity and the meaning of life.

Reflecting on her life, Angelou — who rose to cultural prominence through the sheer tenacity of her character and talent, despite being born into a tumultuous working-class family, abandoned by her father at the age of three, and raped at the age of eight — tells Rich:

I’ve been very fortunate… I seem to have a kind of blinkers. I just do not allow too many negatives to soil me. I’m very blessed. I have looked quite strange in most of the places I have lived in my life, the stages, spaces I’ve moved through. I of course grew up with my grandmother: my grandmother’s people and my brother are very very black, very lovely. And my mother’s people were very very fair. I was always sort of in between. I was too tall. My voice was too heavy. My attitude was too arrogant — or tenderhearted. So if I had accepted what people told me I looked like as a negative yes, then I would be dead. But I accepted it and I thought, well, aren’t I the lucky one.

She later revisits the question of identity, echoing Leo Buscaglia’s beautiful meditation on labels, as she reflects on the visibility her success granted her and the responsibility that comes with it:

What I represent in fact, what I’m trying like hell to represent every time I go into that hotel room, is myself. That’s what I’m trying to do. And I miss most of the time on that: I do not represent blacks or tall women, or women or Sonomans or Californians or Americans. Or rather I hope I do, because I am all those things. But that is not all that I am. I am all of that and more and less. People often put labels on people so they don’t have to deal with the physical fact of those people. It’s easy to say, oh, that’s a honkie, that’s a Jew, that’s a junkie, or that’s a broad, or that’s a stud, or that’s a dude. So you don’t have to think: does this person long for Christmas? Is he afraid that the Easter bunny will become polluted? … I refuse that… I simply refuse to have my life narrowed and proscribed.

To be sure, beneath Angelou’s remarkable optimism and dignity lies the strenuous reality she had to overcome. Reflecting on her youth, she channels an experience all too familiar to those who enter life from a foundation the opposite of privilege:

It’s very hard to be young and curious and almost egomaniacally concerned with one’s intelligence and to have no education at all and no direction and no doors to be open… To go figuratively to a door and find there’s no doorknob.

And yet Angelou acknowledges with great gratitude the kindness of those who opened doors for her in her spiritual and creative journey. Remembering the Jewish rabbi who offered her guidance in faith and philosophy and who showed up at her hospital bedside many years later after a serious operation, Angelou tells Rich:

The kindnesses … I never forget them. And so they keep one from becoming bitter. They encourage you to be as strong, as volatile as necessary to make a well world. Those people who gave me so much, and still give me so much, have a passion about them. And they encourage the passion in me. I’m very blessed that I have a healthy temper. I can become quite angry and burning in anger, but I have never been bitter. Bitterness is a corrosive, terrible acid. It just eats you and makes you sick.

Painting by Basquiat from Angelou's 'Life Doesn't Frighten Me.' Click image for more.

At the end of the interview, Angelou reflects on the meaning of life — a meditation all the more poignant as we consider, in the wake of her death, how beautifully she embodied the wisdom of her own words:

I’ve always had the feeling that life loves the liver of it. You must live and life will be good to you, give you experiences. They may not all be that pleasant, but nobody promised you a rose garden. But more than likely if you do dare, what you get are the marvelous returns. Courage is probably the most important of the virtues, because without courage you cannot practice any of the other virtues, you can’t say against a murderous society, I oppose your murdering. You got to have courage to do so. I seem to have known that a long time and found great joy in it.

The totality of Conversations with Maya Angelou is a powerful portal into the beloved writer’s soul. Complement it with Angelou on home, belonging, and (not) growing up, her children’s verses about courage illustrated by Basquiat, and her breathtaking reading of “Phenomenal Woman.”

thinning threads

the world is getting smaller and life is getting nearer to the demise, so what have we learned so far?


it is sunday.

it is may, with scattered showers and rays and sometimes, at the same time, the sky plays hide and seek with the clouds.

in london, uk.

the fight continues and it's all very exciting indeed... 

and bewildering

and isolating

and... i'll be back... 

the letters of love continue...

Frida Kahlo’s Passionate Hand-Written Love Letters to Diego Rivera

by Maria Popova

“Only one mountain can know the core of another mountain.”

Mexican painter and reconstructionist Frida Kahlo is among the most remarkable figures of contemporary culture. At a young age, she contracted polio, which left her right leg underdeveloped — an imperfection she’d later come to disguise with her famous colorful skirts. A decade later, as one of only thirty-five female students at Mexico’s prestigious Preparatoria school, she was in a serious traffic accident, which resulted in multiple body fractures and internal lesions inflicted by an iron rod that had pierced her stomach and uterus. It took her three months in full-body cast to recover and though she eventually willed her way to walking again, she spent the rest of her life battling frequent relapses of extreme pain and enduring frequent hospital visits, including more than thirty operations. As a way of occupying herself while bedridden, Kahlo made her first strides in painting — then went on to become one of the most influential painters in modern art.

Two years after the accident, in 1927, she met the painter Diego River, whose work she’d come to admire and who became her mentor. In 1929, despite the vocal protestations of Kahlo’s mother, Frida and Diego were wedded and one of art history’s most notoriously tumultuous marriages commenced. Both had multiple affairs, the most notable of which for bisexual Kahlo were with French singer, dancer, and actress Josephine Baker and Russian Marxist theorist Leon Trotsky. And yet her bond with Diego was one of transcendental passion and immense love.

Kahlo’s love letters to Rivera, found in The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait (public library) and stretching across the twenty-seven-years span of their relationship, bespeak the profound and abiding connection the two shared, brimming with the seething cauldron of emotion with which all fully inhabited love is filled: elation, anguish, devotion, desire, longing, joy. In their breathless intensity, they soar in the same stratosphere of love letters as those exchanged between Georgia O’Keeffe and Alfred Stieglitz, Anaïs Nin and Henry Miller, and Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West.

Diego.
Truth is, so great, that I wouldn’t like to speak, or sleep, or listen, or love. To feel myself trapped, with no fear of blood, outside time and magic, within your own fear, and your great anguish, and within the very beating of your heart. All this madness, if I asked it of you, I know, in your silence, there would be only confusion. I ask you for violence, in the nonsense, and you, you give me grace, your light and your warmth. I’d like to paint you, but there are no colors, because there are so many, in my confusion, the tangible form of my great love.

F.

Diego:

Nothing compares to your hands, nothing like the green-gold of your eyes. My body is filled with you for days and days. you are the mirror of the night. the violent flash of lightning. the dampness of the earth. The hollow of your armpits is my shelter. my fingers touch your blood. All my joy is to feel life spring from your flower-fountain that mine keeps to fill all the paths of my nerves which are yours.

Auxochrome — Chromophore. Diego.

She who wears the color.
He who sees the color.
Since the year 1922.

Until always and forever. Now in 1944. After all the hours lived through. The vectors continue in their original direction. Nothing stops them. With no more knowledge than live emotion. With no other wish than to go on until they meet. Slowly. With great unease, but with the certainty that all is guided by the “golden section.” There is cellular arrangement. There is movement. There is light. All centers are the same. Folly doesn’t exist. We are the same as we were and as we will be. Not counting on idiotic destiny.

My Diego:

Mirror of the night

Your eyes green swords inside my flesh. waves between our hands.

All of you in a space full of sounds — in the shade and in the light. You were called AUXOCHROME the one who captures color. I CHROMOPHORE — the one who gives color.

You are all the combinations of numbers. life. My wish is to understand lines form shades movement. You fulfill and I receive. Your word travels the entirety of space and reaches my cells which are my stars then goes to yours which are my light.

Auxochrome — Chromophore

It was the thirst of many years restrained in our body. Chained words which we could not say except on the lips of dreams. Everything was surrounded by the green miracle of the landscape of your body. Upon your form, the lashes of the flowers responded to my touch, the murmur of streams. There was all manner of fruits in the juice of your lips, the blood of the pomegranate, the horizon of the mammee and the purified pineapple. I pressed you against my breast and the prodigy of your form penetrated all my blood through the tips of my fingers. Smell of oak essence, memories of walnut, green breath of ash tree. Horizon and landscapes = I traced them with a kiss. Oblivion of words will form the exact language for understanding the glances of our closed eyes. = You are here, intangible and you are all the universe which I shape into the space of my room. Your absence springs trembling in the ticking of the clock, in the pulse of light; you breathe through the mirror. From you to my hands, I caress your entire body, and I am with you for a minute and I am with myself for a moment. And my blood is the miracle which runs in the vessels of the air from my heart to yours.

The green miracle of the landscape of my body becomes in your the whole of nature. I fly through it to caress the rounded hills with my fingertips, my hands sink into the shadowy valleys in an urge to possess and I’m enveloped in the embrace of gentle branches, green and cool. I penetrate the sex of the whole earth, her heat chars me and my entire body is rubbed by the freshness of the tender leaves. Their dew is the sweat of an ever-new lover.

It’s not love, or tenderness, or affection, it’s life itself, my life, that I found what I saw it in your hands, in your month and in your breasts. I have the taste of almonds from your lips in my mouth. Our worlds have never gone outside. Only one mountain can know the core of another mountain.

Your presence floats for a moment or two as if wrapping my whole being in an anxious wait for the morning. I notice that I’m with you. At that instant still full of sensations, my hands are sunk in oranges, and my body feels surrounded by your arms.

For my Diego

the silent life giver of worlds, what is most important is the nonillusion. morning breaks, the friendly reds, the big blues, hands full of leaves, noisy birds, fingers in the hair, pigeons’ nests a rare understanding of human struggle simplicity of the senseless song the folly of the wind in my heart = don’t let them rhyme girl = sweet xocolatl [chocolate] of ancient Mexico, storm in the blood that comes in through the mouth — convulsion, omen, laughter and sheer teeth needles of pearl, for some gift on a seventh of July, I ask for it, I get it, I sing, sang, I’ll sing from now on our magic — love.

Pair The Diary of Frida Kahlo: An Intimate Self-Portrait with more exquisite love letters by Edna St. Vincent Millay, Balzac, Rilke, and Eleanor Roosevelt.

right and wrong

5.

i read somewhere:

“The best people possess a feeling for beauty, the courage to take risks, the discipline to tell the truth, the capacity for sacrifice. Ironically, their virtues make them vulnerable; they are often wounded, sometimes destroyed.”
― Ernest Hemingway

in love

4.

i read somewhere:


'Faith is the power to stand up to the madness and chaos of the physical world while holding the position that nothing external has any authority over what heaven has in mind for you.' Caroline Myss

'If you don't like the word "heaven" in Myss' statement, substitute a term that works for you, like "your higher self" or "your destiny" or "your soul's code." Modify anything else in it that's not right for your needs, as well. When you're finished tinkering, I hope you'll have created a definition of faith that motivates you with as much primal power as you feel when you're in love.'

freedom

3.

i read somewhere:

'It's a great privilege to live in a free country. You're fortunate if you have the opportunity to pursue your dreams without having to ward off government interference or corporate brainwashing or religious fanaticism.

But that's only partly useful if you have not yet won the most important struggle for liberation, which is the freedom from your own unconscious obsessions and conditioned responses. Becoming an independent agent who's not an unwitting slave to his or her shadow is one of the most heroic feats a human being can accomplish'.

Insight is not a light bulb that goes off inside our heads," says author Malcolm Gladwell. "It is a flickering candle that can easily be snuffed out." On the one hand, you will soon glimpse quite a few new understandings of how the world works and what you could do to make it serve you better. On the other hand, you've got to be extra alert for these new understandings and committed to capturing them the moment they pop up. Articulate them immediately. If you're alone, talk to yourself about them. Maybe even write them down. Don't just assume you will be able to remember them perfectly later when it's more convenient'.

the art of losing

2.

i read somewhere:

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master; 
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop

heart writings

1.

i read somewhere:

"Write it on your heart
that every day is the best day in the year.
He is rich who owns the day, and no one owns the day
who allows it to be invaded with fret and anxiety.

Finish every day and be done with it.
You have done what you could.
Some blunders and absurdities, no doubt crept in.
Forget them as soon as you can, tomorrow is a new day;
begin it well and serenely, with too high a spirit
to be cumbered with your old nonsense.

This new day is too dear,
with its hopes and invitations,
to waste a moment on the yesterdays."
Ralph Waldo Emerson

my sermon of love

FRINGE FILM FESTIVAL was born three years ago, after three friends sat down over a glass of wine and reacted creatively to the cut of the LLGFF (london lesbian gay film festival) to one week instead of two... o. yes. we have the most stupid government in the UK with horrible, money grabbing men ruling it... don't get me started... 


so, it begun and it was focused on films, short and features, events and parties and around cool places in the east end of london.

i was invited to participate and contribute to the festival with my pop up bar: the first year (2011), stav B' liquor bar was operating at bob and anne cooke's pie n' mash shop on broadway market and we had music and cocktails downstairs and the short films shown upstairs in the dilapidated victorian living room, which we had customised to be cosy and safe. so much fun and so busy. the second year (2012), i was at lower clapton's colourful juice bar, lumiere, where the bar was upstairs among the sweet smells, the dangling glitter hearts and permanent fountain and serving spicy punch and other delights via books on erotica, female ejaculation workshops, body performances, music and a very lively and active dark room!

this year (2013), i was invited to participate as an artist, where i became a priest for one night only, in a chapel, doing service and reciting a sermon (my own), giving communion and offering confession time!
and as an atheist, denouncing god in my teens, who finished a private school for girls, with its own church and as part of the choir, i was obliged to sing inside it to a nauseating level, as it was always so busy and hot, it was quite a big thing... religion vs faith; principle vs art ethic; desire vs love; pushing the boundaries away from the comfort zone vs remaining stubborn in one's beliefs... of course i said yes!
and it was no light matter... i still write and a lot, but i perform selectively... i wanted to be respectful, but also flexible and not too flippant, losing myself in some jargon, or pointless reaction to an industry i'm not familiar with, full of complexities, mystery and corruption...
so, i delved into it... preparing psychologically to appear in front of strangers in a chapel and spilling my heart; choosing my two songs as hymns and finally writing my sermon after days of reflection and thinking, retaining it close, true and protected. the confession part was easy enough; folk come to me for advice and a point of view in life anyway, which, sometimes, i'm hopeless in giving it to myself...
and i kept it honest, as authentic as possible, coming from the heart... being me... and complete with my clergy shirt and my rosary and a borrowed cassock, which i have always wanted to possess (wardrobe extension) and elements of religion... yes, i did some research on the matter and became a tourist for a whole morning in the rain, visiting clergy suppliers and abbey shops...
and the service was wonderful and funny and warm, complete with prayers and hymns and two speeches from hilary clinton and patti smith and a full house, with boys and girls, who were totally up for it, singing, laughing, cheering, clapping and soaking it all in as well as the communion who were lining up to get in the shape of... love hearts! as it should be! that day the house of god, was the house of love; our love!
and everyone said that i looked the part, it suited me to the ground and i felt as ease and very serious and calm and strangely elated covered in heavy black cloth and decorated in chains and beads... which most likely has got to do with my personal state at present; trying to keep it together, before i go completely mad, or was i in character?
this is my sermon; my sermon of love...

SERMON

by stav B

Friday 12 April 2013

FRINGEFILM FEST*3

Good evening. I’m stav B. Your priest for one night only.

It took me some time to think and more time to decipher on paper, this sermon, which, despite the subversion of it all, is a serious matter, standing in front of strangers and delivering some kind of message with honesty and clarity, asking for your forgiveness and hopefully transcending positive energy to take with you in cognition.

I am not religious, in the sense, that I don’t follow a particular manuscript, which will lead my life in some kind of salvation, but I have faith:

Faith in the undeniable power of nature

Faith in the ability of humans, despite their stupidity and ignorance and fear

Faith in the people who I love and love me

Faith in myself, as I believe that everything starts and finishes from oneself…

Faith is not about having all the answers, it is a feeling, a hunch, that something bigger, connecting us all, exists: LOVE, which in itself is an act of faith…

All fine and dandy in theory and we can enter in some futile discourse for eternity, what use is it, if it’s not recognised, practised and finally embraced? If it’s not felt?

Despite the love within us, we all know, how hard and somewhat impossible it is to find the other, identify them and love them and be loved back…

It is a bewildering business indeed, we all need this so much, but when it actually knocks on our heavy door, forever locked and occupied by work and hobbies, do we open it?

Do we let it in?

Do we enjoy it?

Do we nurture it?

Do we keep it? Close to our hearts with compassion and trust and responsibility?

Do we allow it to bewitch us and sweep us away, in shores, where we can lose and find ourselves?

Despite the fears?

The past traumas?

The busy schedules?

The utter foolishness to ruin something potentially amazing for us and to us, without giving it a real shot?

Or deliberately misunderstand it, sabotage it, challenge it, exclude it, control it, unfairly and eventually destroying it, in the name of:

Career?

Friends?

Idle gossip?

Fear?

Closed heart?

Insecurity?

The superb discipline of conditioning oneself to the state: I’m ok on my own, I have worked very hard to reach that stage and I’m not prepared to relinquish it, yet, ever, at the moment?

Working hard on oneself is fundamental, whether we are alone or relating, nothing should interfere with this crucial process, our loved ones should encourage this wholeheartedly.

A certain lack of decorum to be kind and compassionate to someone who has appeared in our lives for a myriad of reasons, but most importantly to love us?

The answers lie within each and every one of us and if we dare to be brutally honest with ourselves, then we’ll know what to do and how to proceed.

As above, it is a bewildering and tricky business at the same time and juggling life and feelings is truly a wonderful as well as a rocky experience, but smooth sailing never made a skillful sailor, right?

In short and what I’m trying to say here, is that if we are sure about what we want and need and are capable for and very adamant about our choices in life, whatever the reason, the excuse, the previous experience and we are not prepared to shake this meticulous crafted composition, just in case our tower crumbles…

Then, we should stay away from the harmful, potentially messy and heartbreaking business of love and make sure that we keep our hearts very looked after and wrapped carefully… unbreakable… irredeemable, inpenetranable, hearts, which eventually become motionless, airless and dark…

Life continues, but how?

Or, of course, we can do something different and interesting and surprise ourselves, totally remove our finely knitted net and leap into the amazing unknown, the magic, the beauty, the happiness, the love! Why not? Why can we not get what we want for a change? Why can we not get what we deserve? And crack a little smile for a while?

Maybe we get scratched, bruised, upset, confused and so what? It’s all a circle back to itself and love will truly shine if it’s true! It’s all part of the process, courage is contagious and faith; what a task!

There is no eternal sunshine of the spotless mind, but despair and loneliness; soul-destroying… spots and mistakes and miracles and warmth… yearning for the warmth.

'Somewhere there's a treasure that has no value to anyone but you, and a secret that's meaningless to everyone except you, and a frontier that harbours a revelation only you would know how to exploit. Why not go in search of those things? 

Visualise yourself being able to recognise the raw truth about the people you care about. Imagine that you can see how they already embody the beauty their souls' codes have promised as well as how they still fall short of embodying that beauty. 

Picture yourself being able to make them feel appreciated even as you inspire them to risk changes that will activate more of their souls' codes'.

It’s ok to love.

It’s ok to share.

It’s ok to get hurt.

And it’s ok to be alone. But if one does wish to remain alone, one should not implicate others into this experiment; one should remain unbending into their positions… unless, of course, they do love, that is….

LOVE is the answer and we all know that for sure and as I leave you now holding each other’s hands, of the person next to you, whether you know them or not, I wish to state, declare and share with you that I love, I’m in love and that I have decided to let it in, before I perish, as I’m my own worst enemy when it comes to protection. The pain is sweet. The rewards, enormous. And I’m glad about that.

Thank you for listening.

11.4.13 ©stav B

i post this sermon here, upon request, archive and for those who missed the event... 

yes, it is true, i am a performance artist and that has saved my life, as a way to exorcise my demons and reach some kind of cathartic revelation, via my prose and the audience, but that could never be possible without my life's wonderful realities. 

and there is no script and/ or performance there, but truth and love and a hell of a lot of takes. and i am glad about that. 

additional photography by christa holka ©2013