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By.Rachel McKibbens

To my daughters, I need to say:

Go with the one who loves you biblically.

The one whose love lifts its head to you despite its broken neck.

Whose body bursts sixteen arms electric to carry you, gentle, the way
old grief is gentle.

Love the love that is messy in all its too much,

The body that rides best your body, whose mouth saddles the naked salt
of your far gone hips, whose tongue translates the rock language of
all your elegant scars.

Go with the one who cries out for his tragic sisters as he chops the winter’s wood, the one whose skin

Triggers your heart into a heaven of blood waltzes.

Go with the one who resembles most your father. Not the father you can
point out on a map,

But the father who is here. Is your home. Is the key to your front door. Know that your first love will only

Be the first. And the second and third and even fourth will unprepare you for the most important:

The Blessed. The Beast. The Last love. Which is, of course, the most terrifying kind.

Because which of us wants to go with what can murder us? Can reveal to us

Our true heart’s end and its thirty years spent in poverty?

Can mimic the sound of our birdthroated mothers, replicate the warmth of our brothers’ tempers? Can pull us out of ourselves until

We are no longer sisters or daughters or sword swallowers but, instead,

Women. Who give. And lead. And take and want

And want

And want

And want

Because there is no shame in wanting.

And you will hear yourself say: Last Love, I wish to die so I may come back to you new and never tasted by any other mouth but yours.

And I want to be the hands that pull your children out of you and tuck them deep inside myself until they are

Ready to be the children of such a royal and staggering love. Or you
will say: Last Love,

I am old, and have spent myself on the courageless, have wasted too many clocks on less-deserving men, so I hurl myself

At the throne of you and lie humbly at your feet.

Last Love, let me never roll out of this heavy dream of you.

Let the day I was born mean my life will end where you end.

Let the man behind the church do what he did if it brings me to you.

Let the girls in the locker room corner me again if it brings me to you.

Let the wrong beds find me if it brings me to you.

Let this wild depression throw me beneath its hooves if it brings me to you.

Let me pronounce my hoarded joy if it brings me to you.

Let my father break me again and again if it brings me to you.

Last love, I let other men borrow your children. Forgive me.

Last love, I vowed my heart to another. Forgive me.

Last Love, I have let my blind and anxious hands wander into a room and come out empty. Forgive me.

Last Love, I have cursed the women you loved before me. Forgive me.

Last Love, I envy your mother’s body where you resided first. Forgive me.

Last Love, I am all that is left. Forgive me.

Last Love, I did not see you coming. Forgive me.

Last Love, every day without you was a life I crawled out of. Amen.

Last Love, you are my Last Love. Amen.

Last Love, I am all that is left. Amen.

I am all that is left.

Amen.

Voices of Light is a pretty recent musical composition (1994) that was inspired by the French silent film “La Passion de Jeanne d’Arc” (1928) recommended to me by a friend. Written by Richard Einhorn and performed by Anonymous 4 (an all female a capella group as the voice of Jeanne) and the Netherlands Radio Choir and philharmonic, it provides an incredible accompaniment to the original film.

The acting in the film is otherworldly. The music tells its own story. It’s a tall order, about an hour and a half, but totally worth the watch.


Eva Yerbabuena in “Pulse: A Stomp Odyssey.”

The Spanish Dancer
~ Rainer Maria Rilke

As on all its sides a kitchen-match darts white
flickering tongues before it bursts into flame:
with the audience around her, quickened, hot,
her dance begins to flicker in the dark room.

And all at once it is completely fire.

One upward glance and she ignites her hair
and, whirling faster and faster, fans her dress
into passionate flames, till it becomes a furnace
from which, like startled rattlesnakes, the long
naked arms uncoil, aroused and clicking.

And then: as if the fire were too tight
around her body, she takes and flings it out
haughtily, with an imperious gesture,
and watches: it lies raging on the floor,
still blazing up, and the flames refuse to die –
Till, moving with total confidence and a sweet
exultant smile, she looks up finally
and stamps it out with powerful small feet.

Saddest Music In The World is a 2004 Guy Maddin flick that has been blowing my mind for years now.  It’s the story of a beer baroness in depression-era Winipeg, Canada, a town that’s been dubbed “saddest town in the world”  by a magazine.  Via radio waves, the beer baroness challenges the entire world to a contest for which country truly can lay claim to producing the saddest music in the world, resulting in an onslaught of visitors from faraway lands to compete for money and beer. 

This film is oh-so-very textured with wit and plot turns and surreal events that make it worth watching again and again.

The director, Erika Janunger, is a Swedish musician and designer.

A short dance/architectural movie, about defying gravity.
In bedroom Malin Stattin
In livingroom Tuva Lundkvist

Directed by Erika Janunger
Scenography Erika Janunger
Photography and lightDavid Grehn
Costume Johanna Adebäck
Hair and Makeup Klara Janunger
Editing Josefine Truedsson
Postproduction Gustaf Holmsten

Music/ Lyrics-
and Vocals Erika Janunger
PercussionPontus Langendorf
Keyharp Erik Rydvall
Saxophones Nis Bäckvall
Produced by Henrik Svensson

Musings

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