Dear Wadada, I hope you re doing fine. I m writing you to ask you a question.. I ve been thinking these questions over and over, while walking in the mountains once more with just a small gas lighter, dry soup, an union from my fathers garden, my wife and your book. thinking over matters of ethics and aesthetics, of freedom and responsibility for the sounds we make (and made in history); feeling to be be part of something larger, proving nothing, just adding to that whole, and do so with respect, thinking what you call Black Creative Music. (and secretly calling it " a slight Wadada" when i let my feet chose their way and the stones to trust, step on and leave again, improvising my way down steep slopes, enjoying the ride, the way the melodies sound in my head.) and i know and i feel that i don t have to be black to be part of this, if i only know who i am and where i find my place: :sometimes stepping back, sometimes aiming forward. sometimes being loud, sometimes shutting up or playing silent. i know i can be young or old, man or women, roma or gadjo, a tree or a stone, bird or fish, strange and from far out; i can be in. the here and now. (thank you rhythm, thank you sincerely wadada, h)

Here I stand, feet sucked in yellow slush, I watch in silent admiration the helicopter hanging motionless above this heartbreaking scene. Small groups of humans try to find their separate ways over the fields, surrounding this enormous hole, where the giant, lame machine seems small, but it's servants so much smaller. They stray over the fields and under the mills, through the last remaining village, towards the chain of the scared and just as lost soldiers of the capital, who were urged to leave their vehicles, that slowly sink, lined up in the mud, missing mirrors, but decorated by protesters with hearts. They form the chain to keep us from reaching the last barn, next to the last tree, in the last village, where Pinky and Brain went underground. And I am somehow drawn in that direction, too in my '98 parka over the field of young and optimistic spinach, dying. And I think to myself What a Wonderful World... A voice in the wind tries to tell me something about gender, color, colonialisme and all i can think is, you r right and i am sorry The mess we made of it all, the last two-hundred years, and me, since '98... (and I am glad that I am not alone, here as I was never alone in all those times; and she is somewhere out here, too, closer to the village then to me, please, wiil you take care?) I am aware, of the fact that I drive a diesel car, that the house of our foundation uses fossile fuel, and that the money flows to Putin... But our guests, who fled the war, need to be warm as well! And when I use my car for work, it's for the good cause? No, my mistake is more about that for too long I trusted in the thought: this system is not ours. we work in parallel society, we are the DiY. But somehow now it seems this parallel does not exist; the last pandemic showed us where all crawling in the same pit. I reclaim the words you ve stolen: love and content and something to hold on to. But you can keep your ideas of togetherness and inclusion as long as you want to use them only in your narrative and on your spot, as long as you want to be many, as long as you want to be safe, as long as you want to be there where you are, And we will work on regress... when all you hear is a restrung string, metal on wood, stone or skin my yak shawl over my atrophied leg, i m knitting my lyrics and play in the pit that we heat up with our own carbon emission only. breathing and farting, out of time. someone stirs with a plastic spoon in a Tupperware full of synthetics. His sporty shoulders, well trained thumbs, micro-motorics of a frozen rabbit on a highly lit memory, of what we used to call a highway. we all have small footprints but double shadows, extra large "We are, I am, you are by cowardice or courage the one who find our way back to this scene carrying a knife, a camera a book of myths in which our names do not appear" (from: Adrienne rich: Diving into the Wreck)

By Joseph Brodsky Translated by Joseph Brodsky My dear Telemachus, The Trojan War is over now; I don't recall who won it. The Greeks, no doubt, for only they would leave so many dead so far from their own homeland. But still, my homeward way has proved too long. While we were wasting time there, old Poseidon, it almost seems, stretched and extended space. I don't know where I am or what this place can be. It would appear some filthy island, with bushes, buildings, and great grunting pigs. A garden choked with weeds; some queen or other. Grass and huge stones . . . Telemachus, my son! To a wanderer the faces of all islands resemble one another. And the mind trips, numbering waves; eyes, sore from sea horizons, run; and the flesh of water stuffs the ears. I can't remember how the war came out; even how old you are--I can't remember. Grow up, then, my Telemachus, grow strong. Only the gods know if we'll see each other again. You've long since ceased to be that babe before whom I reined in the plowing bullocks. Had it not been for Palamedes' trick we two would still be living in one household. But maybe he was right; away from me you are quite safe from all Oedipal passions, and your dreams, my Telemachus, are blameless.

for eric dolphy (with ruggero and bas) black and white the still born calf wet skinned still but yet to breath wrestling column slandered left untouched will find no shelter but in sound pain paints black the backside of the eyelids of all colors in all colors of the sun fool, that never hurt no one: on roofs edges skinny comfort lies and that is why the magpie s on the hanger like a would-be gypsie. brothers, never lose hope! the tv s on the wheels lose grip we are sung loose there s always sugar shortage or too much he died lonely on an airport sea turtles-friends, the water somewhat colder under the bridge souls remember rhythm hands remember time fingers a memory scales a neck or a flute never repeat as you go on into spring, and into the provinces where so much love is still unborn ma we 've got eight wires of scrap metal kept carefully in mud just around the river bend i whisper that i miss you i feel it in my stomach, ma we 've got 10 wires of nonprecious metal kept carefully in mud here, just around the corner of the danube, mississippi. the black sea, hudson bay, the smiling coast of africa on entering these virgin lands on virgin soil we are older now then you would ever be our youngest is the darkest and still wither than my bones ma, we ve got eight metal wires of non-precious metal kept in mud i miss you i feel it in my stomach, ma... this is why the geese spit on my crucifixion and why the cycle is too short no games, nor dances, he dies alone in a hotel no milk but beautiful brown eyes. injured, never damaged injured never damaged gronn.bonn.lageland. beginning of july 2022

deus ex machina defunct. orfeo cursing (the gods) the sadness of the story about the man coming down from god’s mountain to make himself smaller and thus being able to fetch his girl back from the depths of sorrow, just to lose her again, for he turned around once and so failed in the eyes of the gods, that cowardly hide, behind high clouds, too scared for their power to change a man’s fate, coming down from their mountains. sick and silly gods; try living yourself. the blunt sadness of the story about the man coming down from the mountain to make himself smaller and so to be able to fetch his girl back from the depths of sorrow, just to lose her again, because of turrning around once, checking and thus failing in the eyes of the gods that cowardly hide high behind their clouds for they are too scared for their power to change the fate of a man that comes down from their mountain fuck yourselves, you don't have the guts to to hell and back.

ciao Belasova, ciao playing under the roof where you live and pray two little brothers Yet Unwise and Still Unwise decide to only wave and bow respectfully for you and innocent white owls the future pretty girl, is as uncertain as it ever was. for wisdom and patience, your middle names, appearing in interwoven intervals of off-white elegance before a dark brown background, this cold and nightly northern town in silence and respectfully we -but not too solemnly- pledge, to never stop making our sounds to how you dance this comforting circling between suspected poles of trust and curiosity as if saying goodbye but praying us: hold on! which goes for one man driving home and one man leaving his, you might as well be good. Belasova, ciao,