In front of the house in which I have lived for too long already there are amulets made by my daughter. I am no longer scared from persecution in my dreams. The wind sways those keepers of dreams and slips through the window nets. In the garden in front of the house there are palm trees, and bushes of aloe vera under the palm trees. Nothing from this might not mean anything, but it calms me down at times when the rain that is awaited is not here.
On the other side, in another time, in a Europe before the end of the last century, Marc Sandman conquered Europe, recognized as a leader of something that unites Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti and Kerouac. The sound that Morphine created became even a bigger fascination to many people after they had seen them live. Before this, Sandman had worked his part of the life on the road, from Alaska where he had been a professional fisherman, via Middle and South America, his life with their mushrooms and pot, he had lost two brothers in the meantime and he succeeded in having himself stabbed as he drove a taxi…
And still he managed to remain the mysterious private man who had been forced by ambition to become the voice of a completely different sound. Of what comes at the same time from the future and from the past, the rhythm of the wandering of Kerouac’s worn out shoes in the twenty-seventh century.
By the way, tell me, do you know how you call the rain? How much patience does one need to wait for the cloud without calling it? Calling the rain in the rain season is a special ritual. Totems and amulets in general do not help. Leaving certain dreams behind also does not help. The pain is unbearable until it passes. Words help. Dreams too, unless they turn into nightmares.
the art is inside
