Writing Track


andrea 2016:17.jpg

UND IMMERZU

versuchen wir unsere Leere zu füllen
Und das endet dann immer im Seele mit selbstzweifelnden Gedanken Zumüllen.
Und ich spür diese Schwere.
Die leereauffüllenden Füller führen zu noch mehr Leere.
Ich steck fest.
Ich dreh mich im Kreis und fall um.
Ich steck fest.
Ich spür seinen Geist und dreh um.
Und ich seh.
Ich seh seine Welt von da oben.
Ich seh.
Er hat seine Welt zu meiner geschoben.
Was ich da seh ist reine Poesie.
Manche würden sagen, das ist mehr als Magie. Und das ist es.
Es ist Realität.
Realität, die einem den Sinn des Lebens verrät.
Ich geh.
Ich geh immer weiter in Richtung Daheim. Und ich geh.
Daheim darf ich endlich ich selber sein.
Er hat.
Er hat meine Sorgen in Liebe gehüllt.
Er hat
meine Leere mit Fülle gefüllt. 

TEXT BY JAEL SCHLEDERER, PHOTO BY ANDREA OLASCOAGA, MOTA 2016/17


POEMS BY DJECKY ADAMS, MOTA 2015/16

I

And these paintings are fire, they start with a mark, then a line; lines, then whole canvases. Once drawn, seen, took in, they are set free to burn, to consume the heart of its host with either pain or affection.

Hold your pen, use your pencil and your brush carefully. Don't splatter, don't let out everything that crawls out from your soul.

Dear, start fires, start fires of passion, of love, of selflessness, of biblical devotion and of ways to heal from pain.

Stay away from the dark parts of your heart. Draw from light so it might wither the scary, numbing emptiness in some people's lives. For “how great a forest is set ablaze by such a small flame!”

II

These stories braid themselves under her skin like vines, creating cracks upon the asphalt of her flesh whenever the rays of life bruised its surface.

When that happened, the boston ivy, whose roots are deep inside her, crawl out and bloom, birthing pollen for that extraordinary butterfly which she vomited forth two winters ago and whose home she let have in her back pocket

where he use to place those haikus, sestinas and epics of benevolence.

Some nights, she would wake up to the rattle of the hungry insect's wings, and for a moment, she would think it was his hand sliding one of those love notes into her pocket.

In those moments of disillusion, her skin would crack, the vine would swell and blossom, as tears would gently branch down her salmon-colored cheeks while the creature silently fed.

(the butterfly is a metaphor for pain and how we sometimes keep it and feed it which hurt us so much more than if we were to have let it go)

III

The thought of you wraps my body like

a small flame - consuming me, slowly

taking me from the arctic reality in which  i am living in; where I watch men get drunk on the money they could have used to feed their children, where i see the sick lay on their linen beds never getting well. (because some men would

rather profit on their suffering)

The sights had filled me with such abhorrence

that it caused me to thrust myself deep into a plane of indifference, where not even in my dreams, could I have ever imagined escaping...but you found me, lifted me out, gave me visions; strength, and a hammer to mend the shattered.