Rain. A tribute to Terrygold by Kristine Blackadder

Rain by Terrygold. Machinima

I already told you here something about this Terry’s beautiful and moving work.

There, I already tried to say something about a so nice Kristine’s machinima about “Rain”, the last art installation built shared by Terrygold into Second Life.
Well, this beautiful friend, Kristine, was not satisfied by her machinima, and felt her need to make more and better: thus, another video was born: “Rain by Terrygold”.
These so dear and clever two friends, Kristine and Terry, go on to grow better and better as artists.

This time Kristine gives space and dignity to the words used by Terry in her work. Kristine makes a beautiful machinima where Terry’s words are in great evidence, while into the original art installation our eyes and our minds are so captured by pics and landscapes that words are subordinate and for instance I self really did not give them their real importance and beauty.
The translation into English from the original Italian text was made by another dear friend, Annalisa Mulialina, while a fourth friend, Shyla, enhanced those words with her so pleasant voice.

Four clever and gentle and dear friend, four women from both the sides of Atlantic Ocean made this wonderful work.

I enjoy their work so much; I enjoy more and more their friendship with Judy.

This machinima was accepted into that so great SL event that is FantasyFaire 2022: it will be presented during the event scheduled on Saturday, April 30th, as showed below here.

Rain FF schedule

And this is the event SLURL

Sangu miu (My blood)

sangu miu

As I told in my main Italian blog, Terry built a very interesting and moving art installation in Second Life: Rain. It is dedicated to her mom and shows us something about Terry’s memories and thoughts about her and her death.
If you are interested to know more about Rain, see this post by Inara Pey. Here I underline only that a previous Terry’s similar work, Empty chairs, started considering the death of Terry’s dad yet after it went on applying feelings and extending considerations, emotions and sensations more widely, on the theme of the absence itself.

Well… another dear friend, Kristine Blackadder, liked Rain so much that she shot one of her beautiful machinimas in the garden made by Terry, after it was modified: also Kristine’s work shares her feelings about the absence theme.

This machinima is much more complex than it seems. It is beautiful, up to make shiver.
Kristine perverted the white or coloured Terry’s flowers to crimson, blood ones, and turns on herself in a tiny space drawn by a column of light. Nothing around it.
She shook up those pale yet somehow gentle flowers made by Terry, those flowers that after their so pale and cold beginning in Terry’s work get beautiful colours, as hopes have. Here those flowers are too much big, too much red, too much upsetting.
Here those flowers aren’t a landscape but only a narrow scene in which Kristine and only Kristine dances her pain. She’s alone, even without memories: that’s the absence.
This is a strong and hard reflection about herself, filled with that obsessive crimson: blood and rose, rose petals becoming blood, her bloodlike coloured dress (she always is black dressed in her machinimas) and those so upsetting blood flowers. There’s a bad red scar on her face.
Terry with her work told us something about her blood: her mother. Kristine keeps her eyes on her pain due to the absence, as a monster detail and everything becomes a real blood flow.
If you pay attention, at time 2:47, there is a voice citation from Mulholland Drive, where the anchor-man (a terrifying one) on the stage of a theatre says “It is an illusion”. Of course, this consideration could change definitively the meaning of the whole machinima, as to say “Well, I’m only joking”. Really, in my opinion, it is not so: Kristine tells us that also pain can be something like play, acting, a recital: in such cases we live in a so little and perverted space and we can only feel pain.

Yes: this is pain. Yet, please, we must not be defined only by it.

Another prompt: if that absence were truly absence of sense for our way, work, moving, living?

February, 5th 2022

Tin wind vane creaks

Copia di IMG_1296-min

JB, 2009. No neat night, but that’s the same roof.

How the tin wind vane creaks
when the wind turns around
messy like without way
in this so neat dark night

It groans shrill and its face
turns the other way with
no point to look at, with
nothing that could be sense

I am like it when I
watch around without be
inside my gaze, so that
I long for useless lives

Following any changes
of the wind this clear night
makes my rusty heart creak,
useless life toward death

December, 27th 2021

Italian version

Goodbye, mom

Father
That’s a song by Claudio Chieffo, where God talks with a woman; I tried this traslation:

 

You didn’t know how I’d call you
the face that I gave you, the story that you lived
you did not know it yet, you did not know it yet …

When in your prime you did play to be a woman
near the door of your old house
I was preparing for your life so great things
that you didn’t know yet, that you didn’t know yet, that you didn’t know yet …

Then you could know the pain, that takes away things tastes,
but fills so much the words, colours the words with life,
at that time you lived it, at that time you lived it at that time you lived it …

Then I gave you that my real love so unpretentious and great,
so that your pain could became more bearable
and your love infinite, and your love infinite, and your love infinite…

Now I want you here with me: you haven’t to be afraid,
you have to let you go, each thing comes true just now,
each thing comes true just now, each thing comes true just …

… now here darkness no longer exists,
there’s the light in the eyes of God,
there’s the peace in the hands of God,
there’s the joy in the heart of God!

 

December, 19th 2021

 

Goodbye, mom! Please say hello to dad and to your brothers for me.

Italian version

Torn and thorns

 

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Pic found here, by Awentree

 

Torn
as an old worn white shirt
meeting thorns on its way
I am torn.
I’m bound, broken
and I’m naked and torn

Cold dry air hurts my skin
like ice breath from wastelands
Winter wins now my life.
I feel used up, worn.
I am torn

Thorns as bugs
bad black bugs
creep and crawl on my skin, tearing even
inside
where I’m torn.

Thoughts are thorns
scampering everywhere
as a frisk in my soul
to find what?
Pain and thorns

Come on, please,
come here soon
don’t let this advent be
sadness, cold, ripped skin
and soul torn.
Came on, please
be my whole

 

My home, December, 4th 2021

 

Now it’s cold

 

To my mom

 

Now it’s cold, here is cold
while we walk toward winter

 

Each thing cold where you walk toward were
I don’t’ know, you don’t know,
only hopes

 

Only hopes, holy thoughts, our faith
while you walk toward Him

 

I know that He loves you
so you will be together
with your husband: my dad
and your brothers, because
you are the latter

 

Now it’s cold, here is cold
while you walk toward winter
toward more light, maybe.
Toward more light: I’m sure

 

November, 20th 2021

 

Windows of spring

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JB, 2021: one of those Great tits around my house

 

As a window of spring, some Great tits
came again near my home and now chirp
whilst my time runs to solstice, when dark
wins each day against light, more and more

As a window of spring your green eyes
came again near my face and my lips
met your mouth, in the dark, before that
sleep won against my mind and my hands

We need windows of spring in the life
where we run toward dark, pain and death.
Green grass, trees, Tits and you are refrains
in the song of my life made by God

 

My home, November, 13rd 2021

 

Gaslight

 

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JB 2021. Horror Museum: the last SL Terry work

Kristine suggested me this intriguing word: gaslight.

She also sent me this link, because I did not undersand what she meant. This is my silly joke (?) about it.

 

Gaslight might
be as an evil sight
burning air
old trace of
something live
no more fight
Death who bites

Gaslight is
something old,
aged word with weird taste
in the night

A pale lamp, steampunk stuff
something yellow
in the dark heavy fog
at the docks
pain and blight

Maybe ill brightness as
a thin cloud
like a bad fairy light
lost and creepy landscapes
maybe green, maybe yellow
as a ghost
maybe like fireflys cloud
otherwise
will-o’-wisp
bluish flame on wild field
a fire that does not burn
greenish grass or dead shrubs
dried plants
fruit of hidden decay
underground, rubbish rot
corpses trace

Gaslights change colours, things
make reality weird
so we fail, full of doubts.
Someone acts like gaslight

Psychological crime
that ruins our minds
in this new bad pale world
making me be unsure
about me
falsifying real life
and reality too

Puzzling fire, scary fire
sign of death
with no smoke
a ghost that has no face
without shape

Gaslight might
be as an evil sight
burning air
old trace of
something live
no more fight
Death who bites

 

my home, October, 7th 2021

 

Terry’s Empty chairs

Terry empty chairs Cover

My friend Terry made into Second Life this art installation, where as usual she is her model. It moved me, especially for the sweet sadness and the melancholy of all the installation, that looks at something no more (or not yet?) there.

After I wrote my text, I knew that Terry dedicated her installation to her dad.

(to Terry with affection)

White smooth skin, baked clay,                    1 Terry empty chairs Terry
modest and statuesque, you wear
only crimson nail polish.
A mask always occludes your mouth

No words and no caresses,
no kiss can warm your lips
sealed in stunned stasis.
Each thing is only silence of absence

You’re alone, wandering empty rooms,
with no friends, mates, companions around.
Antique pink on the walls contrasts with
your so pale, delicate, marble flower

2 Terry empty chairs Frames

Black frames say deep dark space:
they tell it as thick, worrying
empty sockets that lost any memories
about who lived there, into their picture

3 Terry empty chairs Garden

You do live a green dream, colours and
gentle birds hovering in the air
like a breeze thickening nice presences,
chirps that are given to joyful love

4 Terry empty chairs prospects 3

Then a spectrum of empty prospects,
lifeless too, follows the garden where
there are colours and light and birds, joy:
follows it, closes it with stress, anguish

Benches sit down inside a dark park
and so many chairs stacked or spread
through the empty night streets, waiting for,
without one who enjoys or lives them

5 Terry empty chairs Vespa

Like those chairs, an alone empty Vespa.
You watch it, maybe thinking of someone
dead, not here, maybe a friend that taught you
to fish,
when you were only a child

A strange feeling makes turgid my breasts
as I look at your so gorgeous body
I’m lame and very small and I feel
your skin close to me and it’s ice cold

SL, Osta Nimosa, August, 24th 2021

Italian version

Homeless wave 2

homeless wave

Homeless wave, by Solfrid

 

I dream of a wild, a giant wave
white foam shaking the deep blue immobility:
stagnancy
widespread on ocean bottoms

I am the wave and I wander restlessly
with no place to sleep quiet,
without peace in the senses; my body
grows old and yet it craves caresses

Each of us is the wave, and we’re restless
if love doesn’t touch us, if anyone
never looks at us with sharp desire
to be one with us in sweet embrace

There’s no peace for the wave in the world
of concrete yet distracted earth things.
The Reality is larger than what
forces us and cages us: it’s the death

 

May, 1st 2021

 

(English version translated from the original Italian one)