Rain. A tribute to Terrygold by Kristine Blackadder

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.

And this is the event SLURL

Catlike words

One of my silly cats

Catlike words
come here, stop themselves,
take a look all around
then they go
elsewhere as sweet kisses who like
soft young warm girls’ cheeks and
go to taste other more

Only silly minds can
think to return to hunt them
because they are free, higher
over you in deep skies

Catlike, myself waits too
curled up on a chair
for they come
to free my soul again

April, 8^th 2021

Italian version

The Picture of Dorian Gray, by O.Wilde

from The Picture of Dorian Gray

O. Wilde

Pic from here

Music had stirred him like that. Music had troubled him many times. But music was not articulate. It was not a new world, but rather another chaos, that it created in us. Words I Mere words t How terrible they were I How clear, and vivid, and cruel 1 One could not escape from them. And yet what a subtle magic there was in them I They seemed to be able to give a plastic form to form- less things, and to have a music of their own as sweet as that of viol or of lute. Mere words! Was there anything so real as words?

Oscar Wilde

Maybe it’s a book about sin, maybe it’s a book about our wish to be alive. In any case, in it there are a lot of deep and detailed description of our soul. Music and words: I do not comment what he says much better than what I could do.

Maybe

Maybe my English is too much bad to go on to write here…
Maybe I deceived myself
Maybe it is better I quit with this stuff …

There’s sun warmth

JB, 2010

 

After holidays and winter flashes
there’s sun warmth.
I stretch out legs and arms.
All around mist congeals and blocks my
world and landscapes, remaining pale there

I begin to feel older myself,
to realize my acts are now more slow
despite my flesh that throws my mind far
toward young girl’s thoughts and toward dreams

I compressed emotions, a life
which now overflows causing this upset
that disturbs both my brain and my flesh,
old yet learning me as maiden stuff

Where did go years I spent, time I lost
without kisses and cuddles or smiles,
filled with duties and jobs that I now
feel so dry, feel so cold,
feel as lack?

I’m ashamed of so many words I
group with pens on sheets I hide, unknown:
those are outbursts of people I am,
schizophrenic mind without good drive

Other people are into my deep,
men and women that sometimes like flares
can arrive to my eye to look out:
here’s thus laughs, sometime cuddles
                                                           I can

 

February, 14th 2020

 

Italian version

 

Precious love

 

My Precious love can only come from above
In unity is born a kiss of dignity
My Precious love will only come from above
And there you wish away
And with the least they met
You love better
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love
Precious love

Space weaver,
by Lisa Gerrard

My friend Kristine Blackadder told me about a strange song: Space weaver, by Lisa Gerrard. I listened to that song and saw its video. A woman dances, alone in an empty space; she wears a very large black dress. She keeps her hands near her hips and her arms are bent, so I can imagine two eyes, two gaps of light in the black of a mask. Her body is also bent, as to simulate a nose protruding from a mask.
A black mask.
The song flows and the woman dances until that mask seems to vanish and the woman becomes what she really is: a woman.
She becomes herself, without any mask and far from any dream.
An expression recurs obsessively, maybe as a prayer invocation, surely as expression of ineffable desire: Precious love. It is repeated twelve times.
Well… that’s my true love story.
Because my precious love came me from above.
Because when I met my precious love I found myself as unity.
Because my precious love gave and gives me dignity.
Because dignity and love grew and grow again as unity.
Because I saw and see what to love means.
Because I became me, taking off any mask.

I breathe words

 

I breathe words in the fresh wind that strikes
my face and messes up all my hairs
in the spring mornings when winter runs
far away and you are my desire

Words choose me and they give strength and form
to my wandering roaming strewn thoughts.
I don’t look for them: I find and see
them, they chase me at their whim

I collect from somewhere words in summer
going through mountains, into your eyes
full of peace, in the steps that so much
bring us toward the high sky we need

We have not to hunt words; just wait for
them that reach us across lives and time flow
and watch them changing into nice prayer
like clots filled and charged with meaning

I chase words and autumn rain turns
itself lighter becoming soft smile
as when evening mist poses on green grass
while I run to you asking for you

 

October, 14th 2019

 

Italian version

Blackristine song

Take care, my friend.

I don’t know if a veil
can be a lie, can be a jail
hiding and trapping well
what I am in my hell

I need what I don’t know
maybe love, maybe more
I’m alone in this world
I’m my rain falling down

I would like sing nice words
free my soul, fly as bird
yet that red purple moth
seems a wound on my mouth

I shake my body hard
with no sense. I move hands
like a child with no dad.
Pain is my name so far

I don’t know, maybe a veil
can be a lie or a jail…
My mask falls down to earth
I show you now my heart

 

October, 1st 2019

Winter dream

(Photo by Melania)

Silly words born while I was chatting with a friend about a landscape built by Terrygold.
Maybe not silly at all.

What’s a winter dream? It’s as a scream
made by shadows that cover as cream
my frost skin; shivers’ stream
runs like hopeless bad sin
 

What’s a winter dream? It’s a flash, gleam
that moves me to be silly and write reams
clinging to thoughts rerunning same scheme.
Winter dream is too much my own theme
 
 
 
SL, Casvian Caye, January, 12th 2019

Blue light

Photo by J.B., 2018

 

Blue light, she is reflected by water:
dragonfly turns around and the pool
is her whole universe so contracted.
She doesn’t know about Dolomites, there

I too go around, trapped days
of the norm that dulls every sense,
where I lose both Your world and Your Beauty
and I waste all my life and its meaning

Malga Valchestria (Brenta Dolomites), August 4th, 2018

Italian version