Fictional letters

Treat yourself or someone you love to two great reads …

Why wait until Christmas or Chanukah to treat yourself or someone you love to an unforgettable read?

“Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo” modernizes the concept of the biography away from Boswellian “every ladder rung is vital” structure, and straight to “the good and meaningful stuff — that defines who a person is … and why.”

BOOK DESCRIPTION:

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With laser-like precision, Adam Donaldson Powell bores into Albert Russo’s psyche, while in parallel he analyzes the work of a lifetime. But more often than not, there is a process of cross-fertilization, whether it is clearly identified or on the sidelines. He interviews his subject, not always in a linear fashion, scanning the latter’s important stages of life: there is first Central, Eastern – the former Belgian Congo (now, DRCongo), Ruanda-Urundi (now, the two countries of Rwanda and Burundi) and Southern Africa – Rhodesia (now Zimbabwe) and South Africa, where the author was raised, completing high school at the Interracial Athénée of Usumbura (now Bujumbura), studying with European, Congolese, Hutu, Tutsi, Asian and American classmates, both in French and in English (he also went to an all-boys’ school in Salisbury, now called Harare). We then find him in the Big Apple at the age of seventeen, attending New York University, after which, he pursues his studies in German at the Collegium Platinum in Heidelberg. The subject is asked very intimate questions about his private life, with which he is faced for the first time. And he reveals facts he never thought could one day be thrust into the open. But still, he complies, candidly. Mr. Powell illustrates with excerpts of the author’s novels, poems and short stories, which are all either clearly or subconsciously related to Albert Russo’s life, as well as photos, letters and book reviews from Albert Russo’s personal archives. Mentioned are his AFRICAN QUATUOR, the collected poems in the CROWDED WORLD OF SOLITUDE, volume two, his collected stories and essays in the CROWDED WORLD OF SOLITUDE, volume one, and finally, his GOSH ZAPINETTE! series, of which David Alexander writes: “… Be warned, Zapinette’s gems of insouciant wit tend to become infectious. This wise-child’s deceptively worldly innocence takes the entire gamut of human endeavor in its compass. Hardly anyone or anything escapes unscathed. Michael Jackson,Vittorio de Sica, Freddy Mercury, Mao Zedong, Bill and Hill, the Pope, Fidel Castro, and even Jesus of Nazareth all come under Zapinette’s delightfully zany fire as she “zaps” from topic to topic in an irrepressible flux. As the century of the double zeros is with us, we have seen the future and the future is sham. As a healthy dose of counter-sham, Zapinette should be on every brain-functional person’s reading list.” After America, the subject moves to Northern Italy where he will reside nine years, then to Brussels. He spends half of his life in Paris, France, before finally settling in Tel Aviv Israel. When asked what his roots are, he replies that he is a humanist born in Africa, with his virtual roots being the languages which he speaks: English, French, Italian, Spanish, German, vernacular Swahili, as well as those he can only read: Portuguese and Dutch. He will soon add Hebrew. Those cherished languages are much more than forms of speech, they are his planet, from which he extracts much of the sap of his writing. So, don’t be shy. Get Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo. See order details HERE!

originals of letters + journals re AR 1

DO WATCH ‪”The Age of the Pearl”, extracted from my new biography “Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo”

READER COMMENTS … regarding UNDER THE SHIRTTAILS of ALBERT RUSSO:

UNDER THE SHIRTTAILS of ALBERT RUSSO ‘can perhaps be likened to skipping a small rock across a pond – creating ripples and reverberations which both reflect the greater omnipotence of the water and temporarily alter its periphery and identity.’ Such is Adam Donaldson Powell the master weaver behind the literary tapestry that is the life & times with a view into poems, novels and picture gallery of one brilliant international award-winning multilingual poet, novelist, essayist, historian and photographer – Albert Russo – a man with a claim to no country yet a citizen of many soils – in his sensitively scripted yet profoundly penetrating work unveiled as ‘an alternative biography’.

— Jeanette Skirvin

This biography crowns five decades of my father’s very prolific writing. Both my brother Alex and myself are immensely proud of our father’s literary achievement. From his very deep insights on the history of Africa, to the birth and struggles of the Israeli state, his poems and immensely entertaining short stories, humorous novels for teenagers, short stories covering the complexities of human nature, there isn’t one topic that my father hasn’t masterfully addressed in his writings.

— Tatiana Russo

We have the pleasure to see all the beauties of literature, poetry and photography of Albert Russo in Adam Donaldson Powell’s brilliant and memorable book “Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo”. Russo’s profound and well-ordered imagination helps him to create great works of literature. Russo never writes his great poems and novels according to any mechanic rule. He has perfected his writings due to “the existential qualm for which my heritage is responsible: Africa, Judaism and Italy. They exist and coexist in cycles, in a fashion so inchoate that I am never quite sure which will take the upper hand.” Powell, the immortal poet famous for his classic “Three-legged Waltz”, points out that Russo “began life as an outsider; the offspring of refugees to Africa from Nazi and fascist persecution then became an outcast via his self-proclaimed ‘gaytude’.” No doubt, this fact has provided the perfection of tone in all his creative endeavors, and this will certainly entice all readers. The true essence of Russo’s writings and photography is revealed by Powell in this unique book. Adam Donaldson Powell’s latest powerful book “Under the Shirttails of Albert Russo” is a tour de force in biography and literary criticism.

— Dr. Santosh Kumar, Editor, Cyberwit.net

​To avoid any doubts or confusion, this book by Adam Donaldson Powell is NOT just a biography of the life of Albert Russo, nor is it a synoptic overview of his massive and prolific collection of works of prose, poetry, and photography. This book is something far more than either of these literary vehicles could ever be. Through literally decades of conversations, correspondence, and collaboration between these two very talented authors/artists, Adam Powell gives us a glimpse into not only the very diverse heritage and globe-trotting life and experiences of Albert Russo, but also a glimpse into his very psyche and incredible intellect. In other words, this book lays bare for the world to see what makes Albert Russo one of the few true renaissance men of our times. Russo’s collection of works bridges gulfs of heritage, culture, philosophy, and more – often with more than a hint of his sometimes quirky and off-beat sense of humor. For anyone who has ever read and enjoyed ANY of Russo’s works, this book is a must-read to fully understand the man behind the true art of his words, ideas, and imagery.

​– J. Richard Davis, B.A., J.D.

 

Adam Donaldson Powell, author

 

 

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Review of Adam Donaldson Powell’s book “Entre Nous et Eux”, by C. Richard Mathews, USA.

Adam Donaldson Powell’s new collection of works, Entre Nous et Eux, displays his multiple talents and concerns in a series of brilliant and engaging pieces. Powell is an activist, essayist, fiction writer, visual artist, poet, who writes in four languages, though English is the predominant one in this volume and an inability to read French, Norwegian or Spanish will not detract from a reader’s understanding and appreciation of any of the pieces.

The book is divided into four sections: poetry, a novella titled “Entre Nous”, a short story titled “Death Poem” and another, longer novella called “The Stalker”. While the works deal with many themes, the overriding one for this reader was the issue of how societal and political forces affect — often adversely — an individual’s development, sometimes to the point that she or he does not or cannot understand or accept who she/he is. A major factor in this, it is suggested, is the inability of others in her/his family and in greater society to respect and accept a person’s differences (the “other”).

The book begins with Powell’s great strength: his poetry. Interestingly, in the three works of fiction poems appear as well. In both the stand-alone poetry and the fiction, poems allow Powell to focus the reader’s attention immediately on his themes and concerns. The first group of poems involves children in a presumably Western European (Parisian?) context and their shock at how the world interacts with their innocence: a child playing hopscotch confronting a pedophile, a young girl taunted because she has “two mothers”, a young hijab-wearing Muslim girl also subject to jibes, problems for a child of “color”, a presumably Muslim boy’s trauma at the hands of police after talking of ISIS, the treatment of gypsies and their plight and ostracism, the shock of exploding bombs in an unnamed war zone.

Although much of the poetry deals with “social issues” in one sense or the other, there are purely lyrical moments as well, such as the poem “Jeux d’Eau”.

At a number of points the issue of suicide is introduced: the inability of the characters to accept themselves or others’ perceptions of them. Thus, in the first novella, “Entre Nous.”, a friend of one of the main characters dies of an overdose (deliberate?) days after they’ve had sex with each other. And the beautiful short story “Death Poem”, concerning two young Japanese men, involves the presumed suicide of a father over his son’s homosexuality, and the son’s own subsequent suicide himself. As noted above, the use of poetry, and references to poetry, permeate Powell’s fiction writing and in this moving story he introduces us to a specific Japanese form of poetry relevant to the taking of one’s life.

Both novellas involve casts of characters that are followed through some years of their lives. “Entre Nous.” is presented partially in an epistolary form. The story involves the interaction of several gay friends and various sexual escapades in a number of Western cities — Paris, London, New York — that the author is obviously familiar with. As in some of the poetry, especially the collection of interlocking erotic poems “tu sais je vais….t’enculer (love letters)”, the writing about sex is explicitly detailed, a means for the author to “épater la bourgeoisie” in the mode of Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Genet and other French writers. Their cumulative effect is, ultimately, powerful and meaningful. These passages are part of his subtle analysis throughout of various types of love and physical and emotional attraction.

The second, longer novella, “The Stalker”, concerns a young woman and her lover, a transgender man who, at one point discovers that he may be “a lesbian in a man’s body” (294). The overriding theme is one of identity — despite society’s pressures, finding it or creating it and then having the flexibility to change it or allow it to modulate as circumstances and feelings may urge or dictate.

The reader should not miss the great amount of humor and wit, and pure literary pleasure, in Powell’s writing which, as in Proust, may be overlooked if one focuses merely on “the story line” or themes. Be ready for a wonderful turn-of-phrase, or the startling juxtaposition of images. For example, in “Une Lettre d’Une Prostitue…” the letter writer states, “J’aimerais parfois me mettre dans le peau de quelqun d’autre…” Or, “mots doux et traitres a la fois…” (37). Or: “lips part revealing your lizard tongue” (63). Or: “blood-red sugary tension of domestic rape” (55). Or: “the relentless fantasy is more than the sum of reality’s individual parts”. (78)

Especially delightful are the “echoes” one finds between different parts of the works through the use of literary devices similar to Wagner’s leitmotifs. Thus, there is a reference early in “Entre Nous.” to Donald O’Connor and Marilyn Monroe singing “a man chases a girl (until she catches him)” and then much later the reader comes upon a scene of Karol/Mariusz showing his poetry to a closeted priest in which he has written “I delight in chasing straight boys until they catch me” (172).

It should be noted that in both his poetry and fiction Powell’s writing style is clear and precise without being pedestrian or boring. It is a style that is able to draw in and engage the reader quietly and without showiness, leaving one with a sense of pleasure, even when the subjects at hand are very serious ones.

Powell’s book is highly recommended for its many pure literary pleasures but also for its profound insights into aspects of modern life that are often obfuscated or ignored by other writers and media in our contemporary world oversaturated with often meaningless written and visual distractions.

C. Richard Mathews
New York-based art historian, writer and attorney

Recension du recueil ‘Entre Nous et Eux’ de Adam Donaldson Powell,

Le nouveau recueil de Adam Donaldson Powell intitulé Entre Nous et Eux reflète les talents multiples de l’auteur et comprend une série de textes aussi brillants que jubilatoires. Powell, l’activiste, est à la fois écrivain, poète, essayiste, peintre et photographe.  En outre, il écrit en anglais, sa langue maternelle, mais également en français, en norvégien et en espagnol.  Le lecteur découvrira dans ce volume des textes dans ces quatre langues, ce qui, dans notre monde hyper-connecté est encore une rareté, mais en même temps une grande richesse.

Ce volume est divisé en quatre parties: Poésie, une nouvelle intitulée “Death Poem”, et deux courts romans portant les titres suivants: “Entre Nous” et “The Stalker”.

Alors que ces textes évoquent de nombreux thèmes, le fil conducteur est celui des effets de la société et de la politique sur le développement de l’individu, au point où celui-ci ne comprend plus ou n’accepte tout simplement pas qui il est ou ce qu’il risque de devenir.  L’auteur suggère que les autres, c’est-à-dire, sa famille ou la société dans laquelle il évolue, est inapte à respecter, voire à accepter sa différence.

Le livre a pour prémices la poésie de Powell, poésie dans laquelle il excelle. Ses textes de fiction sont eux aussi parsemés de poèmes, plus ou moins longs. Les premiers poèmes traitent de l’enfance ayant pour cadre une capitale européenne, qui pourrait être Paris.  Et des conséquences, insidieuses ou cruelles, que le monde alentour peut avoir sur eux. Voyez cette gosse jouant à la marelle et qui s’éloigne précautionneusement d’un pédophile, cette autre que l’on moque parce qu’elle a ‘deux mères’, ou cette jeune musulmane malmenée à cause du hijab qu’elle porte. Que dire aussi de ce garçon basané que la police menotte dès qu’il prononce le mot Daesch, du traitement odieux que subissent les gitans, de leur ostracisme. L’auteur évoque également le choc que produisent les bombes explosant dans des zones de guerre.

Tandis que nombreux sont les poèmes traitant de problèmes de société, ils possèdent tous cette touche lyrique si propre à Powell. ‘Jeux d’Eau’ en est un parfait exemple.

La problématique du suicide apparaît ci et là: certains personnages ont du mal à s’accepter, d’autant plus lorsque leur entourage les rejette.

Ainsi, dans le premier roman, ‘Entre Nous’, l’ami de l’un des protagonistes meurt à la suite d’une overdose (peut-être délibérément), quelques jours après que les deux ont fait l’amour ensemble.

Dans la magnifique nouvelle ‘Death Poem’, qui met en scène deux jeunes hommes japonais, le père de l’un d’eux se suicide, apparemment à cause de l’homosexualité de son fils, lequel à son tour met fin à ses jours. Que ce soit dans ses textes de fiction ou dans sa poésie, Powell évoque le suicide en utilisant des éléments particuliers de la poésie japonaise. Y percevrait-on l’ombre de Mishima ?

Les deux romans mettent en scène des protagonistes sur des tranches de vie. ‘Entre Nous’ est raconté en partie sous forme épistolaire. On y parle d’amis gays, de leur interaction, de leurs expériences sexuelles vécues dans certaines grandes villes occidentales, telles que Paris, Londres ou New York, villes que l’auteur connaît bien. Powell, n’ayant pas froid aux yeux, n’hésite pas à écrire des ‘lettres d’amour’ contenant des mots crus, comme par exemple: “tu sais je vais….t’enculer”. Et cela pour ‘épater la galerie’, à l’instar de Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine – qui, à l’époque écrivaient sous des pseudonymes -, Genet, ainsi que d’autres écrivains français. Mais là, il ne s’agit pas uniquement de subterfuges, ces vers érotiques, voire pornographiques, participent de l’analyse subtile de ce qui constitue l’amour pluriel, qu’il s’agisse de la simple attraction physique et/ou des émotions qui peuvent en découler.

Le second roman, ‘The Stalker’, qui est plus long que l’autre, est l’histoire d’une jeune femme et de son amant, un homme trans-genre, qui se demande s’il peut être “une lesbienne dans le corps d’un homme”. Le thème principal ici est celui de l’identité qui, envers et contre tout, tente de s’affirmer et de trouver un équilibre.

Malgré la gravité des sujets abordés, le lecteur pourra apprécier, tout au long du volume, la veine humoristique et spirituelle de l’auteur, à l’instar d’un Proust qui se ‘moque’ gentiment de certains de ses personnages. Powell joue avec les mots et s’amuse à juxtaposer des images, comme dans ‘La lettre d’une prostituée’, où l’auteur écrit: “J’aimerais parfois me mettre dans la peau de quelqu’un d’autre…”, ou encore, “mots doux et traitres à la fois…”. D’autres  exemples me viennent à l’esprit, tels que “lips part revealing your lizard tongue” , ”blood-red sugary tension of domestic rape”, ou encore, ”the relentless fantasy is more than the sum of reality’s individual parts”.

L’on trouve des passages particulièrement jouissifs tout au long de cette oeuvre si singulière, rappelant les leitmotifs de Wagner. L’un des personnages écoute un ancien vinyle de Donald O’Connor et de Marilyn Monroe chantant “a man chases a girl (until she catches him)”. Plus loin, il y a une scène dans laquelle Karol/Mariusz montre l’un de ses poèmes à un prêtre, où il écrit: “I delight in chasing straight boys until they catch me”.

Dans ce livre, qu’il s’agisse de poésie ou de prose, le style est clair, précis, et à la fois engageant, sans jamais être pompeux, même lorsque l’auteur traite de sujets graves.

Cette oeuvre mérite d’être lue pour diverses raisons. D’abord pour la belle phrase, un plaisir purement littéraire, ensuite parce que Powell aborde ici des thèmes de notre société contemporaine qui souvent sont, soit ignorés par d’autres écrivains et les média, soit négligés en raison de la quantité phénoménale de distractions vaines, aussi bien pseudo-littéraires que visuelles, que l’on nous bombarde quotidiennement.

C. Richard Mathews, historien de l’art, écrivain et avocat new yorkais

ORDER “ENTRE NOUS ET EUX” (PAPERBACK & EBOOK) HERE!


ebookcover

 

ZDENKA’S SUICIDE NOTE … (Zdenkas selvmordsbrev)

ZDENKAS SELVMORDSBREV.

TAKK FOR MEG …

Jeg ble født her på Jorden i august 1962, og jeg har alltid ønsket å vende tilbake til den evige Kilden – i hvert fall så lenge som jeg kan huske. Det er mulig at jeg aldri burde inkarnert på Jorden på dette tidspunkt. Jeg har gått fra det å være en naiv person som forsøkte alltid å tro på det beste potensialet i andre mennesker – uansett hvor mye de såret meg eller andre; fra det å prøve å være en “engel” og rettighetsforkjemper på Jorden overfor mange som lider på grunn av at de ikke passer inn i samfunnets bilder av “fine, gode og lykkelige” mennesketyper; og fra det å uttrykke gjennom mine kunstneriske arbeider mitt syn på menneskehetens helhet til å være en liten del av Gud som er utslitt og som har sluttet å skinne. Jeg har nå innset at jeg er kun et menneske … uansett hva jeg eller andre trenger å tro av ulike grunner – og at jeg også trenger en viss livskvalitet for at livet skal ha verdi I den daglige tilværelse.

Jeg har alltid sagt at jeg ikke er redd for å dø, men heller for å leve et liv uten mening og livskvalitet. Jeg har også sagt at jeg tror gjerne at jeg vil eventuelt dø av mine egne nevroser. Tiden har nå kommet. Mine avtalte oppdrag i denne inkarnasjon er ferdige, og jeg har bestemt meg for ikke å ta på meg flere i denne omgang. Jeg skulle kanskje gjerne vært med og stått i frontlinjen helt frem til 2012 og senere, men jeg velger å avslutte turen ved å følge Dere til døren. Nå er det opp til hver enkelt å bestemme om han/hun vil gå inn i den høyere dimensjonen, eller ikke. Jeg er ikke lei av mitt åndelige arbeide, men veldig sliten av det å leve i et verdenssamfunn hvor bade “Gud” og egen identitet karakteriseres av grådighet, selv-opptatthet, manglende medfølelse, penger, makt og separasjonsbilder (dvs. troen på det at mennesker er separate enheter uten sterke tilknytninger til hverandre, plante- og dyrearter, miljøet osv.); hvor mennesker ikke vil forstå og akseptere at vi er alle sammen Gud – at vi alle sammen utgjør “guddommelighet” her på Jorden, og har dermed et stort personlig og felles ansvar med hensyn til det vi skaper og de virkeligheter vi opprettholder gjennom våre tanker, ord og handlinger. Det er blitt veldig vanskelig for meg å se hvor lett det hadde vært for Jordens innbyggere å snu på den utviklingen vi har skapt og som vi skaper for oss selv og våre etterkommere hvert minutt, og samtidig oppleve den store motstanden som stadig hever grensene med hensyn til bade kynisismen og vanskelighetsgraden til den åndelige oppgaven. Motstanden skyldes ikke bare de firkantede og uhensiktsmessige politiske, sosiale, økonomiske og religiøse systemer vi har skapt og institusjonalisert over hele Jorden, men kanskje mest det store antallet individer og grupper som opprettholder tankeganger, ord og handlingsmåter som vi vet at vi selv ikke ønsker å matte oppleve; men så lenge vi har det bra nok selv i øyeblikket (med hensyn til helse, til personlig og materialistisk trygghet og frihet) så ofrer vi ikke noe for å stå sammen imot det vi vet innerst inne er urettferdig og destruktiv. Enkelte stemmer har begrenset innvirkning – de blir forbipassende og best husket i historiebøker; men en “samlet stemme” kan bevege bade mennesker og tankemåter. Jeg skulle ønske at vi var flere på dette viktige tidspunkt i Jordens historie. Det kommer flere nye hver dag, men til og med to menneskår til blir for mange for meg nå. Jeg vet hva og hvem som venter på andre siden av sløret … og jeg har hatt hjemlengsel siden jeg ble født.

Jeg forlater dere her på Jorden, men ikke i den åndelige og virkelige helheten. Jeg håper at noe av det jeg har tenkt, sagt, skrevet, kjempet for og gjort har inspirert eller kommer til å inspirere noen andre til å gjøre en ekstra innsats for menneskeheten; og jeg håper at de som har vært såret av meg eller som har såret meg forstår at vi var alle mennesker og en del av det samme guddommelige uttrykket. Ingen er perfekte, og ingen kan bli det heller … det finnes ingen absolutt sannhet – men vi er her for å oppleve, for å lære av våre erfaringer og (forhåpentligvis) for å legge igjen noe positivt og verdensutviklende i den tiden vi er her på Jorden. Jeg håper at jeg har gjort det for mange … jeg har i hvert fall gjort det jeg har kunnet og frykter ingen fordømmelser I denne verden eller den virkeligheten jeg har nå valgt å gå mot.

Takk og farvel fra en som kanskje aldri var ment for denne planet, men som ble faktisk her mye lengre enn antatt.

Zdenka Christensen

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

(English translation)

THAT IS IT FOR ME …

I was born here on the Earth in August 1962, and I have always desired to return to the eternal Source — at least ever since I can remember. It is possible that I never should have incarnated on the Earth at this juncture in time. I have gone from being a naive person who always attempted to believe in the best potential in other people — regardless of how much they hurt me or others; from trying to be an “angel” and one who fights for the rights of others on Earth who suffer because they do not fit in with society’s vision of “upstanding, good and successful” people types; and from expressing through my artistic works my perceptions regarding the totality and holistic elements of humanity … to being a small bit of God that is exhausted and which has stopped shining. I have now admitted to myself that I am but a human … no matter what I or others need to believe for any reasons — and that I also need a certain amount of life quality in order for life to have value in everyday existence.

I have always said that I am not afraid to die, but rather afraid to have to live a life without meaning and life quality. I have also said that I really believe that I will eventually die of my own neuroses. That time has come. My agreed upon assignments in this incarnation are finished, and I have decided not to take on any more this time around. I would have loved to stick around and retained my place in the front lines all the way to 2012 and beyond, but I choose to end this journey by following you to the door. Now it is up to each and every person to decide if he/she will go into the higher dimension, or not. I am not tired of my spiritual work, but I am very tired of living in a world community where both “God” and one’s own personal identity are characterized by greed, self-involvement, lack of empathy for others, money, power and pictures of separation (i.e. the belief that humans are separate entities without strong connections to one another, plants and animal species, the environment etc.); where humans will not understand and accept that we are all God — that we all comprise “godliness” here on Earth, and therefore have a huge personal and joint responsibility with regard to that which we create and the realities we maintain through our thoughts, words and actions. It has become very difficult for me to see how easy it would have been for Earth’s inhabitants to reverse the developments we have created and which we each minute create for ourselves and for those who come after us, and at the same time to experience the enormous resistance that continuously increases both our tolerance levels for cynicism and also the degrees of difficulty associated with the spiritual tasks. This resistance is caused not only by inflexible and inexpedient political, social, economic and religious systems that we have created and institutionalized all over the Earth, but perhaps mostly by the large numbers of individuals and groups that maintain through processes, speech and behavior patterns that which we know that we do not want to experience ourselves; but as long as we ourselves have it well enough in the moment (with regard to health, personal and materialistic well-being and freedom) then we do not do anything to stand together against that which we know (deep within ourselves) is unjust and destructive. Some voices have limited effect upon others — they are rather like passing images and are best remembered in history books; but a “unified voice” can move and change both humankind and ways of thinking. I wish that we were several more doing this work at this point in the history of the Earth. More and more like-minded persons are coming each day, but even two human years more would be too many for me now. I know what and whom are awaiting me on the other side of the veil … and I have been homesick since birth.

I leave you here on the Earth, but not in the spiritual and the real totality. I hope that something of that which I have thought, said, written, fought for and done has inspired or will eventually inspire someone to make an effort on behalf of humanity; and I hope that those who have hurt me or whom I have hurt understand that we were all just humans and a part of the same godly expression. No one is perfect, and no one can be so either … there is no absolute truth — but we are here in order to experience, to learn from our adventures and (hopefully) to leave behind something that is positive and developmental for the world in the short time that we are on the Earth. I hope that I have done so for many … I have at least done that which I was capable of and I have no fear of condemnation in this world or in the reality that I have now chosen to move on to.

Thank you and adieu from one who perhaps never was meant for this planet, but who in fact stuck around much longer than anticipated.

Zdenka Christensen
(from my book “The tunnel at the end of time”)

(Image by Adam Donaldson Powell)

LETTRE A SON TRAVAILLEUR SOCIAL.

LETTRE D’UNE PROSTITUÉE À LA RETRAITE À SON TRAVAILLEUR SOCIAL

Chère Madame Defarge,

Je me suis bien acclimatée à mon nouvel appartement de banlieue. J’ai été à la recherche de travail, ce qui est difficile … mais je reste optimiste car j’ai déjà travaillé dans les magasins (avant d’avoir abusé de mes cartes de crédit et de recourir à la prostitution). En attendant, je suis reconnaissant pour l’aide financière que votre bureau m’accorde.

J’évite de passer pour une prostituée, de peur d’être refoulée dans la vie quotidienne. Ici, tous les autres hommes que je vois dans la rue ou dans un café ressemblent à des proxénètes potentiels. Bien que j’essaie de m’habiller de façon conservatrice – a mes yeux, du moins – Je sens le regard des hommes, des femmes au foyer et Des vieilles mémés me scruter lorsque je les croise dans la rue. Celle-ci (les femmes) ont toujours un regard acide … celui qui trahit l’envie et la méfiance.

Ce n’est pas comme à Paris, où de nombreuses femmes se sentent libres de se comporter comme elles veulent, certaines faisant les salopes, mettant les machos et les féministes extrêmes à leur place. Ici, les hommes se permettent de lancer des propos salaces dans la rue. Et les femmes n’en font même pas un cas, tournant la tête pour me suivre des yeux. Je sens leurs regards brûlants derrière moi longtemps après les avoir dépassées.

Pas plus tard qu’hier, j’ai été approchée par un homme dans la mi-trentaine, alors que je marchais près d’un café non loin de mon appartement. De la façon dont il s’habillait, et dont il s’est approché de moi, je sentais qu’il était soit de la ville ou qu’il était de passage. Je tremblai un instant, et me mit à marcher plus vite, alors qu’il prétendait que nous nous étions rencontrés auparavant. Je l’ai détrompé, lui assurant que je ne l’avais jamais vu auparavant. Il a ensuite répondu, avec un éclair dans les yeux, qu’il pouvait se tromper, mais que j’avais l’air familier … qu’il m’aurait vu ailleurs. J’ai haussé les épaules et lui ai dit que je n’avais pas le temps de bavarder, et que je n’étais pas du tout intéressée par les hommes. (Plus tard, j’ai regretté ce mensonge car on aurait pu me croire lesbienne, et cela m’aurait certainement cause des ennuis, surtout ici où l’on n’ose pas vivre ses fantasmes.) J’ai poursuivi ma marche à grands pas, et, jetant des coups d’oeil furtifs en arrière, je mes suis aperçue que l’homme ne m’avait pas quitter des yeux.

Je voudrais que les gens cessent de poursuivre les paranoïaques que nous sommes. J’aimerais parfois me mettre dans la peau de quelqu’un d’autre. C’est alors que vos sages paroles me reviennent à l’esprit: “Agissez selon votre conscience, et surtout, n’écoutez pas les imbéciles!”

Cordialement,
Amélie


(Image: “The Devil comes at nighttime”, oil painting by Adam Donaldson Powell)

LETTER TO BERTRAND: THIS CRAZY VISION OF MINE.

 

 

Adamfebruary2015

 

 

Dear Bertrand,

I had an interesting experience last night that has affected me immensely. I had been on a date … way out in Queens – in Rockaway to be precise. Do not even ask me how that came about but as you can imagine, the late long ride back into Manhattan was almost surreal. I started out on the night-time Rockaway Park Shuttle at an “ungodly hour” (it must have been close to three a.m. when I boarded the train); again – do not ask me why I decided to return back to the City in the middle of the night. I had my reasons …

Anyway, just when I thought that my life could not become any more bizarre, I looked up to see a Puerto Rican man of about thirty years walking through the train, dance-walking from car to car … and he was laughing and speaking calmly, but rather loudly. There were not many passengers on the train at that late hour but those of us that were riding the metro either wanted to sleep or were hoping to find safety in the relative peace and quiet that accompanied the seeming eternity between each station before we reached the neighborhoods bordering Manhattan. The guy did not look particularly dangerous in his appearance or body language but he had a way of getting under the skin, all the same. You see, he was a self-proclaimed “doomsday prophet” (aren’t they all self-proclaimed?), and he took it upon himself to inform us that that particular train was not – in fact – going to Manhattan, but was going “straight to Hell!” (It was spooky … like a train ride to an extermination camp.)

Yes Bertrand, it was a most eerie experience, if not uncomfortable. Several passengers fled the car to escape his ranting, retreating in the direction that he had come from. Others, who had planned on getting off at the next station, seemed to run out of the car and scatter like cockroaches when the doors finally opened. Upon seeing this, he merely laughed and continued his trek to the next car on the Metro train.

It put me on edge, even though I could see the humor in the situation. Here I was: concerned about possible gangs or muggers, and the impossibility of escape in the event of trouble; and a decently dressed “doomsday prophet” managed to freak me out with his talk about the eternal train ride ending in Hell. It was – strangely enough – reminiscent of Sartre’s “No Exit”, I guess. The “Hell” was the eternity of the train ride itself. And the “social dissident” of a prophet was the Messenger of the Devil himself.

Anyway, I was dog-tired by the time I got back to my flat on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, but I was – at the same time – all too “wired” to get undressed, shower and make up the bed so I could crawl under the covers and sleep in late on Sunday. (I had stripped the linen from the bed before I left for Queens, and did not have time to make it up again as I was running late. That did not seem to be a problem since I had planned on sleeping over in Rockaway, but well … we know that did not work out.) So, I put on the tv, made myself a scotch and water and stretched out on the sofa … thinking about my date. What happened next is unclear. I mean – I know that I passed out on the sofa, but I do not know how much really happened and how much was possibly a dream, or a vision after returning from the train ride from Hell.

Anyway, here is my account of this crazy vision of mine – at least what I think I remember:

I lie on the sofa — half-asleep in a wet dream,
 my body lubricated with sweat and the room pungent with the imagined scent of 
dripping man-cunt and semen.
The ringing of the telephone disrupts my fisted dance with an impudence that only can be described 
in four- or five-letter words, and a disturbing 
feeling comes over me — somehow 
I know that something is amiss – 
this crazy vision of mine offers no humane release; there is no humanity 
anymore — only the immorality of so-called ‘morality’ and idleness.
They say that idleness is the work of 
the Devil, yet society binds us to television and global propaganda 
ranging from politics to advertising:
 a sadomasochistic mind control.
 Big Brother is not watching us –
 we have become Him willingly, 
embracing uniformity and ratting out suspected dissidents — be they
 enemy or friend, neighbor or mother. 
I pick up the receiver and before I manage to grunt ‘hallo’ I hear a husky breathing sound –
 not quite panting, but a relentless deep-seated 
emanation evolving from 
the caller’s spleen.
 After two minutes of mutual
 breathing into the receivers, 
I excuse myself to go get a cigarette, and we continue our duet — my caller singing
 the baseline while I willingly
 exhale the melody. 
When my suitor abruptly hangs up the telephone 
I fall back onto the sofa, finally spent — and immediately depressed.
 I cannot get the experience 
out of my mind. It is forever embedded in my libido … and I will never again be the same.

Your friend,
William

(The preceding text is in part an extract from my novel “Entre Nous”.)

Satirical fictional letter to Jacques Brel

Cher Jacques,

Félicitations ! Ta chanson ” Ne me quitte pas ” est devenue un succès énorme. Tu fais sentir ta douleur … en utilisant la veine ensorcellante de Maurice Ravel, comme dans son ” Boléro “, où tu gardes le même refrain et le même ton calme, mais la colère en plus, dans tes mots. Et tu te protèges d’une manière si poignante en me demandant à plusieurs reprises de ne pas te quitter, à en devenir fou de rage. Ta chanson nous ravit, mais en même temps, elle a plongé le poignard dans le coeur de notre conte de fées. Si seulement tu n’étais pas si lâche. Pourquoi n’as-tu pas pu exprimé tes craintes et tes émotions dans la vie réelle, au lieu de me faire passer pour un citoyen banal? Comme ta stupide maîtresse, qui a voulu exploiter ta gloire et ta réputation ? Tu sais que je ne me suis jamais soucié de telles choses. Je t’ai simplement aimé. Et toi, tu … tu as seulement été amoureux du romantisme, du simple fait ” d’être amoureux “. L’annonce de notre ” enfant d’amour ” s’est avérée trop pesante pour toi. J’ai aussi eu peur. Mais tu étais un enfant, jouant à être un homme. Ma fierté ne m’a pas permis de porter les ombres que tu décrivais dans ta chanson. Et comment oses-tu inclure mon chien adoré dans ta chanson pitoyable…? ” Laisse-moi devenir l’ombre de ton ombre, l’ombre de ta main et l’ombre de ton chien. ”

Tu exprimes ta colère et ta confusion tout en me priant de ne pas te quitter. La vérité est que tu n’étais jamais complètement là dans notre relation d’amour. J’étais un jouet pour toi, un joyau à chérir dans le secret … mais tu ne m’as jamais vraiment aimée comme un homme devrait aimer une femme. Je sais que je dois te sembler amère. En vérité, je ne le suis pas. Je me sens finalement libre de devenir la femme que je suis … libérée de cet homme immature qui me détruisait avec ses émotions toujours changeantes et extrêmes. Tant d’apitoiement sur soi-même, tant de colère et d’indifférence soudaine ! Non, notre ” enfant d’amour ” n’a aucune réalité et il n’existera jamais. J’aime ma chambre sans berceau. Pourquoi n’écrirais-tu pas une nouvelle chanson, Jacques ? ” la chanson des vieux amants … “?

Ne me quitte pas …
ne me quitte pas …
ne me quitte pas …
ne me quitte pas …
Assez !

Je ne t’ai jamais quitté … parce que je ne t’ai jamais eu.

Entendons-nous : tu ne me parles pas – et je ne te parle pas. C’est mieux comme ça. Tu peux maintenant écrire toutes les chansons que tu veux de notre amour perdu et devenir ainsi encore plus riche et plus célèbre.

Et je me contenterai d’épouser le plombier ou le charpentier.

Je pourrai alors chérir mes enfants, des enfants conçus avec amour.

J’aurais d’utiliser ce subjonctif que tu aimais tant, je regrette de ne pas y avoir pensé plus tôt!

Penses-y,
Zizou

(from my novel “The Stalker: tale of a French Bitch”)

TWO OF A KIND: Fictional letter from Pinochet to Franco.

TWO OF A KIND: FICTIONAL LETTER FROM PINOCHET TO FRANCO.

Francisco — mi Mentor querido,

Pienso en usted a menudo … incluso ahora. Usted es, y usted siempre será, mi Mentor. Somos tan parecidos, usted y yo – ambos hombres de conciencia que condujo nuestros países a hacerse sociedades fuertes con economías modernas. No es siempre fácil conducir aquellos que rechazan ser conducidos … que deciden permanecer en la ignorancia. Ellos a veces deben ser eliminados para el bien de muchos. Es para eso que los militares y las fuerzas de seguridad son: mantener ” la verdadera democracia “.

Una de las grandes decepciones de mi vida era también uno de mis momentos más orgullosos. Era triste de ver que yo fui el único jefe de estado extranjero a asistir en su entierro. Al menos Ferdinand Marcos envió a su esposa Imelda en su lugar. Pero esto era un momento orgulloso para mí : estar solo ante el mundo en la conmemoración de uno de los mayores líderes de la historia … mi Mentor.

Somos tanto Católico, como por lo tanto somos concedidos con la gracia de Dios. Pueda la memoria de la historia de usted nunca morir. Un día seremos ambos reconocidos por nuestra grandeza y nuestro amor supremo y compasión por nuestra gente.

Hasta entonces, mi amigo querido, descanse en paz y le uniré sobre “el otro lado del tiempo” bastante pronto.

Pensando en tí,
A. Pinochet

(Text and photo by Adam Donaldson Powell.)

Fictional letter to David Icke.

 

deathDear D.

I recently read an anonymous quote on the internet about the origins of French kissing, and I suddenly found myself wondering what you would have said about it. Here is the quote:

“The kiss originated when the first male reptile licked the first female reptile, implying in a subtle, complimentary way that she was as succulent as the small reptile he had for dinner the night before. — Anonymous”

Well D., this reminds me of the Reptoid at the sex bar the other night that tried to force his tongue deep down my throat with darting plunges, and then started to lick me sloppily all over my face … literally preparing to devour me. I broke away and split before he started shape-shifting.

I am totally with you on the Reptilian stance, bro! They are EVERYWHERE!!!

Best regards and solidarity,

J.P.

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