banana bread

this blog is dead. have you heard? it's because i'm too busy and too lazy to upload photos one by one and that's the only way that blogspot lets me do it. I have way too many pics and not enough time.
add me on http://www.myspace.com/moonocnhelena or facebook (Helena Goznikar) if you wish to see more of my life (& travels - which equal my life).
see you there, hopefully :)
kiss, kiss, love, love and all that stuff. ahh..

normandie

(the world's most magical weather. once and never again. not PS color manipulation. this is how it was. shock and color. the sky and the field and the windmill. the low-setting sun and the mad rains coming.)

Oh Normandy!

I saw your steppen grass somewhere before, in my dreams of polaroids and desaturated colors. I blinked through the rain and the fog to see it as we arrived in the rattling white van. I kept my feet on the dashboard as Marc talked about his family. I promised to return to the moist land of northern winds with a sleeping bag and a tent until the melancholy washes over me.

crackle. fish.

why not get up and do something useful? or why not write a new blog post for the 20 or so people that visit this blog every day at least? why not write whatever i please really because it's just 20 people anyway and no idea or image to uphold so i should be able to write about any random thing that i please, right? but i have a journal as it is, one with recycled paper pages to pour my guts out on and this new one that i'm beginning has birds on it and birds are all my love. even when flipping through a 30 pound library book of collected polaroids it's the one with a hand and a couple of seagulls in flight that stopped my flipping hand and my breath.
why don't i get out of my pyjamas and why do i never have my paints and brushes exactly where i need them? i'm very good at this self-sabotage thing and sometimes i even do it on purpose. like today, for instance.

bright

it was Paris. it was the spelling of the city that makes everyone thinkromance and magic and Christmas lights on Champs-Elysees. but none for me because I was there in the summer when I was still able to stick my head out of the open window of Marc's stickered up tour van and think loud thoughts as we drove around the city at night.
I recognized him by his black inked hardcore/rock star arm as he waited for me on the train platform for my train - from Marseille to Paris - to stop its huffing puff. He has tattoos and anarchist philosophies, but there is a cello that rests its smooth curvaceous body in his apartment (the instrument that sounds like elements of heaven, and a little dream came true when he let me play it) It is the classical guitar thathe followed notes to in the years of study at the conservatory and he played those in the evenings, under the red fabric of his curtains in Caen. Tried to make me sing as we attempted to write a song together. But I'm still too shy to let my voice out so I shuffled his vinyl records instead. Bjork and Olafur and Efterklang.
It was all titled 'business' upon coming (he found my images online and I travelled to do photography for his solo album thing) and 'friendship' upon leaving.

But Paris was two-fold. I came and left to come back again later.
Dinner on Montmartre and my hands in the night air left the city alone to its dirt and its millions. Only to return to a friend of a friend that I had yet to meet - it was Marc's bandmate Mederic and his girlfriend who gave me a corner in their tiniest apartment on a shadowy street. 10 square meters of space and 10 people with greeting kisses and French laughter mixed with dark wine in the social evening. I love those kind of people and I love those kind of lives that keep their doors open and their floor free always for everyone...I want to do the same, but lives here are quieter and more tightly shut.
I'll never know who that tall blonde figure of a boy was that swaped places with me in the morning, hugging the bed and the sleeping bag as I packed up my Nietzsche and my backpack to walk out into my last day in the city carrying my thoughts and my images on my shoulders.


...

...

summer dreaming

I attempted to make a dream come true when I proposed to take a trip for my father's birthday. One with the engine of a big RV humming. He has been talking of such travels ever since I can remember and he never did it.
And so we did.

Through France, Cote d'Azur and the southern lavender fields.


San Remo -> Monaco


-> Nice




-> Cannes -> Aix-en-Provence



-> Cassis


Short on holiday time they made a circular motion to return home

but first they dropped me off in Marseille
where I boarded a train
heading north...

an apple and a fir tree

ho ho ho

merry eve everybody!

i hope you find something good and substantial somewhere, on pillows or underneath fir trees.

i hope wherever you are that your christmas is snowy.

love,

syrupy

Blog post deleted.

Reason: it was boring.




...Does it now being a forever lost secret make you want to read it?

space.

new rooms

It took me months to publish that (Latvia), but I promise that the first batch of French images is coming this week,
and my American life will follow shortly.