Recent writings from Eva Karczag, Arnheim, Holland
“Here is some of the writing I've been doing recently. All of it comes out of moving. Most of them were written during sessions of moving and writing with visual artist, Chris Crickmay.” ---- Eva Karczag
At her touch, the door swings open, surprisingly smooth, revealing the dark interior of a room of many colors. Stepping over the sill, she enters a world of fragrant aromas. What lies beyond the borders of the imagination? Doorways opening into a space of dreams and memories.
She places her feet one in front of the other, endlessly. But today, she determines that this will not be the way forward. Instead, she slips into thoughts of other days and other times, and fuels her quickening with weighted limbs that stay her hurry and envelop her in promised secrets. Her heart's desire sits in her left shoulder. A little cold, a little chilled, she wraps herself in warm wool. Drooling like a child, she remembers small details, and only occasionally slips into judgment, never allowing immobility to hold her down or shift her off course for too long.
Focusing the mind is not so easy, especially when time is short, like now. Thoughts threaten to engulf the body unless care is taken to sidestep the pull of future planning and present doubts, and the magnetism of the recent past.
Seaweed waves its fronds in rough oceans where mind swirls with activity intensified by longing. She does algebra with speed of lightning, never once insinuating her genius, while saltwater washes into and out of her gaping mouth and wraps her soaked skirt tight around her hips. She rushes past flying fish and dangles long fingers behind her in an effort to remain abreast, but what sorcery and witchcraft allows dandelions to shed their yellow petals if spring delays its coming this year? What's next?
Marshes hold mysteries. When earth breathes and sucks, suckling pigs and blankets of soft snow. The uprightness of forests and men who stand up for truth and loyalty. While nose-to-nose we lie under quilts as soft and light as a thousand feathers tossed by winter winds, I watch the whites of your eyes melt as the shadow of night fills the room. We breathe, I sink, yet stand straight. The owl hoots and night birds flit noiselessly until the moth hovers above three trembling stalks and finally lands.
She sighs with forceful tones forgetting past and future. She sinks into this elemental space of never-ending na na no no so soft it dissolves on the tongue like snowflakes tasted after a lover's kiss, still hot and heating desire. The center of the cyclone is a still point of ecstasy. She goes there, stumbles not even for a moment, flicks nothing off her fingertips, and gasps at the miracle of life.
© 2007 Eva Karczag
(Editor’s note: See interview with Eva Karczag in the final Moving Journal, Vol.13, #2, 2006.)