From Patrizia Tictac, Germany and Serse Luigeti, Italy
artistamps and postcard inspired by the Mona Lisa, Ray Johnson and Cavellini

VISPO face A and B

From Patrizia Tictac, Germany

CROW HAIKU

From Jessica Siemens, Canada

around a Haiku by BASHO

On a withered branch
a crow has settled
nightfall in autumn

Trees speak tree like children speak child

Woodcut prints fom Emilio Carrasco that I linked with a poem on TREES by Jacques Prévert (from his collection Histories)

LES ARBRES PARLENT ARBRE
COMME LES ENFANTS PARLENT ENFANT

QUAND UN ENFANT DE FEMME ET D’HOMME
ADRESSE LA PAROLE A UN ARBRE
L’ARBRE REPOND
L’ENFANT L’ENTEND
PLUS TARD L’ENFANT
PARLE ARBORICULTURE
AVEC SES MAITRES ET SES PARENTS
IL N’ENTEND PLUS LA VOIX DES ARBRES
IL N’ENTEND PLUS LEUR CHANSON DANS LE VENT

Poetry on a barn in Zonnebeke

From Jan Theuninck, Belgium

(poem against world war 1)

Artist book on MUSIC

From Sue Hobbs, South Africa

Decomposing haikus

A LAST DREAM?

(haikus in ontbinding)

Beelden in het park

verweren zoet de droefheid

van vluchtige tijd.

Een lekkende kraan

opent de gesloten deur.

De schreeuw sluit zich niet.

Bloed op het kussen.

Ik heb slecht gedroomd vannacht.

Onvindbaar, het blauw.

Gebarsten spiegels

dollen met mijn verbeelding,

tergen het oogwit.

Ik zie wat ik niet zie.

Ik zie niet wat ik zie.

Hoe ondergesneeuwd het zicht verdwijnt.

Hoe naakt en koud de dood wel is.

Hoe slank de benen van het prille groen.

Hoe geel de spijt van de allerlaatste kus.

Ik proef nog eenmaal hoe

aangespoeld zeewier smaakt

samen met verlaten steen.

Guido Vermeulen, mei 2012

GOTIJ GOAT CHEESE

Cheryl Penn has a project on invented words and what they could mean, always fun.
Words like ZALOP or GOTIJ.
The Gotij goat cheese sticker was made by Lesley Magwood Fraser, scanned object collage by Guido Vermeulen

GUTAI

GUTAI was like the Japanese branch of Fluxus. Shozo Shimamoto was a prominent member who followed Ray Johnson in expanding Fluxus to mail art correspondences and networking

On Ikkyu

From Theresa Williams, USA

HOPE IS THAT THING WITH FEATHERS THAT PERCHES IN THE SOUL, stage 1

New large painting around a poem fragment
by Emily Dickinson,
made with ink and acryl paint on handmade
reconstructed paper
Mailed to Lesley Magwood Fraser in South Africa

HOPE IS THAT THING WITH FEATHERS THAT PERCHES IN THE SOUL, stage 2

HOPE IS THAT THING WITH FEATHERS THAT PERCHES IN THE SOUL, stage 3

I continue to remember certain dreams

DREAM FRAGMENTATION IN NUMBERS.

On a wall someone has painted I, then a red heart, and beyond that MY BROTHOU.

The artist invites passengers to paint their own messages.

So with a brush and yellow paint I write on the wall I LOVE CHICKEN SOUP.

Excellent, the artist comments and he adds,you should go to Africa to avoid you will die as a stupid white male.

Are you Rosie Winterspoon, I ask him. The name popped just in my head.

No, I am Debora Lakecarer, is his answer.

Okay, thanks Debbie.

Give Rose a kiss from me.

So in the park I kiss a rose and starts bleeding.

463 my blood cells tell me, count to 463 and then you will be in Africa.

I am in a country where people speak Douala.

MUSANGO is the name of my favorite fish in Douala and means peace.

Once I made a painting of the fish Musango for Adamandia Kapsalis in the USA.

She proposed a fish project.

I am standing before a big building painted in yellow and a cripple beggar at the door invites me in.

How many rooms has the building, I ask him?

Nyie Nted Mewon La.

That’s not Douala, I comment (how do I know this?!)

No I speak Ewondo and that means 463,

Of course, everything makes sense that way.

I enter the block and travel from room to room, all rooms are painted in yellow. There are hardly any windows, so it is quite dark. The paint replaces in a way the light.

I see all kinds of people in different situations: families, men alone, women alone, children alone, sick people, dying people even from what looks like starvation or illness or both.

I start getting scared and claustrophobic and want to find my way out again but the more doors I open, the more rooms I encounter with even worse situations than the ones I already witnessed.

I start crying in silence. Tears drop on the earth.

In the next room I meet a woman. She is long and tall, wears a great multi colored dress but to my shock she has an extremely tiny head, as if was shrinken on her body.

What do you want? she asks me gently.

I have lost my way and want to leave this place.

Oh no problem, but first you have to drink some ti or mao with me and my husband.

I shall not offend the laws of hospitality, so I accept. I know that ti is tea and Mao means palm wine.

Her husband greets me. He is a small man but with enormous hands and a very pointed face, almost like a fox. He has an awful nose that ends in a huge knob.

We drink together. Can I ask you an annoying question my new African friends ask me.

Of course.

You are so ugly, you have a mutilated and deformed body. Did you have an accident or were you born this way?

I am perplex, my body is normal but not according to their point of view.

I am born like this.

Oh poor man, you should consult a witch doctor here or otherwise seek help from a plastic surgeon.

I prefer a local marabou.

They smile in comprehension.

 Now how do I get out?

Oh, you know the answer already, they tell me.

Of course, stupid me, I count to 463 and am back and awake in Brussels.

Guido Vermeulen

May 2012

Postcard YELLOW by Rod Summers, The Netherlands

Sea shells and stone

 In the goodness of things, the sea-shell is related to the stone.--Jules Renard

Quote dispatched by Theresa Williams; scanned object collage by GV

Another dream text

A DREAM ABOUT VIOLENCE and SHOES and TRYING TO FIND A WAY OUT.

I am in te middle of a discussion with another guy who is loosing ground and becomes very angry.

Shut the f*** up, he yells at me, or I’ll become violent in a while.

He looks a bit like my brother but he is not my brother.

I continue to reason with him because I like the controversy of our debate.

Shut up, shut up, shut up, he shouts and changes into somebody close to the incredible Hulk. His muscles are swollen and thick. I see the veins pulsing in his face. He blows up like an elephant but all I see is a giant torso, shoulders, part of the back, arms with fists like sledgehammers but no legs or feet at all.

I am going to kill you, he mumbles.

How are you going to do this if you only have a torso, is my final question and I walk away from the ugly scene towards a nearby town.

I try to find a bar because I am thirsty after all that shouting and menaces.

I see what I think is a bar but it is not, it is a mix of a giant shop and a factory.

Conveyor belts run thru the place from different sides at ones. It is like being caught in a maze. On the conveyors are a mixture of shoes, men shoes, women shoes, shoes for children, orthopedic shoes, shoes for little people even. I try to get out but I cannot find the entrance anymore.

I am puzzled. How do I leave this crazy place? I ask to a shopkeeper who looks a bit like my brother but who is not my brother.

You have to choose a pair of shoes, says the guy.

Man, I am like Alice in Wonderland but instead of eat me, drink me, it is pick up a pair of shoes!

I pay for a pair of ladies shoes, all glittering, with many colors and little stars and ribbons around them, a pair of art shoes for my friend Liza is my thinking. Suddenly I see an escape door.

I take the subway to visit Liza when a train arrives at the platform. I see another lady friend of mine entering the train. I have not seen her in years, so I follow her and try to connect with her on the train. I go from wagon to wagon but without any success. It is like she is vanished in thin air!

Louise, Louise, I cry, where are you? It is Guido here!!

In the last wagon a lot of people are packed before a bar. A jazz orchestra is playing New Orleans music and people are drinking and dancing and talking loudly because of the noise.

Midgets are carrying the drinks between the people. They have naked torsos but wear pants and a bow tie. We have to be careful or we trample on them, a drunken man whispers to me.

He looks a bit like my brother but is not my brother.

That’s why we leave our shoes behind, so we cannot hurt the little folk.

Everybody has indeed bare feet. Are you a cross dresser, a woman asks me, she looks like my niece but is not my niece. No, these are escape shoes for Liza, I explain.

The train fades away and changes into a giant bed. Everybody is asleep. I try to look thru the window and am facing a black wall which is crossing by at incredible speed. I focus on the wall and then see that the background color is black but that the wall has several colors (mainly red blue, yellow and orange). The colors make forms and shapes, without any meaning, almost amoebic forms, asemics in strange patterns and rhythms, no clear harmony or balance.

I close my eyes and open them again to focus more on the wall. Lights sparkle in my retina.

I feel someone is jumping on my legs.

I close my eyes and open them again and see the wooden cupboard in my bedroom.

My youngest kitten is walking on my legs.

Did you bring any shoes for my poor paws, he asks me and I return to sleep at once.

Guido Vermeulen, May 2012
Dreaming art by Lesley Magwood Fraser, South Africa

THAT I AM A BIRD, MY FRIEND, YOU UNDERSTOOD FROM MY MISFORTUNES!

Large painted envelope around a poem fragment from Marina Tsvetaieva in 1916
Mailed to David Stone, USA

TODAY, DEATH IS A RAINBOW, and TRAVEL DOES NOT IMPLY ESCAPE!

Large painted envelope around a fragment of poetry by Harry Burrus (The violin has no strings), published in anthology Black Bird 10, editor is David Stone.
Mailed to Harry in Mexico.

OBJECT OBJET

Double CD with art works  from John M Bennett and Nicolas Carras, Luna Bisonte Prods 2012
ISBN 1-892280-94-9

BLACKBIRD issue 10 (editor: David Stone, USA) is in the process of being diffused, amazing collection of poetry and visual poetry by 56 mail artists and networkers; cover art from Denis Saleh (USA)

Graphic artist book edition from Louise Kiner in Canada