tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86709107424855581002024-03-08T15:55:33.400-08:00The Jukebox Of My Life<br>
The Jukebox Of My Life<br>
Limited Harmony.. Closer To The DistanceBeate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comBlogger79125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-75874697340759019562010-11-28T03:29:00.000-08:002019-05-05T21:38:12.753-07:00• Face The Music<div style="text-align: justify;">
When I was painting, I always was listening to music. The colors were formed upon the canvas systematically according to the chords melancholic or happy, flashy or chary. Levitating in time and space, I almost could reach a Nirvana-like state, as this strange journey got started into the past. I was falling unstoppable even more deeper into the bottomless crater of my own memories, accompanied by rhythm and vibes. I couldn’t escape from that swipping pull, I had to think about the long forgotten, about faded scenes, which subtitled with music just forced my mind to have to remember. I couldn’t resist myself against, from song to song emergenced alternately excursive faces, showing theirselves totally unexpected, they came from nowhere, just to win the temporary importance of the presence, but immerse straight after in the dark sea of the forgotten. Each and every song had its own name label. Oh, how well I know those moments, they are deep damned to squeeze, but they are following one, they are suddenly here again, persistent and obtrusive, one song long ongoing, recurring, stirring miracle. I was caught by the old sadness, I felt the lonely pain of the one way remembrance (I never had a common song with somebody), and needed to ask myself intentional, where are all the people (predominantly women), who did mean so much to me? The songs still are there. In the meantime they got transformed to my personally evergreens. When I listen to them, skeletons are getting alive, and the ghosts in my head start dancing.</div>
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LIZ MANDVILLE GREESON • FACE THE MUSIC<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-3957852969240181482010-11-28T03:28:00.000-08:002019-04-13T06:17:56.872-07:00• Move Over<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">It was 2000, the beginning of May. Here I was, standing reverentially touched in front of the Lyon Street #122, in San Francisco. Nothing indicated that, that she ever lived here, one did simple know that (or not), but I could see her through my mental eyes behind of the facades, in her apartment, lying on her colorful couch, up beat, maybe on a trip of some kind. I could feel her presence almost real, I heard the clang of her jewelry, during she was lying back and laughed haggish. I took a deep breath. I sucked it in, the air of the heroical nostalgia of Ashbury Haight. Yes, I’ve been there. Thirty years too late. Janis, I missed y o u.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><br />
JANIS JOPLIN • MOVE OVER<br />
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</div>Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-10048344839440676582010-11-28T03:27:00.000-08:002019-04-13T06:39:09.118-07:00• The Ship Song<div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">C.R. lived at that time in San Francisco. She wasn’t a projection of the past. I’ve got to know her short before Christmas in Florence at the Biennalè. We both exhibited there, and were staying at the same two** hotel. She talked to me already on the very first day. She just drunk coffee and ate one orange for breakfest. She had this erotically smoky voice, and those certain two dimples around her lips, to them I am attracted by women so much. She spoke English only, and she had a lot to say. Although at that time (now, eleven years ago) I didn’t speak her language yet, I had the feeling, to understand her completely. The language had no meaning, we communicated with each other on a quite different level. I enjoyed every moment of her presence and felt her attractiveness. She was ten years older than me, already fourtyfive, though a very pretty Canadian Jewish woman. We spent ten unforgottable days together. I delayed my departure day by day, the strike of the Italian railroder came more than welcome to me. It was so hard to say goodbye to her.. I wanted more, even more to experience with her, and I believed strongly in saying to myself, that it was only a friendship I was interested in. However, on the last day, in front of the Uffizi, as our lips met in a one long never-want-to-quit kiss, I have totally forgotten, what I wanted, or don’t wanted. During the night I couldn’t sleep at all, her kiss burned on my lips still, I just could think of her, and used the time of the dark night to write her my very first love letter. As already mentioned, I didn’t speak any English at that time, but the love I felt was showing me the words I was searching for. I left the letter at the reception early in the morning, as I finally left Florence with a heavy heart and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">heavy suitcases</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">. Hardly arrived at home again, I started to play her favorite song from Nick Cave. During the song played nonstop, I stared hours long, days long, weeks, actually months long at a picture of her, which was made at our last dinner. When I looked at her, my breath caught, she and her features were set full with mistery. Her mystical smile and her sparkling green-blue eyes accompanied with the overwhelming heartbreaking lyric and melody had only one effect. Like an obsessed fetishist, I falled madly in love with a picture.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div class="MsoNormal">NICK CAVE • THE SHIP SONG<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-58210706631249587202010-11-28T03:26:00.000-08:002019-04-13T06:42:41.354-07:00• I Got The Feeling<div style="text-align: justify;">..you know? I think, no, she didn’t. But I did know, I need to see her again. Best, immediately. Between us was only the ocean. Actually not an insurmountable obstacle, not at all, for a loving person, like me. Oh, this love didn’t know any border. But I needed to be patient, still for a long time. We did have only one possibility to communicate with each other, we were developing our relationship through writing to bridge the gap of time. So I’ve been confronted though with her language again and again. I don’t know if it was a captivating story to read, but the printed pages were getting to a big thick book by the time. On that way she was always with me, twentyfour hours of the day, hidden between the lines, turned into black characters, so we got united. I felt her in my deepest inner, and woke up every night, when she was sending an email to me. Bing! With the time difference I lived the past of her future in the same time. Virtual lovers in the cyber space of the universe. I’ve got the feeling, so deep and so moving, like only two times, eighteen years before and than ten years later, again.</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p><br />
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SHARON JONES • I GOT THE FEELING<br />
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</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p></div>BEE GEES • WORDS<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-7611454631172256472010-11-28T03:24:00.000-08:002019-04-13T07:08:04.125-07:00• Baby What You Want Me To Do<div style="text-align: justify;">At that time I wasn’t able to understand or to define those feelings. Neither hers, nor mines. It was so strange, it excited and hurted in the same time. It was unexperienced love. It was clean and virgin, fullfilled only through writing, as the only spirited act in the passivity. But I did know, she loved me, at least with the same deep passion, as I loved her. Later she became jealous, or just got scared from the intensity /?/ and she asked me to decide, to make a torturous choice: either she or the rest of my world. The abrupt end made me confused, since I didn’t understand, what she actually wanted from me, why in such a dramatic way at all. She just seemingly left it to me to choose, and I am sure, she didn’t expect, that I ever will decide against her, as it happened.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-26075449925370653882010-11-28T03:23:00.000-08:002019-04-13T07:15:42.277-07:00• Helplessly Hoping<div style="text-align: justify;">It did not matter, if we saw each other or not. Even when years went by without any contact, when we met again, our past got immediately alive, and all those undefined feelings got back. She played with me the same game with long breaks for six years. I think, I got back to her four times and we restarted four times, always with the same intensity and with the same end. She quit everytime cowardly with a remorseless, humiliating long, long, long letter. She destroyed the love, which she feeded. This insolvable riddle of WHY? accompanied me during my whole life (well, it was worth to live long enough, since shortly I could solve it though). So I was not surprised, not at all, but much more relieved when her last letter arrived. It did not require any answer. I didn’t hate her anymore, I didn’t love her anymore. I ripped her letter into little bits, together with all the others I kept so long, and burned them up, before I moved from Hungary to Vienna. Those letters weren’t destined for external views. We never spoke about what happened between us, with us. She passed away 1995.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">CROSBY, STILLS & YOUNG • HELPLESSLY HOPING<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-82676915472524830522010-11-28T03:22:00.000-08:002019-04-13T07:18:31.678-07:00• San Francisco<div style="text-align: justify;">But right now I was just waiting for a sign of C.R. With her I experienced a new awareness, again in a different language, but this time in a more unselfconscious way. When after three long months of hopeful despair the sign finally came, I didn’t hesitate, not for a second. I booked my airfare immediately on the 1st of April. It wasn’t an April fool. Only nineteen days later I arrived in San Francisco by beaming sunshine. A trip into the unknown affected by expectations and shy dreams had started. The disappointment was preprogrammed. At the airport nobody was waiting for me. Even though she showed up hours later I hardly recognized the woman I was waiting for. I simply was high from the nicotine detoxification due to the long flight. As a welcome gift, she kissed me on my lips /<i>wow!</i>/ and smoked my cigaret with me. We drove to her apartment, uphill, downhill. She lived near the Twin Peaks, somewhere on the fourtysecond hill, with a gorgeous panoramic view over the city. She fixed some food, filled fish and salad, a traditional jewish meal to Easter. But I only was hungry for her. I kissed her neck tenderly, she said, „Oh, thank you!" /?/ We were sitting on her sofa, intimately entwined.. in front of us the ghetto of the gay people in twilight. A tiny romantical detail from the land of unlimited opportunities.<br />
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SCOTT McKENZIE • SAN FRANCISCO<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-77773484436924564142010-11-28T03:21:00.000-08:002019-04-13T07:23:00.831-07:00• White Rabbit<div style="text-align: justify;">Nothing happened that way, as I had hoped or had wished for. It wasn't much I could give her, but that not much was already too much, just because she didn't want me, not really. She couldn't let her feelings in, she could not let me in, she was not able to make a decision, although I think she tried to make some efforts, and in a way she was fascinated by me still. She was simple overburdened in every sense, and she was extremely contradictory. We had a start from the zero, we hardly knew each other yet. She loved and lived the distance, she was deeply irritated through my presence. I had got too close to her. I didn't need much time to notice, that I was at the wrong place. I got caught in my own trap, I was stucked there. I felt superfluous, ordered without being picked up, just like at my arrival. She was not taking any time off during my stay. In the morning time the phone was ringing constantly, it was hardly possible to carry on a conversation with her. She was always very busy but went to work at noon. After work she had to swim. Back home she only came late at night. I really tried, using my best endeavors, to adapt to the situation, to her life, although I already realized, I would not fit to that, not a bit. There was no place for me. Not in her apartment, and not in her heart. Everything was about her and there was no hint she would ever show some interests for my needs. There was no relationship between us, even I had wished for it so much. I got aware, that our get-together would work only, if I would live her life, if I would totally forget about myself, which I could not. Not always. I tried to ignore these highly uncomfortable thoughts, but the fact was, WE didn’t exist. There was just she but there was me, too, and between us the ocean of unresolved emotions.</div><div class="MsoBodyText" style="text-align: justify;"><o:p></o:p><br />
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JEFFERSON AIRPLANE • WHITE RABBIT<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-48784177158816240322010-11-28T03:20:00.000-08:002019-04-13T07:26:29.191-07:00• Cyclone Shuffle<div style="text-align: justify;">I had a terrible jet lag. I would rather have been sleeping or to holing up. I hated myself, to need a dictionary even for cooking. During my whole stay I had this weird blackout, I couldn’t keep anything in my mind, I was not even able to remember the brand name of the butter she used to take. She was right. My English was very deficient for communication, „very limited“ just like the harmony between us. But why got the spoken word suddenly such an importance? We didn’t miss that in Italy. Although, I told her everything, what I wanted to tell. I don’t like to repeat myself, so I wrapped myself most of the time in reticence. In the meantime I realized, even if I didn’t want to admit it first, she only could give me the feeling through her letters. Her person was too strange to me, in reality I couldn’t let her in either. She couldn’t perceive me, cause she just perceived herself in her selfish way. She didn’t want to understand, what it meant to me to love her, to be able to love again. She just enjoyed narcissistically being desired, and my dependency due to the situation. She drove the car, I took the bus, if I could find a bus station. One night we were going out nevertheless, she was showing me some parts of the city, Little Italy, the Pier 29, and we were at John Lee Hooker’s Boom Boom Room. We didn’t meet the „Father of Blues“ personally, but I was sitting at his reserved place. Somebody took a quick picture for $ 5.00. We both looked sceptically into the polaroid camera, during Mr. C was thrilled blowing the harp. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">Mr. C • CYCLONE SHUFFLE<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-56910807268044185232010-11-28T03:19:00.001-08:002019-04-13T07:29:11.196-07:00• Boom Boom<div style="text-align: justify;">One of the highlights of my stay was giving a lecture at the CCAC about my paintings. I was excited, it wasn't easy to explain my concept about the circles. But the students were very interested. I had taken enough visual material with me, I guess I did a good job. C.R. was obviously proud of me. After work she took me out for a dinner, than we walked around Castro for a long time hand in hand. Under the rainbow colored flags that was nothing special. But unfortunately I broke the temporary harmony successfully by putting a little question in the air, which I could not resist „do you think, that you have some little place for somebody in your life at all? <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">/</span>Be amazed!/</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> She did understand me. She winced, and got a hysterical attack, she started to scream, so loud, I thought she would show me the dooor there and than. She screamed at me on the street, in the car, during the whole time until we got home. I didn’t know, how to ease the situation, since I didn’t have a chance to dispute with her. Well, obviously I had touched a sore spot /</span><i>shit happens!/</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Suddenly she started to cry, as she said: „ I really wanted you to come here, because I love you, yes I do!“.. </span><i>/</i><i>Oh!/</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> I kissed away the rolling teadrops on her face. I love you, szeretlek, ti amo, ja ljublju tjebja. In how many languagues, and how often had it been repeated, this innocent on the most primitive way built-on sentence [ I + Heart + You ] whithout getting the right significance, perceiving the real meaning or devastating consequences? If love comes into the game, everything is changing. Why? Those words keep their validity only as long as one is articulating them. Anyway, you do have three second time, to let yourself be misleaded by it. </span>The matter of love seems to hold a painful secret, which, in the end, is simple to disclose. Maybe I just got the intuition, since I was not able to tell these words anymore. You might think, there are so many different kinds of love, it’s easy to get lost in the jungle. But believe it or not, there is only one love, as it gives only one word for that. We just handle it different, splitting and making different kinds of it, since we feel on different ways, as we all are different. So speaking about the feeling (not about sex), I have to say, actually there are only two kinds of love, always two extremes: either a viable love, ready to make compromises, or a together non viable, egocentric love, just as there is only a mutual or onesided love and there is nothing in between.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">JOHN LEE HOOKER • BOOM BOOM<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-11959205131464079462010-11-28T03:18:00.000-08:002019-04-13T07:31:51.915-07:00• California Dreamin'<div style="text-align: justify;">What I experienced with C.R. was not the “Nightmare before Christmas“ but the american nightmare after Easter. My pipe dreams were broken, the California Dream crucified. I never could live there, I never could live with her. I just was happy, to be able to leave this continent finally, and I am sure, she was relieved as well, that I disappeared from her life. Actually I didn’t want to see her again. Not again. When we would not had planned a common exhibition in Vienna, most probably a reunion would never had happened. But the prearrangements for September were already running on high tours. We could keep just somehow, very sporadically in touch. I hardly could write to her, I couldn’t trust her anymore since she told me „We have to write a book together. You know?“ That was even more than I wanted to know. So that was it what she seriously intended to do with my letters. Simple to take and use my most intimate thoughts, to publish the love, I felt.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">THE MAMAS AND THE PAPAS • CALIFORNIA DREAMIN'<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-6871538083200439302010-11-28T03:17:00.000-08:002019-04-13T07:35:10.163-07:00• Big Mama's Door<div style="text-align: justify;">I wanted to be late, as I picked her up from the airport in Schwechat by Vienna, but was in time, like her airplane. First I thought vengefully, right now it’s my time, and I will reward all her mean indignities. But as I saw her again, a short look was enough to shift my decision for hundredeighty degrees. Actually why should I hurt myself again, why I should not simply enjoy the anyway limited time we have? It was my territory, this time I was at home, but she felt like at home at the spot. She loved Vienna, she loved me, and she even liked my enterprising dog. She was on vacation, and we did an exhibition. She did forget her fears, her inhibitions. I don't know how I could push away the intermezzo in San Francisco and was falling in love with her a second time without realizing it. Well, sometimes you just make the same mistake two times, even if you are aware that it is a fatal mistake, you do it though. I wasn’t able to control my feelings, to navigate them with my head as I usually do. I wanted and I wished to get close to her. Don't ask me why, but I wanted her, still only her. It wouldn't be nice to meet somewhere in the world two, three times yearly, to spend our vacations together and living in that way a kind of a compressed long distance relationship without sharing our day to day life? That would have been enough for me. She promised me to meet me soon again, she promised, that we'll have a future, and I believed her, because I wanted to believe in us. And I was sure, that was love. This time the ten days were too short, they were flying by, like an instant. I couldn't prolong it even if I wished to enjoy every second of the fullfilled luck in slow-motion, it was over much too soon. Saying farewell she aspirated a last kiss through the glass wall at the airport, I saw her blurred through my tears. She was gone. Just like my tears, I couldn’t keep her back.</div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />
</div></div><div>ALVIN YOUNGBLOOD HEART • BIG MAMA'S DOOR<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-66968217791222035172010-11-28T03:16:00.000-08:002019-04-13T07:38:13.601-07:00• Misery 'N<div style="text-align: justify;">The hope to see her again soon, all her paintings from the exhibition, which temporarily were stored in my studio, and the music, which reminded me of her, were the only things she left me. I still felt her presence in my apartment, and felt, this time she had been fallen in love with me as well. I gave her time, to get used to the feeling. Although I could hardly wait to meet her again, I wanted to hear her speaking out the same wish. She would have needed to say only one word, I would have booked immediately a flight, no matter where. I did not mind even if it would have been to the end of the world again. But I had to be content with her meager friendly letters, since nothing arrived from her otherwise. I missed the word, I was longing so much for. That hurted again. The months, the years went by, the paper was patient, till I lost my patience finally. She called me on the phone every Sunday (cheap day), at my birthday and at New Eve’s Day. She was writing to me every year for Valentine’s Day, and on Thanks Giving. Sometimes she was sending me some cool CDs by snail mail. But I didn’t get the impression, she would have ever wanted to see me again. To plan a meeting was everytime extremly inconvenient. It always was too short-dated or too long-termed. Either she had no money, or no time for that. I couldn’t watch, how our big love decayed to a pen-pal relation. But she didn’t let me go, she didn’t quit to write. Seemingly I could give her something special. And I was hoping secretly everytime when our contact was getting more intense and the fire was flaming again. I was faithful to her for years. She filled my thoughts, even if I wanted to forget her, I couldn’t let her go either. I wallowed in pain and in painful beautiful memories. „<i>But I've tried, don't you know I've tried. Cried, cried, you know how I've cried. An', an' baby, I've been missin' you</i> “, till finally I got enough from her once more repeated „forgive if“..</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">JANIS JOPLIN • MISERY 'N<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-4848018126906353862010-11-28T03:15:00.000-08:002019-04-13T07:52:04.544-07:00• Everybody Needs a Good Song<div style="text-align: justify;">How do I think about it today? One is dying a bit by every breakup. Sometimes even you do feel, that a reunion happened for the last time. Although one doesn’t need to die necessarily to be dead. Sometimes it is enough to loose touch with somebody. It’s an only coming and going. Some people have to go to make place for other. Some maybe come back into your life one day, some get lost forever. Some paths may cross for a short interchange, some are running parallel without any chance to meet, living two different stories. Sometimes you won't get a chance anymore to talk about, sometimes it is too late to talk at all. To leave somebody or to be left has the same sad meaning and the same effect. The lack of communication. It’s so heartbreaking to look helplessly on, how the big feeling getting less and less, disintegrated bit by bit, day by day, till completely passing out. Being together depends only on a silk thread. Sometimes it will do one word, to tear it. In reality one always does break up in a lonely way, mostly long time before leaving actually. The blame is shifted to one only due to convenient complacency, although there are always (at least) two people involved. It does not matter, who is quitting. There is no winner and no loser. Stand-off.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">THE CHARMAINE NEVILLE BAND • EVERYBODY NEEDS A GOOD SONG<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-42509353112788373522010-11-28T03:14:00.001-08:002019-04-13T07:57:31.729-07:00• Why?<div style="text-align: justify;">Even if the memories were very painful, I must admit, they were very inspiring. After she left I finished the seventh tryptich (the last) from my four-years project „the seven prayers“, for which I had got the grant of the Pollock-Krasner Foundation from New York. <i>/How C.R. envied me for that!</i>/ During I was painting the huge pictures (they were bigger than me), I was listening to only this one song back and forth „Why?“ I needed those hot beats to compensate the silence of my daily meditations. Besides that was the only question which busied me, to find an answer for everything what had happened. I was confident (whithout being excessively conceited) that with this work I wrote a piece of art history. Literally. I did write a whole chapter of the Lotus-Sutra (the prayer of the soka-gakkai budhists) into the paintings, and dedicated them to the four base elements (sea, earth, wind, fire) as well to the moon, to the lotus-flower and to the sun. I finished them exactly in the right time before I changed my studio and still was able to document them in my huge, loftlike basement-studio. In July I moved into an attic studio, which I got from the City of Vienna. In August I designed a book of the seven tryptichs, a small postcard book. It was meant for spreading my art and even after sending the postcards having still a mini book. In September I found the right book publisher, we went in print and in December we could present the book for the first time during the exhibition of "the seven prayers" was running in the House Wittgenstein’s in Vienna.</div><span style="font-family: Times; font-size: 12pt;"><br />
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JESTOFUNK • WHY?<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-71873921105534372892010-11-28T03:13:00.001-08:002019-04-13T07:59:21.297-07:00• Emergency<div style="text-align: justify;">I mostly was left. But someday I learned to go, when the time was right to hit the road. Of course those bitter times left marks and the willingness, to get hurted, decreased. I was sleeping alone even during the time I’ve been with W.C. together. I must admit, the start of meeting her was really romantic. We just could not have been more different. She was in a relationship, that bothered me less although it was not defined, who cheated whom. I didn’t care about, since I was free, only responsible for myself. Her tongue was pierced, that bothered me much more. I was surprised to notice, how conservative I actually am. She was Gemini from zodiac sign, sexuality for her was a self-evident way to communicate. (I can’t say till today which sign of zodiac is mine. I was born on July 22nd, which is the first day of Lion in Hungary, but the last day of Cancer in Austria, just because the Hungarian language doesn’t include the last day of „ from -<i>till</i>“, but German does.) Already after a short time, W.C. claimed, she had fallen in love with me. She left her girlfriend in lightning-speed, but found it too intimate to spend Christmas with me, inspite of three months of intense contact. Overnight I found it quite easy not to see her again. A down time of paralyzing winterdepressions cought me after I left her. In my head reined a terrible chaos. I couldn’t do anything against, I was totally taken out. Sometimes I even couldn’t leave my apartment. Everything around me apperad so strange, so surreal. I tried to get out from this deep hole, I needed to get back to the roots. That way I got the blues again. Within weeks I redoubled my music collection. I was searching for new vital energies, for a new voice. And finally I found it by accident on the web. That helped me, only that. The voice, I always wanted to hear since I am listening to music. </div><div class="MsoBodyText"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">KOOL AND THE GANG • EMERGENCY<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-28667137750209947412010-11-28T03:11:00.001-08:002019-04-13T08:00:55.746-07:00• Juicehead Man<div style="text-align: justify;">I was running with my newest discovery two floors below in the house and knocked impatiently at the door of C.W. Finally! She was at home and a bit amazed how excited I was. I had to share with her the exalted joy. She couriously put the CD into the player and turned up the sound. I realized what was going on in her, as she listened to those vibes the first time, since I felt the same. She was the only one, who could feel, what I felt. She said „Oh My God, I thought Janis is dead!“ She wasn’t scared to make this two hour, soul session trip with me, to sense all heights and deeps by going through mysterious dimensions. She was one of the few people, who did understand what’s the message, which only music can bring, to get one with it, even without understanding the lyrics. Only the music counts, the 4/4 or 12/8 rhythm, the harmony kept within the right key with major an minor chords, the interaction of playing and singing, the joy of the sound, the heartbeat of the beats, „take me to the bridge!“ This music was not made for fading away in the background. Listening with her to that together was a catarsislike real experience.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LIZ MANDVILLE GREESON • JUICEHEAD MAN<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-86637461694433853932010-11-28T03:09:00.002-08:002019-04-13T08:04:29.258-07:00• Addiction<div style="text-align: justify;">Although C.W. was thirteen years younger than me, she was very grown up at least in her inner entity. We flirted already six years with each other, since she was living in the same house like me. First, I think, she hated me, just because I did know earlier than she did.. /<i>Oh!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">/ She still needed some more time to bear, as well as some more experiences to understand her own coming out. We had spent some long excessive nights with each other, until she stayed with me for breakfest the first time. I was gripped by panic, in my awareness beat only one sentence, you can’t tie her to you. She still was so young, untamed, she had her life yet to come. I didn’t have to wait for something new anymore. Only once in a while there was a little surprise like that night. I did know it would be irresponsible of me to expect anything from her, just because I couldn’t resist her juvenile charm. </span></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-83898728244093525602010-11-28T03:07:00.002-08:002019-04-13T08:06:36.860-07:00• Like The Way I Do<div style="text-align: justify;">Actually I don’t believe in accidents. Things happen, as it has had to come that way. After a month we met again, but I couldn’t stay with her. I needed to escape from myself, I couldn’t take a risk. She could have hurt me. I couldn’t trust, neither her nor me.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">MELISSA ETHERIDGE • LIKE THE WAY I DO<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-39405303994500710332010-11-28T03:05:00.004-08:002019-04-13T08:08:26.439-07:00• Non, Je Ne Regrette RienBut no, I don't regret anything at all.<br />
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EDITH PIAF • NON, JE NE REGRETTE RIEN<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-60373286184612115112010-11-28T03:03:00.003-08:002019-04-13T08:14:37.254-07:00• Sweet Home Chicago<div style="text-align: justify;">
I would never have thought, that the american continent would ever see me again. I needed immense much love to cross the Atlantic. I did it six times until now, four strong reasons gave me that courage. Firstly helped the love to<span style="color: red;"> </span>C.R., secondly the love to the music, thirdly was my art, fourthly a deep long term friendship to H.Z., fifthly and sixthly a mix of all, love, friendship, art and the music again, so I could forget about my fears of flying. I am pretty sure it won’t happen again as there is no reason anymore. Back than I got fourty, Blue Chicago was waiting for me, the windy city by the lake, so I tempted fate provocatively, even if it should have been my last flight. Since my last trip to San Francisco four years had passed. I was in urgent need for some new inspirations. I did know the voice, I did know the name, I just missed the person to it. I already missed Janis, just because I was born too late, so right now I only wanted to use my time, the right time. I needed a real-life experience, to get to see and to get to listen to her live. When I arrived in Chi-Town, I immediately had the feeling to be at home. The city seemed familiar to me, the smoky blues bars were the reflection of my youth. I spent seven restless, sleepless nights in that exciting city, the blues was flowing through my veins. Finally I’ve landed by accident at the right place, in the right time. I got the blues every night and every day all kind of it, from Delta till to the 21st century, in all possible variations, everywhere. I sucked each and every beat in, insatiably hungry for everything<i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Chicago was offering me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">KAREN CARROLL • SWEET HOME CHICAGO</span><br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-63255425593123585952010-11-28T03:01:00.003-08:002019-04-13T08:16:00.469-07:00• Look in Your Heart<div style="text-align: justify;">I asked her for it and she was singing the song o n l y for me, whithout a guitar, accompanied only by a tambourine and drum, almost a capella. She encored with it a four hour long gig at Big Downtown. The room vibrated of her frequency and was fullfilled with her powerful, four octave voice. She was giving all, and oh, even more. She sung her heart out and speared my spirit. The walls were shaken from her powerful Red Hot Mama vocal. „Follow Your Happiness“. Yes, I did, and it made me really happy. „Only you walk your road.<br />
O n l y Y o u.“ How true! On the next day she had her next gig at Bill’s Blues, it was no question for me to get there, even if the bar was in a suburb, and even if the rain was pouring down the whole day. She gave me the address last night and I took a cab, we arrived at the same time there. It was like a miracle for me, incredible, unbelievable that my dream came true. I did get to know her and I was sitting next to her at the bar before the gig started. I was so excited, that I was not able to open a bottle of milk. „Sometimes I´m so helpless. You know?“ „Oh, Baby, come on!“ I made her laughing, and she put me on the spot. I hardly risked to look in her cosmic blue-grey eyes. She reminded me much too much of my mother for being attracted to her. A short woman with a voice of a lion. So it wasn’t the person herself but solely her voice I was attracted to. I tried to look deep into my heart to ask myself honestly. Did I want to get to know her really just because of the music or was I searching for something else? She spent every break between the gigs with me, we chatted and laughed, and we made an appointment for Sunday.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><o:p></o:p></div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">LIZ MANDVILLE GREESON • LOOK IN YOUR HEART<br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-35483580179427643782010-11-28T02:59:00.002-08:002019-04-13T08:18:46.629-07:00• Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay<div style="text-align: justify;">That was my last day in the metropolis of blues. We met first in a restaurant on the Clark Street. She came with her friend. Afterwards she invited me surprisingly into her house. It was like the dream I dreamed already long ago. We were sitting next to each other on her colorful couch in a red living room. I could hear the clang of her jewelry when she was lying back. She was in high spirits and played some not yet released songs. Suddenly she picked an other guitar, started to play on, and said to me, „take one and feel free to play with me“. There were at least twenty different guitars everywhere in the room. I took a red one, hold it carefully in my hands, but I had too much respect to play, it was too long that I played guitar at all. I just wanted to listen to her play. I know, she did know, that she couldn’t have given anything to me which would have meant more for me.. That was the non plus ultra of all my dreams, she shared her gift with me. I was almost exploding out of luck and joy. I could hardly believe it, but she was singing and playing for me. O n l y for me. For hours. What a voice! By enjoying this private gig I was literally getting stoned by the music. We spent eight hours with each other celebrating all kinds of art. Than she gave me a drive back to my hotel. She honked for farewell and beckoned to me through the open roof of her deep blue Chevrolet. End of the film spool. But this dream wasn’t dreamed out yet. I did know, I’ll be back.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
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Beate Sandorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06502639888591586353noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8670910742485558100.post-54465614607020230152010-11-28T02:57:00.001-08:002019-04-13T08:21:49.950-07:00• La vie en rose<div style="text-align: justify;">I was her fan, her so-called friendly stranger. I hardly did know her, she did know me even less. The person was strange to me, but the voice all the more familiar. I did know her voice already when she didn’t even know that I existed. I could listen to her night and day, whenever I wanted to listen to. Her incredible voice was given so much energies to me, and she was not even knowing about. Nobody believed me, that I didn’t fall in love with her. <i>/As if I would be obligated to fall in love with every woman, just because I am gay!/</i> I was fascinated, that’s right, but not in love. How I could ever explain, also to her, that I did only admire her voice? That would have been close to an insult. We were keeping email contact, that was cool. I hoped for an exchange between artists. Our interests were very similar, she was painting and writing too. But we met only in the world of music. And one year later we met in Paris. Thinking of the Eiffel-Tower, I still see her drawing and have to smile, the paper was too short, the tower too long, so she did turned down to the left the top of the tower, like a bedcap. <i>/Long live the artistic freedom!/</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> And oh, of course we did the photo of the millennium in front of the Eiffel-Tower. I like that photo much. She </span>was on a vacation there but did a gig too and I came to Paris only for the weekend. Although it was my first time in Paris, in everything I saw or did there, I had the feeling I had seen or done it before, that I had already been there. I was amazed, how similar the buildings were to the buildings in Budapest. But well, both cities were rebuilded about the same time at the turn of the century. The Déjà Vu started and didn’t left anymore as we visited the House Of Rodin, in Camille Claudel’s honor (again an amazing woman behind a man). We walked and took lunch in the rose garden. I still see her bending down to a rose bush holding carefully a fresh yellow bud to smell at. At that place we were not the diva and her fan, but friends, two no name tourists with a map in the hand on the Champs Elysees. We treated ourselves a delicious, high-priced dinner on the top of the Monmartre, (they accepted VISA) but most of the time we spent in her hotel room, drinking exquisite french red wine, playing and singing. I even sung the russian hymne, which I could sing even if you wake me up in my deepest sleep. I learned that at the school forever. In Paris we had so much fun and a wonderful intense time together. Even if our friendship didn’t survive my second trip to Chicago, I wouldn't like to miss those memories.</div><div class="MsoBodyText"><br />
</div><div class="MsoBodyText">EDITH PIAF • LA VIE EN ROSE<br />
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