Dans mon Lit, pas dans mes Cauchemars

Siberia. An armored flat wagon. Herringbone light machineguns. Definitely, a bed: my own bed. The one I wear out with insomnia, not to sink into nightmares. Albeit always with grace,

Plate of Heroes, II

Here they are, altogether. Rust iron plates as a paraphrase of the Philosophical Conversation by Giò Ponti. I don’t like some of them, for sure. For instance, I don’t like

Plate of Heroes, I

I was introduced to them all, someone seemed inappropriate, some other moved me for his graceful pureness and elegance. Book pages, from Lernet-Holeinia to von salomon. From Ernst Jünger (who

Dancer on Purple

I saw her dancing, you did too – I presume. A night long gone, a memory never fading away. She’ll always taunt us, our ancient fault. She unsettles us now

Leo Strauss

Leo Strauss. Ein Held. A Hero. His prose is enough to understand. An Old Marburger. Every single word makes sense. Nothing redundant, not even marks. Nevertheless, different stratified meanings unveil

Déjeuener sur l’Herbe

I was looking for armored trains in Russian civil war. I stepped into this photograph. They were young men, just out of their boyhood. They ate their rations on a

Graf Orlok

At the beginning it was the Czech Legion’s armored train “Orlik”, active in Siberia from 1917 to 1921. At war, armored trains cut through the limitless lands from Ukraine to

Bands of Wolves

I was looking for images of wolves. No pictures, no calligraphic etchings. I met wolf-warriors in their archaic Roman, Anatolian and Old Norse declinations. Symbols, Beasts, the transformation that yields

Letter Bet with vocal signs

This is the Warrior King’s counterpart: Peace. The safety of the square, whose left side is open to let evil go away. On the back, Yehuda Halevi’s poem on holy

Warrior King

A medieval crown, The Gold of the Lombards. A golden mask. Lou Reed’s “Warrior King”: only by him the absolute rock’n’roll on cancer and death. A warrior king inscrutable and

Homo Homini Lupus

The wolf means belonging to it. Robert Graves would have called it the banner of a clan. The Roman Knight’s parade mask. Between the eyes, the wolf, as it had

The Hyperboreans – Apollo Hyperboreos

Hyperborean Apollo encloses the primeval link between the God who craved for bloody offerings, and his devoted kin, barely surviving far north, who sent magicians roaming the world holding a

Mensur Mask

I was still in my boyhood, when I met men with their Mensur scar on their faces. A sign of courage, of ruthlessness. One of them was a musician. When

Wolf, Forest, Runes

We stepped into this place, long ago. We did not intend to, back then. Nor we do now, because this is the place where the world of the dead surfaces


They lost their own lives to gain immortality. No flesh, no sounds. Just their breath, like a slow and light wind. And their eyes: across time, across space. They see,


A sort of a petroglyph recounting a shaman’s journey in the spirit world. He’s gone, forever. He just left a trail. Reenact his deeds. Ride a reindeer. Track a magical


You thought you could dodge it. Now you are facing it. Its eyes straight on you. Almost real. Blood dripping around, almost a necklace. This is not real, this is


A numinous sight: glowing in the darkness, Zalmoxis’ totemic animal flashes by. He might not be hunting you, tonight. He might lure you to follow his path.


A lonesome light gray wolf hiding in a snowy landscape. Hunger. Crave. Bloody eyes. An evil ghost, a demi-god.