30 November, 2021


 The endlessness of forms, the immense variability of fragile and fleeting beauty, myriads of fluttering wings of aerial angels ‒ my virtual collection consists of over eleven hundred images of butterflies, a result of my unswerving fascination. Nothing is random: All that comes near us, that fulfills us, that we surround ourselves by, has a deeper meaning. Shamans, interconnected with nature, believe in "spirit animals" that play a role of guides in our lives, thus I ask myself: Is it the butterfly in my case? Whence has become part of my corporeal canvas the very Monarch Butterfly (or, its white morph, rare among its colored, usually orange, mates), on the spiritual meaning of which in relation to my own life I am about to reflect in the following lines.

In view of the monarch's life cycle, I must be in the stage of a cocooned caterpillar (chrysallis) that has yet to become a butterfly: It indicates a passage from passive inner development into active physical manifestation, which results from metamorphosis (egg-larva-pupa-butterfly); the inner transformation the butterfly undergoes until its rebirth ‒ like I, a human being, do in my life, thus resonating with my spiritual path.

The monarch migrates for thousands of kilometers for several generations until its "super" generation reaches its destination. It caries a message of unwavering faith that, even though our journey that we embark upon covers a great distance and leads through the unknown, uncertainty, changes and obstacles, we can stick to it successfully to come home in the end ‒ where we are meant to be and belong to in life. It is a creature of the spiritual world, connected with its entities (ancestors, angels...), that, despite its apparently fragile beauty, symbolizes strength, endurance and joy.

This butterfy is typically active in daylight only, being drawn to it, and uses its inner compass in accordance with the sun when migrating (as opposed to moths that are nocturnal, thus symbolically related to darkness). Figuratively speaking, it is our inner guide that leads us through the dark along the right path to the light.

That which appears to be the end is but a new beginning, a transition from the the old (that which is going) to the new (that which is coming). I believe that all in nature is in the process of a continual, ever-lasting transformation, in which sense the end ceases existing: There is no ending ever, all but metamorphizes. Energy ‒ the immaterial and unpalpable, yet perceptible and perceived, which is the essence of all life ‒ endures. The butterfly shares the symbol of transmutation and resurrection with Phoenix, which is also depicted on my body but, mainly, impressed on my psyché, as I have gone through its inner fiery transformation.

Truth be told, I do realize the importance of pursuing my soul purpose and fulfillment in life, with my inner voice being quite incessant in this regard, the more so when I am middle-aged but still struggling with its materialization. My dwelling in the spiritual world (that of dreams, visions, ideas, thoughts and feelings), my preoccupation with it, is dividing me from the material world to a fault ‒ as the monarch's metamorphosis depicts ‒, as things can only be manifested in the physical world. Art transforms non-matter into matter, the "dance in my heart" is expressed through my physical body used as a tool. Therefore, without a connection between mind/spirit and matter/body, nothing sensorially perceptible comes out of it. There occurs a transformation from imagery to the physical (or, bodily movement as in dance), not vice versa, in my case, so having a vision (as a mental image) is a must, but it still needs materializing. Only then can I reveal, verbally or nonverbally, my inner world ‒ via poetry or dance.

In the aftermath of past trauma, we may be filled with paralyzing fear and a loss of (self-)confidence, which hinders the free flow of a creative and loving energy of ours, affecting our creative self-expression and deeper connection with another/others both in an artistic and societal setting as we struggle with a sense of personal deficiency and vulnerability. That is closely familiar to me... The time for my dance creation was ripe long ago, but I will never feel quite ready (that is/would be a futile waiting) and could only procrastinate ad infinitum, so it feels rather like "now or never" ‒ it is just that it feels as if I was to jump off the cliff believing that I will not fall but spread my wings and fly. Only after my longing has prevailed over my fear can I make it. I am self-aware enough to know that, once I find the resolve in me, from that critical point on, I will be able to stick with it and persevere ‒ in the same vein as I have vowed I will never give up on dance (only if paralyzed or dead, seriously). 

The best aspect of it ‒ and, simulataneously, the biggest challenge of all ‒ is that it depends on me mainly, on my overcoming inner obstacles, not (so much) outer ones. Should we believe in ourselves, no-one else need to (however morally uplifting it feels when somebody else does!), nor can anyone stop us! Even though my path remains stony in this, at times I do experience those shiny moments which my healthy self-confidence shines through, during which I am connected with my inner creative force and emanate inner peace. Tormenting and destructive self-doubts disappear then and I recreate my ideas into reality in flashes of happiness with a childlike spontaneity. I observe myself as if from the outside and behold myself treading my path with faith in its rightness and meaning while attracting to myself the longed-for, as in such moments all springs from my full awareness deep inside that I am innerly complete, that I am infinite within, that I can do it, thus I will make it! And it is in that time when the dance in my heart, the love of artistic creation and human connection springs out.. 💕

Metamorphosis © Ladanseuse
Written bilingually, in Czech "Metamorfóza", on 5. 10. 2021, edited & published on 29. 11. 2021

22 November, 2021

The Essence of Art

What seems to be a sad paradox of the present time is the fact that despite the quickening and simplification of mutual contact and communication people appear to be growing apart, as if their communal time has shrunk into a couple of fleeting moments, as if the space they perceive by their path, around themselves, was just a few meters distant from them. It saddens me at times ‒ which may be why I am so drawn to art, which defies indifference, as it builds bridges that arch over such distances, as, through it, the creative relates self-expressively to the world, with which (s)he so connects as the creative energy comes out from within, from the spiritual into the material, as if it was within him or her wherein, unconsciously and spontaneously perhaps, lay the pure power of co-existence, which expands, and a certain connectivity of a world suddenly complete.

Art is strong. It is a world in and by itself, a sphere of distinctiveness the form of which is dependent on its creator, for it is the creator who says: This is how I see the world! Thus we can look at the world through different eyes, from a unique perspective. Art is a light that transcends itself and its partakers in a life-giving force in the embodiment of our earnest longing for spiritual deliverance ‒ such art is London's Star Rover in the undying poetry of life, since, even if restricted, it will throw off its hurtful shackles and slip out of darkness. It springs from the soul that knows no physical boundaries. In this, it is larger than life ‒ at least the ephemeral physical one.

The notional realm has no end, being chiaroscuro, clair-obscur, fumbling, and reveals itself in an impalpable artistic message personified by people themselves. May my inner world be the heart and soul, may anything be my kingdom, it is the outside world that represents contact ‒ albeit not only with beautiful materialized dreams, but also with empty and needless cruelty ‒ and it is life, rhythm, motion, direction, growth. And I cannot get arrested, or I will die ‒ but now that the faraway is unfolding before my eyes and thoughts are whizzing past in the crazy of world of ephemerality, I am falling to the hard ground; now I am getting lost but without going astray as I notice a fixed point while dancing in a musical embrace.

We fear that whatever we create will be taken by time ‒ that said, as though during our life we each drew our own picture that will speak on of what we were like, thus leaving our mark on the map of the world. There exists no world ‒ we are the creators. We are footprints in the dust of roads, writings engraved in stone, echoes among mounts, ships at a stormy sea, trees reaching up to the sky, raindrops in sun heat ‒ we are life. We create, recreate ourselves, our own essence through our artistic creation. Art ‒ whether it be a paint, a sound, or a motion ‒ is a dream build upon thoughts, our mark of a gone life in infinity; art is a way toward us.

It is through art that passing moments endure, being captured, transmuted, immortalized. Not everyone will understand them, but the perceptive will try to grasp them. One must be open to get the message. Understanding dwells in the acceptance of distinctness. There is wealth and beauty to be found even in the unseen, unheard, and unnoticed. The secret lies in the art of feeling ‒ feeling art. In that, art teaches us how to live.

It is my conviction that the essense of true art inheres within its spiritual outreach. Despite working with palpable tools to self-express in the outer world, it is not only to play with superficial forms but to stem from inner wealth, shaping an immaterial energy, thus allowing the select of us create something that will exceed themselves in space and time. Something of this kind must not be marginalized or suppressed because where there is art, there is the heart ‒ and the heart is life. The artist cannot but make art, he or she must hallmark it by distinctness, put the heart into it and let it sing and weep, look for its essence. Even the best technically created harmony feels empty unless it is a living story and dream.

Uniformity is not of art's own, it is not monolithic, neither does it obey the principle of fixed delimitation ‒ the only limitations lie in our fear and humanity itself.  Just as the piano has a certain number of keyboards but the music it makes is infinite, the body as a tool is delimited in space but the creative soul knows no boundaries. Thus, each of its pieces can be differently colored, like a mozaic, and into each of them another human fate or experience in many a rendition and intensity can be projected. It is such freedom of expression that endows it with expanse and development, although it has its "buts": If art is limited or, God forbid, banned, the mere miserable existence of a more or less dead form or even its demise is imminent; if it is absolutely limitless in its freedom, it can be enriched or degraded by it. In this, art reflects its creator.

Therein arises the question of authenticity. Can authenticity be referred to all that is original, an artistic act as unique as a newborn child, which is not yet another blind carbon copy of whoever or whatever? Or, does authenticity spring only from the source of a tradition that sees to the preservation of certain features to make a given creative act what it is proclaimed to be? Even if your life is intertwined with that of others, the uniqueness of your human experience is beyond doubt; thus, if you tell your story in your own words and put yourself, your true Self, into it, you, as an artist, remain genuine.

Art is my pillar. It is "the little something" that is all that suffices to make my whole world shine. As if, out of a sudden, my nameless life and faceless existence gained content and meaning. It is to me what water is to a river. It is the breath that sustains my beating heart. Music speaks to me and I do not know what it says, but I can feel it and understand, so I cannot remain motionless, with it moving my body on an emotional wave, I feel like dancing, perhaps because my inner world has never been blind to beauty or to pain either, and this world within me wants to live, open its arms to freedom and never be silenced.

Art is liberating, cathartic and healing. It is abstract in its dancing poetry, soulful and divinely inspired. With its self-expression stemming from inner imagery, divergent from any externally given or reality-based form, you, as a creative, free from any dictate, are given total freedom in authenticating and materializing your own unique percepts. The interrelationship of us and God is not necessarily religious, and I feel it on a spiritual plane as an omnipresent, all-embracing and all-permeating energy that infuses wisdom and inner guidance, animation and creative inspiration into our soul, as if the Universe was re-creating and expressing itself through us. You draw from within that which is sourced from without all there is.

To the one whose views are earthbound and conservative, whose focus is on the material and pecuniary, the world of art(ists') is "peculiar" while I am the embodiment of an impractical nefelibata who places art upon a pedestal as I weave my long-winded emotive stories. If only I could, I would devote my life to art solely but for being a soul trapped in the material world, faced with the need for a means of subsistance, not by choice but of necessity, and art is my life but not (yet) living, even in need of investment itself, so I will struggle on the material front while nurturing the dream of an artistic breakthrough. The more the one who measures any endeavor against profitability (seeing it as an end, not a means to an end) equates my creative dreams to "pointless" pursuits, the longer I dilly-dally, literally dancing around it, in fear, so, with my external and inner critic united, there you go....

The more so, amid predominant materialism, capitalism and underappreciation of art as something "dispensable", one's genuine love of art that exceeds business is applaudable. What if, to some, it is a reason to live, this making it a must? Dance is everything to me and permeates my life to the point of being synonymous with it. What would a society be without culture? It would become but soulless, empty, dead.

And yet, mine is a rebellious heart that will scream, "The critics must be silenced!" and "Carpe diem!," and go on dancing this ever-lasting dream and will not let me rest until I go and fulfill it in reality, as this calling toward artistic creation I feel so strongly drawn to is a purpose to live for that stems from undying passion and, as I would like to believe, indomitable spirit. What I see as an inevitable part of success is the cessation of living in my head and the adoption of a can-do attitude with courage, faith and trust in myself and my odyssey.

The Essence of Art © Ladanseuse
Original English groundwork undated, 
text expanded upon and translated into Czech on 18.. - 19. 11. 2021 to be published bilingually on 22. 11. 2021

16 November, 2021


The only way leads through unrestraint because only that can open the door to any challenge out there. 

Self... used to be my identity: the breathing existence of a tangled mass of thoughts, silenced being in the roar, a self-defeating fear, a miniscule stary fraction, dust floating in the air, something so familiar that it became mystification... Did it form in emptiness, or was it nought in space?

Now... in a kind of peculiar vegetative state, in the interspace, in the intertime, Self is gone... and there has arisen a haunting question, What is Self? What on earth is it in essence?  Self is beyond itself, Self has ceased being itself, if it ever existed at all ‒ thus, is Self a mere concept, a construct serving our own urge for egoism; is my Self truly identical to your Self, with our Selves in the sphere of the absolute ‒ and ‒ can it be unique in the relative world only? Self has become meaningless, is nought, since God knows what it is.

The inner entity has come to dwell within me ‒ effortlessly, as if it was part of me from time immemorial, being both all-embracing and itself exceeded by all, all-enduring, ever-lasting, constant, unshatterably certain and calm. I am a soul, as if I had no body, was no-body, could be anywhere, anytime, and yet remain changeless.

While Self used to be represented by run-aways, now my being is interpenetrated with a higher power, as if transformed into a kind of alter ego; everything and everybody that my eyes are set upon, all is focused upon and seen through, for fear has vanished... As if Self has entered another dimension. Boundaries are nonexistent, this is getting to the core of things.

If Self is not, what is left? Consciousness? Consciousness of what? Of that all is limitless? How can I be a victim if I respect no limits? Limits created by my mind out of fear of infinity... and the mind identifies itself with Self.

If my life has been like reaching the end of a tunnel, whereat there is nothing but a wall, against which I am hammering and can only reverse..., then I can no longer grow, I have no freedom anymore. But, I need to grow and expand within ‒ I cannot get arrested, become a bogus, turn into a shadow...

All that is onging will continue. All the people will keep on passing through my life as until now. My feet will step onto familiar ground a hundred times and my mind will get lost in unknown places many times more. Even fear will come, and fear cannot be discarded nor eliminated, but ‒ just as anything else unfavorable and unwanted ‒ it can be accepted as something that creates balance; it can interpenetrate me, just passing through and out of me, leaving me unchanged. There is no need to suffer from it ‒ I can go through fire, I may be in pain, it may be uneasy, but I can do it without being burnt, and that will be it. 

Given all that has ever flashed through my life, only that which prevails, that which withstands all changes is of merit.

I can always escape into solitude, possibly craving for being the only living thing in the boundless horizons, only if I am certain that all these walls that devide me from the embodiment of my pier ‒ another human being, my precious one, a strenghening bond ‒ can be torn down anytime. Will I be able to gain strength unsupported one day?

Now... I fear not, even though I cannot be more open...

Break free from Self. Break down the wall. Let things pass through you and go. Become a constant authority. You need no crutches that will not support you, no strange faces that will overlook you, no inner heat that will burn you. Just be and stay in wisdom.

All the weakness, the pettiness of labor, the pain... all of it has led me as far as here, to the other side, and had me seeking deliverance.

Power, power, power... There is no Self... no restrictions... no victimization... There is just creativity... like the passing of time and the beating of my heart... I can but be a life, I am a life, not an arrested existence that is just growing old, but a life that has no end.

I cannot be any Self unless I know what that is. All is just the substance... immaterial and prevailing. What a strange feeling it is, even head-spinning, roving the stars...

Self-perception © Ladanseuse 
Written on 26. - 27. 9. 2005, translated into Czech, edited & published on 16. 11. 2021

The Infinite "I"

 I observe four fundamental levels of so-called "multividuality", which is an existential question of a personal identity (Who am I?), uniqueness (but of heterogeneity too) and correlativity of oneself and the surroundings.

💞 Level One💞
The so-called "I" is but an ego-made mental construct designed for self-identification and identity, but it is also the delimitation of Self in relation to others. The "I" has built up walls, in fear of losing itself, the "I" fears "You", the "I" cannot be "Us" then. 

💞 Level Two 💞
We are each a miniscule fraction of the all-embracing universe, a piece of a giant mozaic, and, as such, we are part of a bigger whole that exceeds us. Therefore, we may feel tiny and insignificant. Small things become big ones though; a whole is composed of all its parts, so even a single missing part, even the tiniest of all, will cause such a whole cease being whole, as it no longer is complete. We are thus an integral part of entirety, without us, there is not what surrounds us either.

💞 Level Three 💞
We are alike rather than unalike. We are born of the identical source, we come from the same environment, we are of the selfsame essence. We are all interrelated, all in the cosmos is interconnected. Another person is a variation to me myself, in which sense I observe myself in You and You observe yourself in Me, thus You are Me and I am You: We are each unique and yet one. There is no "I", neither is there any "You" ‒ there is only "Us", and only "Us" means a loving harmony. In this regard, the answer to the question, "Where do You end and I begin?", is: Nowhere. There are no boundaries in the sphere of the infinity of our soul.

💞 Level Four 💞
The world is neither black nor white, it is multicolored, and the truth lies in one of the shades of gray ‒ like Yin and Yang: there is a bit of black in white and there is a bit of white in black. A human being is such too: being not monolithic but multicolored, multilayered, and, yes, "multividual"... There is duality within him or her, ligh and dark, joy and pain... People play different roles in life, go through various phases, some hide behind their masks... There is a certain kind of ambiguity. And so does an "individual" exist at all, or is there but a "multividual"?

The Infinite "I" © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Nesmírnost ‘Já’", written on 4. 10. 2021

An inspiration to this loose reflection essay of mine, through which I offer my own insight into the main motif, was the beautiful brainchild named "Mnohodinec" (whence the neological "Multividual") of Lucia Kašiarová & coll., who has presented it in the frame of her "performative non-solo" in Studio ALTA (seen on 19. 6., 5. 10. , 23. 11., 15. 12. 2021; 2.. 3., and 22. 9. 2022).

Mnohodinec (site in Czech)
Lucia Kašiarová & Ufftenživot: Mnohodinec (English)

15 November, 2021

Catharsis by Fire

Baptism by fire will purge you;
you behold the fire's formidable glow,
which will burn down
but the old, but the evil,
for the new
from it will arise

Catharsis by Fire © Ladanseuse
Written bilingually, in Czech "Katarze ohněm", on 15. 11. 2021

14 November, 2021

Girl, Bound in Fear

bound in fear,
her bashful eyes can only see
miniscule moles as giants mounts;
the mind engulfed  in thoughts
her lips cannot tell of;
her closeness drowns in the distance,
and yet she hides the whole world in her heart
from fear, the thief
that from her will steal 
all things and souls
that to her are dear.

Girl, Bound in Fear © Ladanseuse
Written bilingually, in Czech "Dívka strachem spoutaná", on 14. 11. 2021

Carpe diem II.

The present moment
is lying in your hand
like a gem ‒

do not let it go:
only it is breathful,
malleable, emotional, zestful;

only into it life can be breathed
before it has swiftly gone
and become a memory engraved in stone;

it whispers: Here and now is where and when I dwell,
reach for me FULL of love,
present your being in art with an open heart,
hear out my "carpe diem"!

For any "next" you wait not,
for what is behind the door is unknown,
a story to be told,
another moment may as well be "never more".

Carpe diem II. © Ladanseuse
Written bilingually, in Czech "Carpe Diem", on 14. 11. 2021

Nefelibata II.

I am a cloud walker,
a Peter Pan of the skies;
what is not, I dream up;
what is, only dreams realize;
only in reverie I feel alive;
it makes me ask whether you are real,
or whether I've dreamt you into being ‒
you, my too-good-to-be-true one;
a dream of my heart,
which would stop beating
if you were gone.

Nefelibata II. © Ladanseuse
Written bilingually, in Czech "Nefelibata" on 14. 11. 2021 

22 October, 2021

My Heart's Endlessness

 You err in surmising that
by my boundaries I was thrust into loneliness;
since my Self is limitless,
I am boundless and yet alone.

'twas not mine,
but the other
that closed,
in fear of the depths ‒ I am the depths...

Thus, my heart broke
and is now full of love,
a love with nowhere to go...

My Heart's Endlessness © Ladanseuse
& edited bilingually, in Czech as "Nekonečno srdce mého", in 2021

21 October, 2021


That lunatic
got on the train,
out of the window his sanity went,
even if he swore blind that would not be the case,
and got off at the next station, where
he hurled love into a burning pyre.

Meshuga © Ladanseuse
Excerpt from a poem written in 2000, transl. & edited  "Mešuge" in 2021

The Dance of Heart-breaking Tenderness

Stars of hands in flashes are intertwined
in a misshapen murk,
wherein the heart has burst with a bloody desire;
in sparkling fireworks the soul's vigil
over the dancing body subsides;
bare feet ‒ naked skin ‒ on shards.

A whirl of drumming in the heart is drowned out by the siren's sound;
night on Earth descends
like a nuclear fallout
of an ego puffed-up;
the mind filled with magic mushrooms
is groaning itself hoarse;
just your huge owlish eyes are full of shine
as the death bell rings.

Tenderness ‒ a desert Fata Morgana
appears within reach;
a pulsating artery of flowing gold,
blinded eyes,
a twisted hand
in beggarly agonies.

In a mane of hair
a voice resounds in waves;
dignity is in a bow;
here stands a Mecca
for the Englightened.

The Dance of Heart-breaking Tenderness © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Tanec něhy srdcervoucí" 2021, written in 2001

18 October, 2021

Love, Spellbound

Clouds of black ravens are swarming in the heart, 
bewildering mojo abracadabra,
into a blur dives the world
of my eyes, faces, cars;
the army of darkness in the bareness has sown fright.

Love, a dream of the sun you've become,
shining every heavenly day
to die bewildered by will-o'-the-wisps at night;
 a child lost to its mother you are,
obscured in dispair of eyes.

Love, Spellbound © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Lásky zakletí", written 2001

The Perfidious Promise

Hope ‒ the perfidious promise
of childlike, smiling eyes,
sweetly kissing lips, 
a gratifying embrace;
hope ‒ but one touch of yours suffices
for yet another hopeless day
to arise.

The Perfidious Promise © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Věrolomný příslib", written in 2001


You can break me up,
as I have no heart;

you can condemn me,
as I have no soul;

you can slay me,
as I have no body;

you can ignore me,
as I am nonexistent.


Omnipotence © Ladansseuse
Transl. "Všemoc", written in 2000


Behind the window meows a cat
like a lovelorn sweetheart
with shining eyes, dreamily
wandering at night
until the cerulean skies of another morning
makes the wanderer
veiled in melancholy
go beddy-byes.

She will then curl up
in the warmth of her fluffy coat
to roar once more
behind my window
at night,
she, naughty wanderer!

She-Wanderer © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Tulačka", written 2000

A Materialized Dream

I am lonesome, as if lost. As if I dreaded all smiling faces in the scent of spring long gone. As if all was shiny in my dark, in my invisible dark. Strange how hard it is, being able to be happy. Being able to shy away thoughts of my own nothingness. The world turning around me. The sleepless nights and the heavy daily sleep. The undying restraint. Runaway feelings fly on the streets like fragments of the soaring soul. Those dark thoughts, those thoughts have taught me to fear, to fear the world in its seemingly staged defenselessness, fear words, fear to move, fear to look, fear to live, fear a wild joy that lies in things I cannot but need if fulfilled. In the need for protection and safety, the need for support and encouragement, the need for a smile and an embrace, the need for understanding and harmonious consonance..., the fulfillment of which cannot be troublefree, the fulfillment of which cannot be complete. There are no solitaries ‒ there are warriors only, indomitable and unbreakable and incorrigible spirits only. Only those that can perceive each nuance innerly, emotionally, under a veil of mystery, under a mask of untouchability, under a cloak of impassivity. Words may be unsubstantial and deeds illegible. Is the world possibly drunk with its own fame, who knows? Giving must surely be more than taking; it is like a fervent wish that has started burning within and engulfed all of me, with a remaining void afterward. And I am just a reader of unwritten lines, a listener of unspoken words, one drowned in the shine of a never lit light. I am roving and longing and pining ‒ for the shining bliss of dance; for the road that will lead me there; for the hand that will reach out to lift me and hold me... so that I can get up, wake up and see the truth devoid of wandering fantasies that change reality into a blur of a never experienced morning. Who am I and what can I do when unaware of it and the world is silent? Why do I always feel that the world starts dancing the moment I fall asleep? That I must not look on or even touch that dancing world? If only my palm print on a window pane never faded away and my footprints never disappeared, if only my eyes were never consumed by sleep, if only my heart were never in want. Unless unrestraint is possible, all the doors to the world remain closed: All cannot be managed, understood, gotten, believed... My doubts are paralyzing, breathtaking, blinding, darkening, and so deafening that all the rest is inaudible... and my smile has gone some place and cannot be found. Are there only dreams left? Who can hear, see, feel, understand? Where is MY angel? Whence does my constant sense of being depreciated and underestimated derive? I do not know-not know-not know, but I need it so. Please, I am begging please in spirit. Why am I alone when not being so? Why am I sad? Why do I have needs, why is there a need for needs? I want. To change. The World. The world of colors, the world of sounds. This one. Mine. Ours. No-n-sense. Truth. Laugh. Tears. I must find strength, the strength to see beauty, the strength to emanate beauty. A beauty unknown and ungraspable and alluring. I want to give in to it, to be it. To believe that there are no dark shadows; and if so, that they can be shied away. To feel. To be near love. To percieve nuances of all. Not ignorance, not madness ‒ certainty in the discovered truth. A strength that will fill me with longing and I will walk up a hill like a happy fool, my scream being louder and my faith stronger. And I will dispose of my body, as I have chosen my soul. In my dance will I find my heart that will never stop beating. In the immateriality, in the life energy. I will become my dream. And when I hear the calling, I will respond. Always will I respond. In all certainty, I too will get a response, coming to awareness once. There is nothing, except for fear perhaps, to be found in ill premonitions. I would like to feel alive without remaining unknown; to know that my being equals to my giving. I know of my ability to love, fight, be; to find the energy of an untethered strength. There is a need to learn to live. To understand what I can and cannot have; acknowledge the value of what I have and have not. To go on, without asking futilely, to find that which I am meant to eventually. DANCE! DANCE! DANCE! To be dance. To be dance. To be dance, music, and myself in all faith. To love and to give myself. Not to hear my heart weep. It is diminishing my stamina and I need to go on... to go on and on unwearingly step by step getting closer to my dream..

A Materialized Dream © Ladanseuse 
Trans. "Zhmotnělý sen", an undated stream of consciousness, edited in  2021

17 October, 2021

Fragments of the Absolute

I will not narrate it all; this will not be the absolute but fragmentary traces of the magical depth of perception that lies in the power of moments, for whatever is once verbalized and named ‒ particularly that which cannot be contained so ‒ will be taken out of that deep, endless sphere of the essence and pure truth, nearing the superficial and the limited, wherein it will be veiled in illusory secrecy ‒ whereas the nonverbal, impalpable and spontaneously free will remain where it is supposed to: in the instances that have endowed a perceptive soul with an understanding that needs no words...


I have made a spiritual, even mystical journey, being filled with pain and sadness on the verge of explosion at first to gain power of a good, unbeatable kind after an inner rebirth. All was nurtured by the intensity of all, by a plethora of percepts: the starry sky above; the nature teeming with life and yet devoid of the suffocation of a city; the nightly silence, absolute but for the chirps of crickets, monolithic just as dark; the sun that burned as it warmed up; dance and my strolls through the village, both of which were wearying me physically but spiritually turned into a hungry need, nutrition and then fulfillment; music ‒ the age-old beating of drums that pulsated through my body daily; and all the souls drawing near one another just as growing apart, both fighting and embracing each other, becoming one...The total mindfulness, freedom of the mind, emotiveness... And one would create, starting at each new dawn, so as at night, when one would coalesce into its still, one would become fully aware that the day had not been fulfilled by time as much as by traces one had left behind on one's journey... and that if one had been a painter of light on that day, one had become a child of infinity...


I have come to a realization that the pain I felt is not ‒ cannot be, despite all appearances ‒ my enemy. It is inevitable, and even if not ‒ I should not shun it. If I let it enter me, dwell in me; if I suffer it, letting it go through me, and make it go away on a psychical plane ‒ then, when the pain disappears, I will grow from it, becoming stronger than before.


I am said to have taken the "difficult" path, which is said to be "incorrect". I do not decide for a path according to its easiness or difficultness ‒ of optional ones, I choose such that I consider right, as it leads to the (notional) temple; i.e., where I would like to get. If the path that leads to my destination happens to be hard, am I supposed to turn around and leave it so as to tread another, easy one instead that leads nowhere though? Certainly: if I am not genuine and if I do not mean business; otherwise: hardly. The way to success cannot lead through successfulness; in constrast, it leads through failures; before climbing up the mountain top, one will likely fall and get hurt many times on one's way there and the time spent on it will be a test of one's patience, but if one wants to reach one's destination, the choice to be made is clear-cut.


Moreover, there is the aspect of dissatisfaction: Since it is not satisfaction but dissatisfaction that makes one to take pains to meet the desirable end; since when one is satisfied, what would one strive for? One might as well rest on one's assumed pedestal, but if one made no effort whatsoever, what would one live for? Just to breathe and eat and sleep? And if it was true that one's world is so perfect, spotless, light-heartedly floating in time, if it is fulfilled, why would one seek other worlds ‒ spheres that will wake one up, interrupt one's slumber, and enliven it with authenticity?


Fragments of the Absolute © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Střípky absolutna"; undated, written ca. 2003-8; Vojnarka, Trstěnice u Litomyšla

16 October, 2021

Phoenix Rising

We floated like water
unknowingly in our sweet reverie,
but we were tinder
that caught fire,
which plunged us into misery.


We fondly wish it had not happened, for the flood of pain was, and still may be, maddening. Even if we heal, we remain scarred forever; even in the brightest shine, there is a flitting shadow here and there. We rightfully feel that it is “not right”

But... it is the deepest pain that can lead us to become our highest Self should we possess enough strength to undergo such an inner transformation.. Pain can be alchemized into power, the greatness of the former being directly proportional to that of the latter. There is a Sufi prayer that says, "Break my heart into thousands of pieces so that it can be filled with endless love." We wish to be safe, despite which we cannot remain closed to the world, as only with the open heart can we be loving.

This too is part of our becoming whom we are now; such is the path we have taken; such is our destination: Here we come as such and we cannot "unbe" so. We would be different if it had not happened the way it did, not necessarily better off ‒ temporarily happier perhaps, but likely poorer in spirit too. We would not have reached as far as here ‒ where we are predestined to be. 

It is not about the negation of reality ‒ it is about re-focus on inner growth and wisdom; about the finding of some meaning even in dark places as we shine our inner light upon them. It is baptism by fire, but one through which we will be reborn.


Inner trials are immeasurable and individual, thus futile are efforts to measure them objectively. My heartbreak or trauma may be devalued in uncompassionate eyes that regard it as "no big deal", but still it is my reality that reserves, with due empathy and understanding, such recognition. 

Therefore, rest assured, I say so with utmost respect and compassion for people and that which they must have gone through. I know what suffering is and so do I know that no-one wants to suffer, thus I deeply feel for all sufferers. I, being but a humble one, do not imagine triumphing over all ‒ I just refuse the victim mentality that would only render my hands tied. 

The mythical Phoenix rose from its own ashes as a transformed, new being, which, to me, is a great symbol of a sufferance that has lead to greatness. Alas, not all rise... But can we rise? Yes, we can! Whatever exists or happens is what it is, but it is our perception of it that predetermines how we perceive it, and thus it will appear to us. Who or what determines what is or is not beyond us? We ourselves do! Let us stay strong!


Should you rise, like I have risen, from the ashes of your own life, you will discover that...
not even annihilation is the very end, as from the incinerated a new life shall spring; 
there exist no irretrievable losses, for any loss is followed by renewal;
neither do bad events last for eternity but strengthen one for self-advancement.
Änd so find in yourself the faith in continuation, courage and resolve to go on;
find in yourself the strength to live and you will soar like a Phoenix high above!
That is, yours is a brave heart!

Phoenix Rising © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Fenixův vzlet", written 2020 - 2021

26 July, 2021

The Desert of the Flesh

 It is called love,
but it is a desert of the flesh;
a game of tears – souls – verity – happiness
 with innocence.

Screaming reflections of bodies outlined in the dark
– a flickering dream –
pain is gushing out 
with life.

Stone to stone,
it is the soul's end:
in a single yank,
into a fumbling craziness –
the soul fills with emptiness.

And the desert of the flesh
full of despair,
temptation – love,
which, when expelled from the mind,
means nought.

The poetry of words has turned into stone;
when it's over with the soul,
the flesh becomes all.

There is a war raging
in the heart –
and I cry out: Amen!;
and I cry out: Peace!

The Desert of the Flesh © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Poušť těl", written in 2000, edited in 2021

The Wind and the Flower

 She heard the wind as he whispered into her blossoms;
the flower – inquired – what do you want?
He caressed her – nothing, I just like you.

But the wind intensified;
the flower – still, she would thrust herself into his arms.
He blew – I just want to be with you.

The first droplets advised her
of an imminent storm;
the flower – her petals were falling off.
He squalled – get lost!

Then the wind subsided;
the flower – in vain did she seek the sun.
He had fallen silent.

And last, the wind blew away;
and the flower?

The Wind and the Flower © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Vítr a květina", written in 2000, edited in 2021

25 July, 2021

The Infinite in Us

I once dreamt of strolling a landscape the beauties of which fascinated me and excited my longing to capture them, but their greatness frustrated my efforts to do so and so they slipped away, making me feel so hollow... 

I felt that it was the depth of my sensitivity, perceptiveness, and focus that would determine my ability to recall that which had passed, but which I longed for to endure unchanged, to immortalize – to reclaim the lost from the abyss of time and animate it.

It is as if all vital energy sprang from the onflowing moments. There is the preciousness of things that we hold dear but that will never recur, if only in dreams. The full grasp of the present moment will do for the wisdom of infinity, so let us enjoy each gulp of the wine of life to the fullest.

The Infinite in Us © Ladanseuse

11 July, 2021

Dance in the Heart of Eternity

I am fascinated by a creative process, by that which inspires and incites the birth of a concept, endowing that dreamed-of, visionary brainchild with vitality so as to render it a tangible reality, or—as A. Huxley put itthe miracle of naked existence.
And here comes a vision, free and pliable, as though 'twas born out of shivers of moments, which are being shaped like the wind blowing sand into dunes and molded by invisible hands into the zenith of eternity, filling one with a feeling of tasting particular ingrediences of a meal the full flavor of which has yet to be known. And since all the incoming has been absorbed and accepted with openness and faith, the vision shall be fulfilled.
I am drawn to creative work, not only because of its esthetic qualities, but also because it fills me with joy of living. Any day that carries hope that I will succeed in creating or sharing something is a day worth living — only then, at dusk, when everything merges into silence, can I be fully aware that the day has not been fulfilled by time only, but that I have truly lived it, doing so in a meaningful way.
Dance in the Heart of Eternity © Ladanseuse

Hidden Riches

 I would love to be wise enough 
not to dwell on things of no apparent avail
              if it were not for the secret essence of the immense dark—
the dark of intangible riches of the world,
in the midst of which I find myself with bare hands, 
in ceaseless hope of being awakened to the underlying haven of dreams becoming true.

I would love to be wise enough 
always to capture the meaning of a moment before it is gone,
since, my goodness,
it is something so passing and immaterial, and yet of essence,
for eternity must have started with a single instance,
for life is a succession of moments,
of which this one and only is the first step on a journey—
a journey the destination of which is destiny.

Hidden Riches © Ladanseuse

27 June, 2021

Starlight of the Growing Mountain

 It would be a success to me always and clearly to see the meaning of my life,
whatever it would be based upon,
and get the subsequent sense of contentment and happiness.

People can set high goals:
as if they were climbing up a mountain that is constantly growing;
as if their forest was taken by wildfire on a yearly basis;
as if each of their depictions was better than the previous one without any one ever becoming the conceptual ideal;
as if they were reaching out their hands toward dreams burning in the sun or drowned in the ocean;
as if they let their soul get lost, fly to the stars,
and escaped from the surrounding darkness into the salvation of inner light,
still being empty-handed on the outside this notwithstanding.

People want to see their star shine, not look down upon their dreams trampled upon.
People are creators: Oftentimes, they wish to create something great, palpable, and striking 
that would represent kind of a proof of their worth, that would leave a trace --
and that is their poetry of life: to fulfill a void.

And yet, it is a miracle that they are alive at all.
And yet, they paint light like children of infinity --
all despite their losses, pains and failures,
all despite their imagined quirks.
As individuals, they are a towering mountain drowned in flames of the sun.

Starlight of the Growing Mountain © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Hvězdná záře rostoucí hory", written on 20. 11. 2006, editen in 2021

26 June, 2021

Putative Delight Junkies

In your youth,
no-one has mercy on you;
you are but junkies of a delirious night,
of visions of a lost ideal,
the condemned of putative delight.

Putative Delight Junkies © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Feťáci domnělé slasti", written in 2000, edited in 2021

The Picture of Mute Defiance

he wrote on the wall glaringly blank
in the color black
with a spray in the hand
in the war of the silent
messengers and rebels,
the downtrodden and the odd,
in too loudly screaming nakedness.

The Picture of Mute Defiance © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Obraz neslyšného vzdoru", excerpted from the poem "Malíř" (Painter) of 2000, edited in 2021

25 June, 2021

If Only My Laugh Could Be Alive

If only it would come alive,
if only it could be alive,
my laugh.

And eyes that wander in the haze of the earth,
shadows on the wallpaper come alive,
inaudibly does the heart thumb from afar.

It bears traces of the past,
slumber is hosted by closed eyes
and the still engulfed
dreams of dancey visions of the mind.

A tranquil breath resounds in the peacefulness of duvets,
the Pole Star has risen from the cold of the night
in its warm shine
that watches over castaways.

In the place where beauty has spread its wings
gentle moon reigns the night;
in my presence that golden bloom appears to rise.

How severe is the fight 
with irreversibility,
love leaves even in the sleep.

Where's it gone,
the innocence of childlike love,
with the sound of steps
joyful child voices resonate.

Farewell, my concubine?

If Only My Laugh Could Be Alive © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Kdyby tak uměl žít můj smích", written in 2000, edited in 2021

17 June, 2021

On the Wings of Time

 It is waving me,
time that has spread its wings;
the night is white,
a full glass of wine;
the mind is engulfed,
yet in silence entrapped.

In the morning
the mist silently veiled traces of me;
like my dream
I disappeared
in the whiteness full of queries.
Whenever his soul sings,
peace is embracing me.

His is a warrior's heart,
unbeknown to him;
I can sense the pain
as it's weeping in secret,
as "men" do not cry aloud;
the burnt soul
wills its wounds to cool
like a running train
that is going through all stations.

In the morning
his nearness
became a labyrinth;
the day smiled;
his voice drowned in the sea.

Where has it gone,
the little flame
that he ignited in me
and that is still burning?

Why am I looking for him
when as though he was omnipresent?

On the Wings of Time © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Na křídlech času", written in 1999, edited in 2021

16 June, 2021

A Fanciful-wakeful Lass

 A fanciful-wakeful lass
with a magic star on her palm,
she's climbing up to the sky,
drowning in the rising sun
to fall down, beat the dust
and kiss the day good-bye.

She's drawing a picture of beau monde,
keeping her mind so madly strong;
she's down on her knees,
dropping her heart, so weak;
her sorrow makes her blind to see
through salty tears
that rob her eyes of joy
in the world full of jeers.

Vain are hopes, empty's damnation,-
love is her icon,
so wanted, so untold,
belonging to Heaven,
having fallen to a fragile soul,
to a tiny nook in the huge space,
as a weak ray of light in the dark,
always finding its place.

And the lass, strange to reality, is awake,
awake to her dreams.

A Fanciful-wakeful Lass © Ladanseuse
Written under the title "A Stranger to Reality" in 1999, edited in 2021

13 June, 2021

My Soul Unavowed

Water roars wickedly
in an avalanche of colloquies
that torment my soul
in silence.

My Soul Unavowed © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Duše má, zamlčená", written in 1999, edited in 2021

Close to Farness

In the vicinity of the beloved
hatred lies in the distance;
there is just one step to an abyss
in the labyrinth of a silent world.
In the company of the unsuspected
fear hides in questions;
thoughts are too lively,
faster than light.

Close to Farness © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Blízko nedohlednu", written in 1999, edited in 2021

Those Wistful Eyes

  Those eyes
that will no longer see the light,
drowned in tears,
set upon the heavens;
those eyes
downcast, fixedly,
that seek,
that wander;
those eyes
that has been loving for too long
are pining.

Those Wistful Eyes © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Ty oči unylé", written in 1999, edited in 2021

Heartbeat in the Mist

Heartbeat in the mist;
shadows are dispersing,
light is floating,
tears are murmuring.
A bitter moon of the eyes;
traces are vanishing,
silence has resounded all around.

Heartbeat in the mist,
moist palms of hands;
the soul is melting away.
Inaudible tidings
the mind is slumbering,
dreams have drowned in the night.

Heartbeat in the mist;
a muffled scream
has torn the heart into pieces.
Life in fallen leaves;
angels are listening;
writings on walls 
say, I love you.

Dreams are floating about;
another darkened street;
legs have grown heavy;

Like bell it sounds,
the heartbeat in the mist;
loudly it is crying out,
and yet softly it is treading.

Heartbeat in the Mist © Ladanseuse
Transl. "Tlukot srdce v mlze", written in 1999, edited in 2021

My Very First Post!

Enchanted Woe