DRAGONS

A Mail Art Collaboration

DRAGONSpoems by Guido Vermeulen

story and images by Martha Aitchisonwith an introduccion by Gianni Simone

GUIDO VERMEULEN Belgian poet. Creator of Fri-our Network Magazine which started as a reac-tion against the war in Iraq. Friour is ‘the resultof crossovers between different networks and ashared zine, meaning that several editors fromthese different network environments could makean issue around a theme’, he explains. The Drag-on poems were written for issue 3, ‘Finding Mythsfor a Lost Time’ co-edited with Marisa Antonaya,a Spanish artist at present living in Thailand.

MARTHA AITCHISON Artist, born in Argentinanow living in London. Curator of the ShoppingTrolley Gallery, a display of artwork on the trolleythat carries the family shopping from the super-market to her home. The purpose of this mobileinstallation-cum-performance is to open Mail Artto the public or , as she puts it, ‘to inflict Mail Arton innocent bystanders’. She wrote the story ofDrac just for fun, an activity in which she indulgesoccasionally as antidote for the sorry state of thisworld. The Dragon images in this book were hercontribution to Friour 3, in homage to all the Godsthat lay forgotten in the collective unconscious ofhumanity.

GIANNI SIMONE Italian artist living and workingin Japan. Editor of Kairan, an open format maga-zine dedicated to the discussion of Mail Art topics.Kairan, that is ‘read and pass on’ in Japanese,means exactly that but also it means that it canbe freely photocopied and redistributed. It is thesuccessor of Numero, the Mail Art zine that wasedited by Wilfried Nold for many years. A veryoutspoken editor, contributing at times some-what explosive arguments, Gianni joins actively inthe discussions in every issue. After all, as hesays, the privilege of being editor is that ‘this waynobody will be able to tell me to shut up’

I am a Dragon. I mean, I was born in 1964, which according to theChinese zodiac is the Year of the Dragon. It’s a pretty good sign:differently from European mythology, which likes to picture drag-ons as evil monsters that eventually must succumb to some righ-teous Christian hero, Eastern Asians consider them as goodfellows, and have imbued them with a number of positive values.Unfortunately I’ve never seen a dragon myself, and I’ve neverfound any evidence of their existence, apart from the Land of theHeavenly Dragon (LaHD), that was briefly a member of the Interna-tional Mail Art Council of Virtual Lands (IMACOVL) before beingoverthrown by a revolution (the Lord of LaHD was not exactly ademocratic ruler).

That’s why I was very surprised and envious when I heard thatMartha Aitchison had a dragon living in her frog pond. I wonder whythese things always happen to other people It’s not that Marthadoesn’t deserve it, mind you. After all, her Buddhist faith probablymakes her the right person to be blessed with such a gift. In her ownwords, Buddhism is “an eminently logical system to make sense oflife”. Therefore I guess that only someone who embraces “religiouslogic” – and a “good”, peaceful religion like Buddhism - is able to seedragons…

Of course when I say ‘religion’, I do not necessarily mean the com-monly accepted, organised cults. Everybody can have his or herpersonal approach to this subject. Take, for example, Guido Ver-meulen. He is constantly playing with signs, stones, snakes, tur-

INTRODUCTION

random notes on home-made mythology

Gianni Simone April 2004

So it was just natural for Martha and Guido to collaborate on thisbook, originally thought as a contribution to a project on New Myths(part of Guido’s activities with his Friour Network Magazine). Iwanted to comment on these poems and graphics, but then Irealized that explaining or judging religion, mythology, or whateveryou want to call this (I’d say ‘poetry’), would be like rationalising onsomething that must be felt more than understood. The only thingI want to stress is the lesson that Martha and Guido are trying toteach us: do not try to change things according f course when I say‘religion’, I do not necessarily mean the commonly accepted, or-ganised cults. Everybody can have his or her personal approach tothis subject. Take, for example, Guido Vermeulen. He is constantlyplaying with signs, stones, snakes, turtles, what have you, alwaysstressing the humorous side of things (burping Buddhas, anyone?),always avoiding the pompousness of the holier-than-thou defendersof orthodoxy.

So it was just natural for Martha and Guido to collaborate on thisbook, originally thought as a contribution to a project on New Myths(part of Guido’s activities with his Friour Network Magazine). Iwanted to comment on these poems and graphics, but then Irealized that explaining or judging religion, mythology, or whateveryou want to call this (I’d say ‘poetry’), would be like rationalising onsomething that must be felt more than understood. The only thingI want to stress is the lesson that Martha and Guido are trying toteach us: do not try to change things according to your selfishneeds, but rather reduce your ego and try to blend with the world.

As for me, unfortunately I’m too rational and materialistic to seedragons. So I guess I should be content with this magical, thought-provoking, dream-inspiring collection.

THE STORY OF DRAC

or how a Celtic dragon from Francecame to live in England

Dear Reader; If you are sitting comfortably I shall tell you the storyof St. Enimie as it was related in a long 13th century poem by theFrench troubadour Bertrand de Marseille and of its outcome in ourtimes by the intervention of Martha the First of Artsnalia *, Protec-tor of Everything that Crawls, as told to me by Herself.

Once upon a time Clotaire the Third, King of the Francs, livedhappily with his son, Dagobert, later famous as a king because ofhis pants, and his daughter, Enimie.

The Princess like all princesses was very beautiful, so much so thatmen just would not leave her a momentalone; we know how she felt, we had thesame trouble when we were a young prin-cess. Anyhow she got so tired of her suit-ors that she began to pray for some relieffrom all this unwanted attention. An an-gel appeared in answer to her prayer andimmediately solved her problem by giv-ing her leprosy.

The ungrateful girl was not happy withthis solution, neat as it was, and decided

to try the waters of a spring renown for its health giving properties,far away South, near the river Tarn.

Accompanied by a few courtiers she travelled for days on horse-back, completely covered up not to frighten the horses, until shereached the village where the miraculous spring was. Here sherested and bathed and immediately her skin was healed and shewas as beautiful as she had always been.

* The Queendom of Artsnalia eventually conquered Cloudcuckooland, pop-ulated by dreamers, to form what is now the United Queendom of Retailia.

The next day the Royal party began the journey back but as soonas they left the village the leprosy took again hold of the Princessand they had to return for Enimie to have another wash. Thishappened three times as is traditional in these stories after whicheverybody got tired of the washing and drying, the packing andunpacking, the saddling and unsaddling and decided to stay put.

The Princess realised that she should better make a virtue ofnecessity and, not wanting to appear ungrateful after her previousexperience, decided to build a monastery and live there for the restof her life, which would solve the problem of the suitors as well.Princess and courtiers started on this task with great enthusiasmdrafting in as well the local labour force and even a hermit by thename of Hilaire who lived in a cave on the rocky canyon cut by theTarn.

It came to pass that the resident Dragon of that river used to sleepsoundly all day long on the river bed until the evening, tired fromworking night after night at making rainto water the crops. As the sun set hewould stretch and yawn getting readyfor his nightly duties and it was then thatthe flick of his tail would catch on theconstruction work. So, as fast as thebuilding went up by day, just as fast itwas destroyed by night.

We know the Tarn very well because werow there in the Royal Canoe and theparticular spot Enimie had chosen forher monastery nests in a tight curve ofthe river, where it narrows into fast rapids difficult to negotiate ina canoe, Royal or otherwise, we would say a feat quite impossibleto do if we had a tail.

Drac, which was the name of the Dragon in the local occitanelanguage, did apologise when he realised what was happening andmoved up the Tarn where conditions were better for take off andlanding, but the harm was done. Enimie was very angry and askedHilaire the Hermit to deal with Drac. Hilaire was convinced that the

Dragon was the devil himselfsent to torment him.

One day the combat betweenthe two took place and was longand bloody. It all finished withthe Dragon buried under astone, the hermit becoming StHilaire and the Princess becom-ing St Enimie. As to the moral ofthis tale, well, we leave it for youto figure out.

We decided it was our royal dutyto set out to liberate the misun-derstood Drac, the old Celtic wa-ter spirit. On September 12th,2002, the final stage of the cam-paign started. We found the rockunder which Drac was buried

and recited an ancient incantation passed down from Merlin tocertain members of our Royal family, just to loosen the stone.

That evening, also chanting the incantation, we entered the Tarnand collected some water in a bottle, which was subsequentlyplaced, open, on a table by the window of the Royal chamber at theManor where our Royal party was staying.

During the night a mighty storm broke up, with much lighting and

thunder, as Drac condensed himself into an invisible mass andentered the bottle.

Dragons can turn themselves very small or expand to fill the sky,the universe, even your mind, if you are lucky.

In the morning, with the bottled Dragon safely secreted in the Royalluggage, we left to return home. In the way we stopped at thevillage where it all happened. There we announced to Saint Enemiethat we had bestowed on Drac the official status of refugee in ourQueendom, with the option of becoming a naturalised artsnailianin due time, to which she said she had forgiven him a long time agoand hoped he would be happy ever after. Enimie added she wishedDrac would send her a postcard.

Back in our Realm of Artsnalia in a beautiful ceremony in the rain,Drac was installed in the frog pond to which he took like a dragonto water, and he lives there now, happily ever after as they say.

He has given up eating virgins, as they are in rather short supplyanyway, and has become a vegetarian.

Frogs, foxes, snails, hedgehogs and all our faithful subjects, includ-ing cats, have accepted him without reservations.

This is what Her Majesty told me, dear Reader, and then it came topass that a troubadour, Martrand of Beckenham, chanced to arrivein her Queendom and learned of this tale, so he made a revisededition of Bertrand’s poem finishing on a more optimistic note.

The End

Martha Aitchison April 2004

Out of Artsnalia came Martha the BoldAnd with an incantation from Merlin oldThe wronged Drac she did set freeTo abide in her Realm in mirth and glee.

DRAGONS

I'm burning all the letters I never wrotewhile waiting at a bus stop where no bus came.

It was past midnight & the owls were on the loose.Don't come any closer, said the shadow to the tree.You are already there but you don't know it yet.

Driving was never an option for me.I preferred walking on thin air,asking the same old questions to the next dragonthat became visible when I touched the sky.Just rub the skin to restore the wonders frozen in a cloud.

Are you stillAre you still hidingAre you still hiding your secrettreasure?my running shoes were stuttering madly.

You mean the fertility of peace, laughed REDTAIL wild.Do people still look for that like little kids for candy?They better stop hunting ghosts in caves and water holes.It's just lurking around the corner of their lonely hearts.The foxes can guide them but of course they target larks.

Well, war is a warrior that dies slowly.It's in the hard to handle genes of habits and habitats.Oh war is only a word, my friend, explained GREENWING.You can destroy its vowels & syllables so easily,just whisper "piece" to any Jill or Jack you meet.

But some are tone deafor they are unable to hear the beating of the sounds.Unplug their ears and if that does not helpput them all together on an isle& let them fight it out with broomsticks and phoenix feathersor let them organize a silly tune contest,BLUEWORM was suggesting.

What about the clocks & locks?Smash them, smash them all.Burn all timetables, just like those lettersyou never wrote, hissed GREYHOUND& throw away your keys.Use instead the windows as doors.

A poem is a window, dear Dragons.A window in a window in a window, the foursome corrected me.

Guido Vermeulen May 2003

LOST FANCIED TREASURE

A body drops from reminiscence to earthwhen the crow barks black awayof a sundial without conscience.

The birdman leaves the robbed nest.The last dragon's egg lies hidden under a burned rock.Looking for the vanished garden became a stumbling-blockthrough the window with view on lonely sand.

Once we were neighbours, the volcano claims.Congealed lava is the grey proofthat even an ending ends.

The letter never reached its destiny.The feathers were only mailed.The rent of stuffed savagery was cancelled.Tame bullets never died of hungerBut became ill of gluttony in the kitchenof the white house where unusually usual& cleverly clumsy served the umpteenth plateof dead as a necessity for fake freedom.

Cruelly disturbed its shadow perishes in agony.Shrieking with laughter the lunatic asks for a single name.Peace blows Lazarus and this is not his last breath.If history repeats itself it's only in the concatenationof my underestimation in the dragon's reservation.

Where go we go from here, whistled incognito.I'm building an egg incubator in the mountains of my desires,a real incubus for cluster bombs and buster shelters.Patience is the shell of heroes with wildfire visions.Patience is the flame of stones.

Guido Vermeulen May 2003

DRAGON IN A BOTTLE(our hope lies in the inner core of the sun)

to Martha & Mariko

I go MAD!Viewing the reliability of the mountain ridgetears start falling from the moonmaking a bridge to my eyes seeingthe frozen dragon in the landscape.

Dragon, dragon lost, dragon loose,let me caress the mourning-band of your dorsal mornings,let me count the rings of trees and swallow rocks to modu-late my voice,let me talk to little owl fooling men it only rainsbecause the roof is leaking.The truth of course according to the sunis that there isNO ROOF.

Dragons have a tendency to blend inwith home gardens, Buddha's belly burped.Follow the example: reduce your sizeso much it becomes that small it becomesinvisible so invulnerable.

Do we really need more protection?It's not what we need, it's what they need!Don't try to be Apollo, be like the planetsfor once in your life.

How?Learn from the foxes in Martha's garden.They will lead you to the open placewhere we all can drink Kanaloa's water.Sure, this could kill usbut sometimes you have to die to be reborn.

Mariko nodded & poured Kane's water in a bottle,threw the cap towards Selene,waiting for the waves to wash the war-dance out.Silence told her that the tiny dragon had entered the bottle by dawn.She picked it up, felt the heath & tossed it to the sky as lucky coin.The bottle capsule was growing wings & making music from escap-ing air.The levitation did not imitate Icarus.

The slow approach only intended to melt the glass cell.Freed again laughter explodedtill it chased the atoms in the cover of the stonessupplying sleep inside the circles of the grass.

Daily rituals:Listen to the songs of stones born from dragon's breath.Walk with stones in your pockets.Introduce them to the aliens.Wear stones around your neck.Throw one in a pond to save the witches.They float so one witch will be able to save you all.

The edge now has become so nearwe need to clear the earth from fire's absence.

(oh yes, our hope lies in the inner core of the sun)Guido Vermeulen May 2003

MYSTICAL

Motionless the green imitates a standstill.In no hurry it lets the will of the windplay with insects so shadow readysunspots can cheat my eyes.

While the fountain rhymes antics between the breastsof the dancer at the edge I tumble over my erased page.Almost invisible she passes by but not entirely epic.The tangent plane of unintentional being is an air bikeagainst the sadness of our mummified existence.Gum-resin decomposes in a quiet corner & discolors hope,beckons to towers of empty churches purple deep.Oh yes, the bells still are terrible liars these days.

The duck swims imperturbably to the plateof displeasure in the pubs across the ocean,an invitation to feel differentin the tossing of just another scorched earth.

The mask of the leaf falls economically from the lips.I'm gasping - She screams - We became orphansonce the dragons were expelled at the footprints of the tree.

The mask of the leaf falls economically from the lips.I'm gasping - She screams - We became orphansonce the dragons were expelled at the footprints of the tree.

The original value is a child that grumbleswhen you blow fire bubbles on her belly.

She runs away, the little girl,while she blinks roguishly with her demon eyes.Only I don't know yetif that means it is time to freeze or to bring wingsto the homeless roots on which I chewed alreadybefore my parents were born in the forced condition of total silence.I challenged them with my appearance pledgewhen they died beyond the snow-line.Still daily I greet their hill grave and go to sleep at their lover's bed.

Their deathlike hush cracks so loudit becomes audiblefrom Brussels to London to Baghdad.

Guido Vermeulen May 2003

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