What is this dialect—tearing the oilskin remnants of time—the sun a hot dripping ball of wax sealing shut another sudden day—a new place a new suit a new matchbox—walk this gauntlet overshadowed by a pair of rotors and a smile—another scene stuck in a feedback loop—(hey who let all these gnomes out in the desert)—welcome to distortion a normality found in the far reaches of a certain type of mind—if it makes sense do not r e p e a t do not report it—a pattern of melancholy strung up like twinkling lights throughout the ages—now we enter the cloud chamber now we genuflect to the amplifier—to celebrate a sudden soaring up of souls on waxen wings of failed entrepreneurs—now there is this feeling this feeling of looking up at lights in windows from sidewalks sewn lifetimes away—a hurt that feels too good not to press on a little—our survival depends on this twisted nest feathered with compulsions—and we pass through the gates—(having entered as sound, blind)—we board the vessel and wait—what ho, off the starboard bow is it Scylla is it Charybdis or is it nothing at all nothing at all—(we exit as light, deaf)—next time take the train it’s said to be more scenic—wait everything changed again—wait wait there is no next time.
Posted by birds fly on December 9, 2013
Speaking of his autobiography in a 1985 interview with The Paris Review:
Some people like the theory of literature contained in the book above all.
Indeed! Which is the continuation of what is in my novels and my theoretical works. None of these points is indifferent to me, at the same time none really interests me. What does interest me is the weaving of all these different elements in the book; the way they mix in movement, constantly shifting and changing, as if they were fragments of me. When I think of myself, I feel that I am made up of fragments in which there are childhood memories, fictional characters I particularly care about—such as Henri de Corinth—and even characters who belong to literature and with whom I feel I have family ties. Stavrogin of The Possessed and Madame Bovary are related to me exactly as my grandfather is, or my aunt. So it is the way all these figures move and refuse to be fixed that excites me. Well, at least that is what I say today. Another day I might say something different!
I am certain that a novelist is someone who attributes a different reality-value to the characters and events of his story than to those of “real” life. A novelist is someone who confuses his own life with that of his characters.
Posted by birds fly on December 1, 2013
[...] but I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.
I myself am very grey, I even sometimes have the feeling that I emit grey.
—Samuel Beckett, Malone Dies
Posted by birds fly on November 30, 2013
[Codependent] You: Full of myself. Me: Full of yourself.
[Narcissistic] Me: Full of myself. Me: Full of myself.
Bonus Missed Connections:
[Linear] You: Forever first in line. Me: Forever last in line.
[Nonverbal] You: Always talking. Me: Always listening. *
*File also under: Failed Connections
Posted by birds fly on November 24, 2013
Found lurking in my RSS reader, courtesy of the always fantastic Public Domain Review.
Full-text of De Monstris available at Internet Archive.
Posted by birds fly on November 20, 2013
[Sappy] You: Reading poems in the library. Me: At the next table, writing poems for you.
[Creepy] You: Staring out the window. Me: Staring back from behind that tree.
[Retrospective] You: Wondering where I was. Me: Living next door.
[Modern] You: Checking your phone. Me: Checking my phone.
[Incompatible] You: Running a marathon. Me: Lying in a ditch as you pass by.
Posted by birds fly on November 20, 2013
Bonus Photo (note: closer to home than above)
Somewhere Else (SE) constitutes a removal of oneself from fixed behavior chains, thought patterns, and/or emotional states. It does not necessitate a change in physical place, although such a change can certainly strike flame to tinder.
(Photos taken with crappy cell phone camera. Pelican photo taken through binocular lens.)
Posted by birds fly on November 19, 2013
Creeping crepuscule, descrescent light, harbinger of dreaded return to EST, where darkness dampens day’s early end. Decumbent drone diminishes daily, drowsy in the drawing room. Sip long from murky melodies, muddy froth spilling forth in rivulets, dirgeful delights diverging in drone’s ear canals. Mellifluous miasma of musical melancholia!
Dismantling of outdoor seating commences! Desperate attempts to affect staring at nothing continues. Doctor Chumply the Mouth Breather appears, Mickey D’s in hand, heart-attack-in-waiting, following with tiny aggrieved steps the trail of nitroglycerin tablets strewn across the decking. Take the elevator, not the stairs, for they are locked, despite the sign in the kitchen encouraging good health through stairs-taking. O, Dr. Chumply, what will become of you, will you follow those tablets to the Haunted Wood™ where the witch stokes her stove as she awaits your fleshly delights.
[But Christine, what of loneliness, standing there behind the invisibility cloak, always working, always writing, what did engagement mean for you, O Invisible Author, did you drape yourself in a duvet woven with words...]
lumpfish: Any of various fishes of the family Cyclopteridae, especially Cyclopterus lumpus of North Atlantic waters, having pelvic fins united to form a suction disk and a body bearing prominent tubercles.
tubercle: A small, rounded prominence or process, such as a wartlike excrescence on the roots of some leguminous plants or a knoblike process in the skin or on a bone.
Quick now! Homophone challenge question: would you rather your words resonate or resinate. Think about it while staring into the clouds.
Posted by birds fly on November 6, 2013
From an infinite distance, I saw the floor. Ofélia. From afar, I tried to reach the heart of that silent girl, in vain. Oh, do not be so frightened! Sometimes people kill for love, but I promise you that one day you will forget everything, I promise you! People do not know how to love, do you hear me, I repeated as if I might reach her before, in refusing to serve truth, she should proudly serve nothingness. I who had not remembered to warn her that without fear there was the world. But I swear that this is breathing.
—Clarice Lispector, “The Foreign Legion”
Posted by birds fly on November 5, 2013