March 9
By some inexplicable privilege everything remains just as it was, till in the end we feel more or less comfortable, like a souvenir on a shelf. Sleeping long, evoking the calm waters.
From summary to more.
Succeeded, of course.
Clear enough.
-
The work between them: to memorize the objects in a picture. An entire day listening to nothing claiming the greater part of the labor. Fragments that exist side by side laboring in silence, bent forward to trace themselves together. All the furniture in the room lifts up bits of film. Years have lacerated their feet. Yellow, white and grey, disposed horizontally to fit into a real night, and no more.
None of it is exactly cheering. (What fear is, makes me envious)
Trust to luck and do nothing but work. The entire human race sits invisibly, ceases to be simple reporting: the eye not blind the heart neither stony nor corrupt. Swallowed-up and drowned in the artificial noise, our planet, radiating towards our planet. Then suddenly the ordinary: (they have hearts too and can be different)
- by virtue of being born, perhaps for nothing.
- a short rest and a little while to recover.
- a sack of wood wool, then we may sleep.
- the crack of a closed window. feel my heart beating, carry it away, and the dialogue that follows, all relations broken already with that ferocious world, death and phantoms, bare helpless and unarmed, at least outside the transforming realm (one can hardly call upon the world)
-
we hope they will bring us safely to dry land.
-
And after that?
Towards each other and smile?
The mountains that gleam in the sun?
-
Sleep, sleep, she murmurs, we are on shore, we are sitting in any of our opera houses, on a suitcase of notes which might teach us everything, the map of our first country of love, an erogenous flood, an inundation, a greatly-enlarged terrain, a document of great length and squalor, a mortal shape carrying evil to the limit in the voiceless heart. Writing, transfixed, cannot help deserting us, trailing, broken off among the constant implications of tragedy, forgotten in a ditch, in an ancient grave, overgrown into what it touches and comprehends.
Ourselves in a pine forest.
The sound of approaching footsteps scatters the white fragments.
By some inexplicable privilege everything remains just as it was, till in the end we feel more or less comfortable, like a souvenir on a shelf. Sleeping long, evoking the calm waters.
From summary to more.
Succeeded, of course.
Clear enough.
-
The work between them: to memorize the objects in a picture. An entire day listening to nothing claiming the greater part of the labor. Fragments that exist side by side laboring in silence, bent forward to trace themselves together. All the furniture in the room lifts up bits of film. Years have lacerated their feet. Yellow, white and grey, disposed horizontally to fit into a real night, and no more.
None of it is exactly cheering. (What fear is, makes me envious)
Trust to luck and do nothing but work. The entire human race sits invisibly, ceases to be simple reporting: the eye not blind the heart neither stony nor corrupt. Swallowed-up and drowned in the artificial noise, our planet, radiating towards our planet. Then suddenly the ordinary: (they have hearts too and can be different)
- by virtue of being born, perhaps for nothing.
- a short rest and a little while to recover.
- a sack of wood wool, then we may sleep.
- the crack of a closed window. feel my heart beating, carry it away, and the dialogue that follows, all relations broken already with that ferocious world, death and phantoms, bare helpless and unarmed, at least outside the transforming realm (one can hardly call upon the world)
-
we hope they will bring us safely to dry land.
-
And after that?
Towards each other and smile?
The mountains that gleam in the sun?
-
Sleep, sleep, she murmurs, we are on shore, we are sitting in any of our opera houses, on a suitcase of notes which might teach us everything, the map of our first country of love, an erogenous flood, an inundation, a greatly-enlarged terrain, a document of great length and squalor, a mortal shape carrying evil to the limit in the voiceless heart. Writing, transfixed, cannot help deserting us, trailing, broken off among the constant implications of tragedy, forgotten in a ditch, in an ancient grave, overgrown into what it touches and comprehends.
Ourselves in a pine forest.
The sound of approaching footsteps scatters the white fragments.
#
posted by Scott MacLeod at 6:36 PM
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