Monday, November 30, 2009

more than nought

"There, under white, crinkled sheets, between the soft shadows of a gray day, under days and days of hopeless care, lies a nine year old human fragment, breathing almost carelessly, separated of all toxic smog that now belongs only to the city outside. The rhythm of her small, heaving chest could lull me to sleep every time and again, a sleep that is safer than any depthless ocean. She is my prayer.

But the truth is here, as well. This is how she lies here. This is how I lie.

Slowly, almost doubtingly, I approach her and put my cold hand on her sleepwarm, slightly moist forehead. Small traces of rest detach themselves from her face, and with the inertia of broken light she opens her eyes. For a brief flicker she is suspended between this world and the one she came from, only to enter the here and now fully, and with that, she smiles at me.

She reaches out with frail arms and I find my spot between them, take her in my protection and as my arms are two question marks around a fading sun, I kiss her gently on her warm cheek, and her breath smells of dull roses, and for a brief, passing moment I am happy, truly happy."

- Butcherflies

Saturday, November 28, 2009


"You memorized all that?"
"Another advantage of a marijuana-free life. You might want to try it."
"Uh... try what, again?"

- Thomas Pynchon, Inherent Vice

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

nice cd cover # 13

Ludovico Einaudi - Nightbook

Sunday, November 22, 2009

song of the day (or a great part of my life so far)

Tchaikovsky - Arab Dance (from The Nutcracker)

(it sweeps. oh yes it sweeps.

i always saw black water, deep. cold. even as a child i saw. all of this.

thoughts moving like plants underwater. a gentle serenity. brushing feathertails. it must be night. in the water.

some creek. i was here as a child already. because it has been here for so long. to revisit. always a great unknown, always embracing and letting go of that one particular cassette, old by now, black with a yellow sticker and on it, black letters. black paper-cut people i did not know yet.

so enthralled. an intrigue so vague it would stay with me for years.

and then to see Fantasia. and see the. dark, black. cold. water. and to believe how i was not the only one to see this. shared minds and translucent fishes.

yes, this water. of such an ink-color you'd think you could stir it like hardened cream, but where would your hand go?

what must lie between the pebbles and the sand, which i cannot see.

it is a smooth rhythm, jagging on, never hurting, like a march into. somewhere. it invites, and dances. goes on. like the water.

sideways of reed.

and then the oboe. that one, long-drawn oboe. the central stained bird gliding over the surface, or under it, among. everything parts aside, and lets it slide through. the oboe.



it sweeps.)

Saturday, November 14, 2009

as light

oh, momentless

to roll up in curves
that what my body
aspires to be

for it is how I lie.

in all directions

if only to remain

For in the field
do not think
about the field.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

learning to fly (lesson three)

True faith isn't true faith if it isn't tested every once in a while.