A short story is more perfect because no image is allowed to grow.
Dear Life: the momentum in the moment. Turn the page, hold the thought, return to life saddened, mystified.
The old, posh part of town, where the houses are three story high large white buildings. The curved outer walls of the house interrupting the natural growth of ancient trees, the crumbling facade, the doors and windows flung open as if to mock time, the huge silences in the courtyard, the narrow and dark winding steps to rooms with cold floors. The isolated room where the sudden light filters through the blinds with a brilliance that makes you smile..the original white room, before distinctions...
You greet an old man who is still wearing a thick and patterned brown housecoat at 11 o'clock in the morning. His face is so interesting that you fail to notice his lack of hair. He ambles out towards you. At first I think he's one of the servants or a retired bank clerk. It transpires that he's a multi-millionaire who has lived in this house since pre-partition days. He looks at me out of the corner of his eyes. There's always something unhinged about lonely people, or those who live close to darkness. He asks me about money, interest rates, cars but looks up into the sun like a blind man. The rituals, the cheapness, the days that will not pass...
"There's something much kinder about a house which has been lived in for generations than a brand new one...old glass still diffuses the daylight on the latest hats as softly as it did on the rugs of the 18th century."
---J.B.
Nothing must be allowed to grow, only to age and disappear. The souls of your favourite shoes are wearing so thin you can almost feel the ground in them. The last streak of being between my breathing body and earth....
Dear Life,
...near your own house, 110-A, your best friend's father is losing his mind. There are arrows on the wall pointing him this way or that. It is painful to write this. Hold on for dear life. What else? The graveyard. They have built a graveyard in the heart of the Society. The Co-operative Housing Society, run by crooks and fascists...On a white wall I saw a girl's name drawn in beautiful black paint, the large letters flowery, tripping over themselves. I thought of her eyelashes.
At best: It doesn't go wrong, Just goes different. And that's absolute aliveness. (De Waal)
The mystical east, the high windows, the low seriousness, the comical faltering of your life..no image is allowed to grow, to take shape.
Dear Life: the momentum in the moment. Turn the page, hold the thought, return to life saddened, mystified.
The old, posh part of town, where the houses are three story high large white buildings. The curved outer walls of the house interrupting the natural growth of ancient trees, the crumbling facade, the doors and windows flung open as if to mock time, the huge silences in the courtyard, the narrow and dark winding steps to rooms with cold floors. The isolated room where the sudden light filters through the blinds with a brilliance that makes you smile..the original white room, before distinctions...
You greet an old man who is still wearing a thick and patterned brown housecoat at 11 o'clock in the morning. His face is so interesting that you fail to notice his lack of hair. He ambles out towards you. At first I think he's one of the servants or a retired bank clerk. It transpires that he's a multi-millionaire who has lived in this house since pre-partition days. He looks at me out of the corner of his eyes. There's always something unhinged about lonely people, or those who live close to darkness. He asks me about money, interest rates, cars but looks up into the sun like a blind man. The rituals, the cheapness, the days that will not pass...
"There's something much kinder about a house which has been lived in for generations than a brand new one...old glass still diffuses the daylight on the latest hats as softly as it did on the rugs of the 18th century."
---J.B.
Nothing must be allowed to grow, only to age and disappear. The souls of your favourite shoes are wearing so thin you can almost feel the ground in them. The last streak of being between my breathing body and earth....
Dear Life,
...near your own house, 110-A, your best friend's father is losing his mind. There are arrows on the wall pointing him this way or that. It is painful to write this. Hold on for dear life. What else? The graveyard. They have built a graveyard in the heart of the Society. The Co-operative Housing Society, run by crooks and fascists...On a white wall I saw a girl's name drawn in beautiful black paint, the large letters flowery, tripping over themselves. I thought of her eyelashes.
At best: It doesn't go wrong, Just goes different. And that's absolute aliveness. (De Waal)
The mystical east, the high windows, the low seriousness, the comical faltering of your life..no image is allowed to grow, to take shape.
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