a is either a mystic or I am going crazy. And why can't it be both, you ask? The randomness of thoughts coming together and drifting apart. Sometimes a word also loses its meaning with time.
Since I'm reading K.Irby and J. Cheever simultaneously they sometimes get mixed up with one another.
'as a hand of sunlight into the room
drawing figures on the wall.'
Words which are indecipherable. It may be because it's winter; or maybe you were never destined to understand much. Look at the blank wall or the sleeve or the fair narrow wrist, but never the writing.
You run (up to 8 K now) and find yourself vanishing into the breeze, running through it. A dark November evening, running in a channel, hemmed in by memories of childhood's special, dark November days. And yet, you realize how far they have receded now.
'Traveling acres of sunlight. I remember...'
'you taste for the first time the strangeness of those voyages, battlefields, and hotel rooms in which you will, as a grown man, find yourself frightened and alone.'
'he seems to have the identical smile, as if this expression-this transparency-were a quality of light and existed independently of one's features.'
Books randomly placed on top of one another on a shelf: The Vertigo Years, Choice, Welfare and Measurement, Czeslaw Milosz, Speamann, Walser, Julian Barnes, Rebecca Solnit, John Broome, William Bronk, askew on the top in light grey.
Today is bright and the light rests gently on the top of the leaves, reminding you of a deep forest you walked through once. And you are divided within yourself: this beauty and tranquility has always existed and will so forever; if I did not see it it would collapse like a pack of cards.
The I has left the stage,
straight out of there,
I find myself
saying.
The past, your past, drawn down to a whisper. What was given to you at birth seems to have disappeared; all strikes up now as a false note, except, perhaps, your Jewishness...
As I rummage through my clothes in my closet I realize I'm talking to myself. Is this any different?
As you grow older you think every fall, every sin, is somehow unique to you; when you are young each mistake is as old as sin, as old and eternal as human history.
"Why is there so much sun when it is winter?" asks little r, almost talking to herself, and deep down I feel proud she has sort of inherited this hatred for the southern light. But in winter the quickness of its demise is a sight to behold, the flagging, exhausted last hours, the piercing shadows cutting it down to size, the squares and rectangles of light, burning with a brilliant orange hue on old brick walls.
Since I'm reading K.Irby and J. Cheever simultaneously they sometimes get mixed up with one another.
'as a hand of sunlight into the room
drawing figures on the wall.'
Words which are indecipherable. It may be because it's winter; or maybe you were never destined to understand much. Look at the blank wall or the sleeve or the fair narrow wrist, but never the writing.
You run (up to 8 K now) and find yourself vanishing into the breeze, running through it. A dark November evening, running in a channel, hemmed in by memories of childhood's special, dark November days. And yet, you realize how far they have receded now.
'Traveling acres of sunlight. I remember...'
'you taste for the first time the strangeness of those voyages, battlefields, and hotel rooms in which you will, as a grown man, find yourself frightened and alone.'
'he seems to have the identical smile, as if this expression-this transparency-were a quality of light and existed independently of one's features.'
Books randomly placed on top of one another on a shelf: The Vertigo Years, Choice, Welfare and Measurement, Czeslaw Milosz, Speamann, Walser, Julian Barnes, Rebecca Solnit, John Broome, William Bronk, askew on the top in light grey.
Today is bright and the light rests gently on the top of the leaves, reminding you of a deep forest you walked through once. And you are divided within yourself: this beauty and tranquility has always existed and will so forever; if I did not see it it would collapse like a pack of cards.
The I has left the stage,
straight out of there,
I find myself
saying.
The past, your past, drawn down to a whisper. What was given to you at birth seems to have disappeared; all strikes up now as a false note, except, perhaps, your Jewishness...
As I rummage through my clothes in my closet I realize I'm talking to myself. Is this any different?
As you grow older you think every fall, every sin, is somehow unique to you; when you are young each mistake is as old as sin, as old and eternal as human history.
"Why is there so much sun when it is winter?" asks little r, almost talking to herself, and deep down I feel proud she has sort of inherited this hatred for the southern light. But in winter the quickness of its demise is a sight to behold, the flagging, exhausted last hours, the piercing shadows cutting it down to size, the squares and rectangles of light, burning with a brilliant orange hue on old brick walls.
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