a pale star through the benighted branches blurred by lack of glasses i breathe four point three below zero and blink out of order where the crows sleep secretly black shadows on black, their dreams contagious, simple, crawling with edible garbage in plenty more steps over the brittle dead leaves smell like so many autumns…
death is efficient. what else shall i say – it is efficient to the last minute detail. which makes it … deadly, i guess. or welcome, if one knows of its coming, and knows its purpose – to release the living from the burden of life. Terry Pratchett is among my favourite authors, together with…
for whatever reason, this crept to the surface of my mind, maddened by metaphors (and the rest of the stylistic analysis nomenclature): the sound is a little tinny, but the spirit is captured perfectly.
the kitchen is ever dark, and cold, and cave-like, and sombre. starting the fire, on gas or in the cooking range. the quiet determinism of those present in the house for the morning. the smell of sadness, the unspoken collectiveness of all people waiting. the setting-up of the pots, the pouring of water, the measuring…
grass…it all turns into grass. it takes everything. see, how all is grown over. it takes everything. the grass comes up in the spring, and withers in autumn, but its roots keep the memory of the past. just listen…it is all there – in those roots.
and again. for the past nights, i have been dreaming of losing her again. or not losing. it all is so confusing. my rational mind tells me- all that could have been lost, has been [lost], and there is nothing, nothing at all to be done about it. my body memory, morphic memory, tells me that something…
mīļo vecenīt, man iet labi. tikai nesanāk piezvanīt, jo iekšā kaut kas klab. tas par “zingeru” – laikam diegs pārāk nospriegots, vai arī kaut kas uz ass tur aiz kuģīša. tev vienmēr aizņemts, ar ko tu visu laiku runā? attaisīju vaļā, bet nekā, augšējais tāpat met cilpas;
another drop of ink in my bloodstream one day i will change and billow blue over pages of my undescribed world like a blot of thought dissolving in a basin of memory all clear all unforgotten strands of vapour wrapped in mist.
this is one of the songs that has spoken, speaks and apparently will speak to me. i remember the first time i heard it, on my first ever pilgrimage. the song haunted me for days. it was sung at my baptism, too. and i wonder – maybe it is a song that might be universal…
a song about how life is like a ball of yarn, made from that one single moment of truth, that one meeting, that one memory, around which all else rests. and that sometimes the making of the ball becomes far more important than the moment in the centre.
my brother is scared my father might be heading for there. fear makes my brother incomprehensible. i am not afraid of my father’s passing. knowing he kind of welcomes it, in his own way. i am afraid of not doing the right things. if i do my duty, my family will ostracise me. if i do not, i…
it was muggy the whole day. then it rained. and now, the wild plums and crab apples, and all those blossoming things stand in the suddenly not-so-emerald grass, up to their knees in wispy mist. do trees have knees? they must, once we say that they stand. the ent-ish chestnuts have produced their sheathed candles,…
