Dinsdag 6st, Maart 6:4:1 Am
|41 jaar vrouw, Centaur|
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Op een openbaring, dat wil zeggen op een psychische ervaring van zulk een dwingende en onverbiddelijke kracht, dat de betrokkene het gevoel heeft, niet dat hij een gedachte of een visioen heeft, maar dat een gedachte gedachte of visioen hem bezit en overweldigt. Zie ook alle tags voor Cri Stellweg op dit blog en ook mijn blog van 27 november Uit: Ik maak je een graf van letters. Hij trok dan het been op tot de kuit te rusten kwam tegen de binnenkant van de dij en met zijn hoofd ter hoogte van de knie werd er geknipt en gevijld, met een klein tangetje werden losse velletjes weggetrokken, de nagelriemen teruggeduwd, met de vingertoppen de bal van de voet, de zool, tenen en wreef afgetast op onregelmatigheden of oneffenheden.
Mooie voeten en terdege onderhouden voeten. In badkamer of slaapkamer kwam het niet zelden voor dat wanneer ik tijdens een of andere bezigheid wat voorover leunde, ik die voet in mijn bilspleet voelde, althans van die voet de grote teen. Hetgeen nogal eens uitliep op voortgezet lichamelijk contact. Ik heb daaraan denkend misschien wel geglimlacht, zittend aan het voeteneind van zijn bed, maar omdat hij daarop niet reageerde en zijn stem – ‘Wat is er te giechelen?
De communicatie tussen ons was na al die jaren verbroken. Ik keek op van zijn voeten, om te zuchten of zoiets, toch in verwarring gebracht door die tot nu toe gezamenlijk gedeelde herinneringen die nu misschien weldra alleen de mijne zouden zijn. Mijn herinneringen ja, die heel eigen herinneringen van mij aan zijn voeten. We waren onderweg naar een kampeerterrein aan de Dordogne. De kinderen waren klein. We waren te laat van huis vertrokken.
De schemer overviel ons min of meer, Noord-Frankrijk was nog maar net bereikt. Hij besloot dat we maar een stop moesten maken voor de nacht, zomaar terzijde van de weg die loopt van Etain naar Verdun. De kleine groene legertent werd opgezet, vierpersoons maar met een beetje duwen en goeie wil pasten we er met ons vijven wel in. Maar de auto, ojee, de auto met alles eraan en erin voor drie weken kamperen, die moest daar in de berm blijven staan.
Cri Stellweg 23 maart — 26 november Cover. Zie ook alle tags voor Jonathan Ames op dit blog. It was the presence of life and the coming of violence, and that anticipation, that sensitivity, enabled him to turn in time and catch the blackjack on his shoulder, which was better than taking it on the back of his head. Also, it was his left shoulder and Joe was right-handed, and, turning around completely, he was able to grab the man’s wrist before the blackjack came down again, and they were face to face, the same height, and Joe immediately drove his forehead, like a brick, into the bridge of the man’s nose, shattering the bone, and the man, his eyes blinded by red pain, began to fall, and Joe brought up his knee, brought it up hard, without mercy, into the man’s jaw, breaking it.
The man went down completely, strings cut, lifeless but breathing. Joe quickly swung his head to the left and the right. He was in an alley wide enough for a car. He’d come out of his flop hotel’s service entrance in the middle of the passageway, and no one was walking by or had stopped at either end. No one had seen. There was street light coming from the avenue, but the alley was mostly in shadow.
Joe wiggled his left arm, trying to get life into it, the blackjack had numbed the whole limb, and he dragged the body behind a dumpster and quickly went through the pockets of the light coat, a blue windbreaker. The fallen was a pro. No wallet. No ID. Just keys and a money clip with about two hundred dollars. But there was a cell phone. So he wasn’t a total professional.
He didn’t anticipate losing, and he didn’t anticipate being hunted, like Joe did. Joe never carried a cell phone. Joe looked at the blackjack. Police issue. Probably a bent cop from the Cincinnati suburbs doing a little moonlighting in the big town, where his face wasn’t known. Whoever had sent him didn’t want Joe dead. Not yet, anyway. They wanted to bring him in, talk to him. There was probably a partner waiting in a car, waiting for a call.
Joe would have been spooked by a car in the alley, so this one had hidden in a cove of a doorway. He’d sap Joe and call his partner. They’d throw his body in the car and bring him to the boss. Jonathan Ames New York, 23 maart De Japanse dichteres en schrijfster Yōko Tawada werd geboren op 23 maart in Tokyo. Zie alle tags voor Yōko Tawada op dit blog. Humane hormones a pedestrian zone flowing between bonehouses Fish patties Herring on a bun Beach reads featuring perspiring bosoms Ultraviolet the universal eye color Your ebb and flow synchronized with foam economics A breeze shakes salt in your face Did you see The cook is dead lying beside his three arms chopped off and thrown on the ground an apron, wrinkly as the North Sea, which he dished up daily a nourishing medley The napkins are stained with rosehips and sky A poorly-defined national flag Not even the bedsheets with their dreamstains can be washed clean amid these faded scraps of order an expansion or industrial milk teeth: pillars without a roof.
He said I was an animal with horns dwelling eternally in the first seven years of life. My attempt to find a habitable age. You have already found it. An open landscape of hills, shut up within the body of the camera. There is no haiku about the interior in which no seasons exist. Yōko Tawada Tokyo, 23 maart Zie alle tags voor Gary Whitehead op dit blog. I like to slice them along the seam, blade balanced on the fulcrum of pit —that density, like bone, inside the flesh— and roll until it’s cut clean through.
Then the twist as if uncapping a jar,. But always before I eat each smooth half comes the urge to put it all back together. For two nights now it’s wakened me from dreams with a sound like paper being torn, reams. Blind in the dark, I think of my father’s. They were addressed to his sister, my aunt,. She was one of many things we never spoke of.
But when the phone rang. That voice had resurrected the picture. Now the awful sound, waking me again like a secret, calls to mind the poison. I left out, and my mother on their bed tearing a box of letters into shreds. Gary Whitehead Pawtucket, 23 maart Zie alle tags voor Mitch Cullin op dit blog. For almost two months, he had been away, traveling by military train across India, by Royal Navy ship to Australia, and then finally setting foot on the occupied shores of postwar Japan.
Going and returning, the same interminable routes had been taken—usually in the company of rowdy enlisted men, few of whom acknowledged the elderly gentleman dining or sitting beside them that slow-walking geriatric, searching his pock-ets for a match he’d never find, chewing relentlessly on an unlit Ja-maican cigar. Only on the rare occasions when an informed officer might announce his identity would the ruddy faces gaze with amaze-ment, assessing him in that moment: For while he used two canes, his body remained unbowed, and the passing of years hadn’t dimmed his keen gray eyes; his snow-white hair, thick and long, like his beard, was combed straight back in the English fashion.
Are you really him? No, I don’t believe it. I scarcely believe it myself. Instead, the whole vacation—while filling him like a satisfying meal—felt unfath-omable in hindsight, punctuated here and there by brief remem-brances that soon became vague impressions and were invariably forgotten again. Even so, he had the immutable rooms of his farm-house, the rituals of his orderly country life, the reliability of his apiary—these things required no vast, let alone meager, amount of recall; they had simply become ingrained during his decades of iso-lation.
Then there were the bees he tended: The world continued to change, as did he, but they persisted nonetheless. And after his eyes closed and his breaths resonated, it would be a bee that welcomed him home—a worker manifesting in his thoughts, finding him else-where, settling on his throat and stinging him. Of course, when stung by a bee on the throat, he knew it was best to drink salt and water to prevent serious consequences.
Naturally, the stinger should be pulled from the skin beforehand, preferably seconds after the poison’s instantaneous release. In his forty-four years of beekeeping on the southern slope of the Sussex Downs—liv-ing between Seaford and Eastbourne, the closest village being the tiny Cuckmere Haven—he had received exactly 7, stings from worker bees almost always on the hands or face, occasionally on the earlobes or the neck or the throat: the cause and subsequent effects of every single prick dutifully contemplated, and later recorded into one of the many notebook journals he kept in his attic study.
Mitch Cullin Santa Fe, 23 maart Cover. Zie alle tags voor Roger Martin du Gard op dit blog. Uit: Les Thibault, I, Le pénitencier. Mais avec moi, ce sera une autre affaire. Thibault parut interloqué. Thibault un regard attentif. Oui, je sais. Le remède est bien plus dangereux que le mal. Ses journées se passent dans une oisiveté pernicieuse. Roger Martin du Gard 23 maart — 22 augustus Zie ook alle tags voor Madison Cawein op dit blog.
A Broken rainbow on the skies of May, Touching the dripping roses and low clouds, And in wet clouds its scattered glories lost: So in the sorrow of her soul the ghost Of one great love, of iridescent ray, Spanning the roses dim of memory, Against the tumult of life’s rushing crowds A broken rainbow on the skies of May. A flashing humming-bird among the flowers, Deep-coloured blooms; its slender tongue and bill Sucking the syrups and the calyxed myrrhs, Till, being full of sweets, away it whirrs: Such was his love that won her heart’s rich bowers To give to him their all, their honied showers, The bloom from which he drank his body’s fill A flashing humming-bird among the flowers.
A moon, moth-white, that through long mists of fleece Moves amber-girt into a bulk of black, And, lost to vision, rims the black with froth: A love that swept its moon, like some great moth, Across the heaven of her soul’s young peace; And, smoothly passing, in the clouds did cease Of time, through which its burning light comes back A moon, moth-white, that moves through mists of fleece.
A bolt of living thunder downward hurled, Momental blazing from the piled-up storm, That instants out the mountains and the ocean, The towering crag, then blots the sight’s commotion: Love, love that swiftly coming bared the world, The deeps of life, ‘round which fate’s clouds are curled, And, ceasing, left all night and black alarm A bolt of living thunder downward hurled.