(Untitled)

[mrtilley]

And a man smashes headlong into a pole on a street which I frequently traverse. Floating debris. The air is stagnant and hot, hot, hot. I am a sun spot. First day of autumn.

Pavement is no longer tile when the sky is bleeding orange. The sun is low and bloated. Talking, talking, talking.

Comments

[neptunegurl]

And there she layed .... and what did i do .. i hit her with a bean bag

[ravieslave]

Stand on the highest pavement of the stair-
Lean on a garden urn-
Weave, weave the sunlight in your hair-
Clasp your flowers to you with a pained surprise-
Fling them to the ground and turn
With a fugitive resentment in your eyes:
But weave, weave the sunlight in your hair.

So I would have had him leave,
So I would have had her stand and grieve,
So he would have left
As the soul leaves the body torn and bruised,
As the mind deserts the body it has used.
I should find
Some way incomparably light and deft,
Some way we both should understand,
Simple and faithless as a smile and shake of the hand.

She turned away, but with the autumn weather
Compelled my imagination many days,
Many days and many hours:
Her hair over her arms and her arms full of flowers.
And I wonder how they should have been together!
I should have lost a gesture and a pose.
Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.

Faulkner: Absalom^2!

[ravieslave]

Do you mark how the wisteria, sun-impacted on this wall here, distills and penetrates this room as though (light-unimpeded) by secret and attributive progress from mote to mote of obscurity's myriad components? That is the substance of remembering-- sense, sight, smell: the muscles with which we see and hear and feel-- not mind, not thought: there is no such thing as memory: the brain recalls just what the muscles grope for: no more, no less: and its resultant sum is usually incorrect and false and worthy only of the name dream. --See how the sleeping outflung hand, touching the bedside candle, remember pain, springs back and free while mind and brain sleep on and only make of this adjacent heat some trashy myth of reality's escape: or that same sleeping hand, in sensuous marriage with some dulcet surface, is transformed by that same sleeping brain and mind into that same figment-stuff warped out of all experience. Ay, grief goes, fades; we know that-- but ask the tear ducts if they have forgotten how to weep.

Muscle-memory > Kinetic