Back, working, :o)
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,Each passing year
,,,,,,,,,,,,,never failing to exact its toil
,,keeps altering what was sublime into the stuff
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,of comedy
,,,,,,,If the exterior is eaten away is it true then
that the sublime pertains by nature only to an exterior
,,,,,,,,,,which conceals a core of nonsense
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,is something eaten away
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,or
,,,,,does the sublime indeed pertain to the whole
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,but a ludicrous dust settles upon it
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,?
- Yukio Mishima
A woman, a black willow weeping, hauls a blower through an autumn forest, tracing her path with clearings swept through the leaves, she struggles with the weight of order, beautiful and fragile and strong
A woman, dressed in a bunny suit that slips down to reveal small impatient breasts, staggers and stumbles through a barren landscape of rock and mud, looking for something she doesn't know
two old men in old brown wool trenchcoats and tobacco tweed trilbys shuffle across the mud to their hitchcock rhythm, seeing not the breasts but only their memories
A woman in blue hotpants runs blindly through the forest screaming out for mama
The wind blows the fading silhouettes of two oriental waifs they smile bow legged in underwear and run down a lost highway
There are numbers on the trees counting off each breath
and 28 men walk through the forest with crying babies
A woman sits smoking a cigarette in an armchair in the middle of peak traffic
and a man shaves in a puddle at the side of the road. The splash of passing tyres rinses the soap away but he sees only the blade and his reflection.
A man carries a wardrobe on his back across an empty field
a woman ties a belt tight around her waist and counts her breath
whilst yet another dances rhythm with her hands behind a fall of water in a glass house
and a man's naked body dances salsa covered in mud in a greenhouse filled with bright coloured flowers
Listening to: Ravi Shankar
,,,,,,,,,,,,,never failing to exact its toil
,,keeps altering what was sublime into the stuff
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,of comedy
,,,,,,,If the exterior is eaten away is it true then
that the sublime pertains by nature only to an exterior
,,,,,,,,,,which conceals a core of nonsense
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,is something eaten away
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,or
,,,,,does the sublime indeed pertain to the whole
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,but a ludicrous dust settles upon it
,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,?
- Yukio Mishima
A woman, a black willow weeping, hauls a blower through an autumn forest, tracing her path with clearings swept through the leaves, she struggles with the weight of order, beautiful and fragile and strong
A woman, dressed in a bunny suit that slips down to reveal small impatient breasts, staggers and stumbles through a barren landscape of rock and mud, looking for something she doesn't know
two old men in old brown wool trenchcoats and tobacco tweed trilbys shuffle across the mud to their hitchcock rhythm, seeing not the breasts but only their memories
A woman in blue hotpants runs blindly through the forest screaming out for mama
The wind blows the fading silhouettes of two oriental waifs they smile bow legged in underwear and run down a lost highway
There are numbers on the trees counting off each breath
and 28 men walk through the forest with crying babies
A woman sits smoking a cigarette in an armchair in the middle of peak traffic
and a man shaves in a puddle at the side of the road. The splash of passing tyres rinses the soap away but he sees only the blade and his reflection.
A man carries a wardrobe on his back across an empty field
a woman ties a belt tight around her waist and counts her breath
whilst yet another dances rhythm with her hands behind a fall of water in a glass house
and a man's naked body dances salsa covered in mud in a greenhouse filled with bright coloured flowers
Listening to: Ravi Shankar
posted by tara at 6:26 am
3 Comments:
that's a wonderfull surreal landscape you describe there...
It is nice. You should check out Adam's photgraphs. I particularly like the heart.
this is pina bausch's dance, 'lament of the empress'. . .
I like the heart. I once saw a severed head of a small bird, looking up from the foot of a tree. A very beautiful picture in the album of my mind . . . no body, no wing, just unseeing eyes and silent beak . . . though the photograph i hold carries the echo of movement, flight and song . . . just as your quail carries the memory of a heart beat . . . i want it to be smaller, dwarfed in space that i might imagine it between my thumb and finger, not to crush it but to truly imagine how something so tiny measures the moments of a life . . . and the sweep of blood is lovely...
musing
:)
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