I am traveling in rags. I've been under glass for many months. The evening was consumed, then drowned. A SECOND SKIN, THAT TRACES THE PATH OF CONSCIOUSNESS.

The hare.

The act of looking is never innocent. I am thinking about the act of seeing. I am preoccupied with the gaze. My gaze. The gaze directed at me. Discrete individuals I've met. Everything is represented uniformly: the black cat, the paleness of my legs, the hare hanging from the ropes on my balcony. We will not speak of eating, of tasting now, as it is only sight that concerns me today: the absent condition.

New dawn fades

When she smiled, she raised a hand up to her breast, palm upward with her rings scintillating downward, while she gazed at her companions in apparent amazement. The hand then traveled from her bosom to envelope the valley under her high cheekbone. With downcast eyes she allowed the smile a slow but controlled retreat, as if her lips, that were very red indeed, needed some time to return to their normal stance, lest they be damaged in the process.

Winter molar

I sometimes return to my own blog with the feeling of wonder you get when opening a dusty box in the back of the closet.

No, it's like - a molar in the back of my mouth, that I'm totally unaware of and only my dentist reminds me to take care of it.

No, it's like - a handful of crumpled shopping lists in the pocket of a winter coat. My blog posts are like shopping lists to me.

I see myself under water, blue and twisted, sucked into the mud, soiled and wounded and with my eyes I follow my corpse as it swells and breaks free, floats to the surface. It gets stuck on the hull of a boat, that drags it along over mud and rocks.

Reiteration.

I've been in absolute darkness for the last fourteen days. My eyes are not healing well. I'm so alone it's maddening. Today, I got op with a aching pressure above my sick eye and my head is heavy from lack of sleep. Now that I've moved myself, like everyday, to my dark study, I can feel through the double curtains that it's cold, wet and dreary outside. The wind is tugging at the shutters and blows a melancholy tune down my chimney. With every gust of wind, the rain clatters against the windows.
I try to evoke some of the cheerfulness that I lack, in my cat, and lure her with a peace of string; but she retreats to her warm basket near the radiator. She's cold and sad like I am.

It's not a sexual thing

I'm into girls lately. This morning, as I was on my bike to work, I noticed this woman riding in front of me. It's a very hot summer, she was dressed lightly, in a skirt of some metallic fabric, and a tight red top. She had big boobies, that fascinated me, because of their calm, majestic sway, going from left to right as she rode her bike. I can easily understand why men are so mollified by boobs. The sight of them was just plain beautiful. Even though I never got to see her face, I loved her instantly. It's not a sexual thing. I'm just really into girls lately.

Lost & Found

I lost my voice, but now I've got it back. My shoes wore thin, but I learned to walk barefoot. My brain was hanging upside down. I know the mortar in the wall breaks.

I gave up on photography though. I am not cut out to be a street photographer. I'm just too shy. That, or I need to buy a large obtrusive camera to hide behind. All I really need is a cigarette.

Regular Expressions

One of the more comical aspects of love is that you love all your lovers in the same manner. You use the same tender or shameless little phrases with them. Observed with a little amount of detachment, this can be a secret joy.

Oeuvres Romanesques

This guy walked up to me today, carrying four segments of different 17th century maps. Photocopies. He wanted to know if I could make them look like old photographs. Not old maps, but old photographs of maps, mind you. He wanted them back in about an hour. I looked at the maps and noticed this triangle of barren land, no houses on them, getting gradually more developed over time, on the progressive fragments of the maps he'd given me.

Not a mailserver

I AM NOT A MAILSERVER. Requests to email the FAQ will be silently

ignored.

Mina Loy

Ostracized as we are with God, the watchers of the civilized wastes reverse their signals on our track. Lepers of the moon, all magically diseased, we come among you, innocent of our luminous sores. Unknowing how perturbing lights our spirit on the passion of Man, until you turn on us your smooth fools' faces like buttocks bared in aboriginal mockeries

We are the sacerdotal clowns who feed upon the wind and stars and pulverous pastures of poverty. Our wills are formed
by curious disciplines, beyond your laws. You may give birth to us, or marry us; the chances of your flesh are not our destiny ---

The cuirass of the soul still shines ---And we are unaware if you confuse such brief corrosion with possession.In the raw caverns of the Increate we forge the dusk of Chaos to that imperious jewellery of the Universe

--- the Beautiful ---
While to your eyes
A delicate crop

of criminal mystic immortelles stands to the censor's scythe.

I was at a high school reunion and finding none that I recognized as a former classmate, I wandered about the school building, which was already more than a century old when I attended classes there. It had since been rigorously redesigned, refurbished, almost reinvented, but I could still make out some of the original structure by observing closely where new parts integrated with older structures or where a peculiar joint in the wall revealed some of the old design; low on the walls, near the floor, or at the base of a set of steps. I felt like an archaeologist, rediscovering the shapes of the old even when they were painted over in the bright, flashy colors of modernity.

Then I remembered that in my schooldays I had hidden - or perhaps failed to retrieve - something, some item or object, under the tiles of the backstage restrooms in the school theater. I could not remember what it was, but I knew that it was an object of great importance to me. There was a great feeling of urgency to retrieve it, now, as this high school reunion was probably my last chance of getting it back.

The theater wasn't there anymore, it had been demolished to create a large open space in the heart of the building. The restrooms had survived though, with their original doors and tiles all in place, but covered in a layer of thick, rubber paint. War colors. Red, yellow and blue. I had to make a cut with my pen knife in one of the tile joints and tear off the layer of paint. It revealed the floor as I remembered it, just plain bathroom tiles, yellow with age, covered with crumbs of cement that came off with the crazy blue paint.