Let me weep over my cruel fate

Lascia ch’io pianga

Mia cruda sorte

E che sospiri

La liberta

Il duolo infranga

Queste ritorte

De’ miei martiri

Sol per pieta

 

Let me weep
my cruel fate,
and let me sigh for liberty.
May sorrow break these chains
Of my sufferings, for pity’s sake

 

99997

There is something about today… I am not myself. It seems I am other… filled with a sense of jouissance.

 

99998

The unyielding strain of an undisplined life fills my heart with sullen promises and false hopes

 

drowning in the depths of half sleep…

i was pulled out, my head and body leaden and heavy. limpid and unaccustomed to the glow of the television, not to mention a little bit vengeful, disturbed from the lulling thickness… the near-death embrace, a passage into this other world that i also inhabit. and this is what i heard…

 

someone i needed so long

for once in my life

i have someone who needs me

someone i needed so long

for once unafraid

i can go where life leads me

and somehow i know i’ll be strong

for once in my life

i won’t let sorrow hurt me

not like it’s hurt me before

for once i have something

i know won’t desert me

i’m not alone anymore

 

Winterchamber

Looking over his face, half turned and sheltered by sleep. It’s easy to think of another world as dawn breaks over his shoulders, tattooing a skein-glimmer of leaves, shifting, anemone-like over his pale canvas – an arcade-housing of bibelot ephemera, of snow-soaked fragments articulated in the ink-stained days of love and writing.

How does one describe the hidden language that draws you deep inside another person? To hold their thoughts on your tongue. And laughing, together, as though of twins – twice-folding within the one, falling in and out of each other. In spaces where your bodies are held, only to unfold another time.

A small winterchamber built for two, or perhaps, for this one that is there too. Echoes to other chambers within, twice borne, a vessel where secrets are kept and a small reservoir of blood. A love child, no less. And now two.

 

wherein memory’s veil does love take root

                       tout y parlerait

                                  a l’ame en secret,

                    sa douce langue natale.

                                                                                      – Baudelaire

 

hemstrung days

How did I end up here?

So far
        inside this foreign land -
with its beaded suns and its longing for wisdom.

The days under burden by some unseen eyes,
where shelters are worn for comfort and not disguise.

Is it bewildering
       even to our fearless hearts
when lovers
keep their doors locked
                   for pride
     or fear of old age?.

Or is this what we recognise as existence
in this strange barren place?

I know not myself when I’m here

and I’ve now been lost for twice that long.

Can I undo my bonds from where I don’t belong?
Or have I sunk my roots too deep

like an ill-stricken tree
waiting

to be uprooted

by some fierce storm in some unknown time.

Waiting quietly

and

offering shelter for disguise.

 

in it she lands

the empire of the senses. the empire of a darkened sun. a moonless sky no less.
so it is one arrives at the netherland of false truths and vanishing narratives.

how to view david lynch’s new film, inland empire. for $7 a night you get a sense of the acephalic. or more portentously, a truth you refuse or are too scared to admit.

how does the night wind up in this way? that not only do you loose your way, you loose everything you knew about yourself. you wind up with someone else’s history which you do not understand and have no way of discovering until it is too late. as if it’s always meant to be this way, a part of your own future but for the fact that it has already happened to someone else.

more and more, i am convinced that it is the fear of being stuck in the present that is not ours to possess that presses us on, through the grind of the everyday, driven by a degree of thanklessness in living.

and sometimes, our subconscious reveals to us the grand plan. but sedated in our dreams, we can handle – anything.

and timelessness takes on a new identity as if it were living amongst us.

perhaps this, perhaps this empire is so vast that we are unable to live it. so we are driven to repeat our own histories.

 

99999

And so begins another friday half way through the day. These fridays always start again, as if to haunt all those other days stacked up in the corner waiting their turn.