Want to be punished like this.

I was such an idiot. I didn't know anything about mystery or majesty. I didn't understand how plants worked & wasn't interested in learning. None of the food I liked to eat was good for me. I hurt people, I didn't know how to open up to them. The word "love" was as blank a thing to me as a butterfly was; and that latter I'd just as soon have killed as photographed – that is if I were ever even to notice one, which I never did.
Happily, though, my crianza played itself out in brutal Bucks County, where one is not allowed to go on for too long without being made to account for oneself.

Recordar

To remember;
from the Latin re-cordis,
to pass back through the heart.

Žižekniks bloggling

Things appear when the balance of the void is disturbed. What we call creation is a cosmic imbalance, a cosmic catastrophe. [...]
Love is a cosmic imbalance. I have always been disgusted with the idea of universal love. Love is an extremely violent act. It's not "I love you all." Love means "I pick out something," it's a structure of imbalance. Even if this something is a small detail, I say "I love you more than anything else." In this quite formal sense love is evil.

TANTRAMAR

Les foins qui nous ramassions dans nos doris –
salt hay like down Plum Island where the Merrimac dumps –
midst clamor of waterfowl, Akkadie!

Someone took this picture of me ten years ago at that Vienna kaffeehaus (whose name eludes me) famous for having been the first place in "Europe" ever to serve the stuff, back in Ottoman days. I was there to celebrate the release of my cousin's first record. It seems like I was much younger than I am now. Her record was great, we all loved it then, and it's since become a classic throughout Mitteleuropa. Massy tides of memory. I hadn't seen the photo for some time: it surprised me last night coming out from between two pages of a volume of Βιζυηνός that I've been revisiting. I like the affection I feel for myself when I look through this little window across a decade's distance.

The floor shakes under my belly for a minute and a half as the Odessa train hauls itself past our house. I'm on the parquet most of the morning, my torso propped up on its elbows to effect a slight back-bend (countering the ache resultant of too far a walk on pavements last night with heavy bag of new books & no arch-supports) and to free up my hands for the sketch-work spread out on the floor before me. Sketching the several interesting varieties of flowering shrub that hang so insistently, so independently, so immediately in the dense silver-washed air of the world captured by the collection of Crimean War photographs my brother brought home for me from Jassy. I'll show my sketches to Pavel Durgeyevich who is sure to be able to identify them.

Thin paper, weakened by the wet of a drizzly run of days & a crying jag, parts against the slight tug of Beard Street's cobbles like the jib sheet of a Gloucester schooner struggling against gales up the Gulf toward Βοστόνη. Voice gives to gulf of silence, inscription eclipsed by the hollow behind it. Day blooms.

Awake too late, three calls already having come in for me to the phone that my brother and I use in the house next door and we're all out of pu-erh till he (my brother) gets back from Jassy. Make do with a mate (Ilex paraguariensis). Scrambling my morning body all over the empty house. The days go quietly, by evening-time my ego relaxes and becomes "self", I harmonize the chaos of cosmic forces in me: then I go to sleep. Morning poses the entire question again. Beautiful, deciduous lives of consciousness.