I hope this lasts

only images

"A swimming pool. A rocky bay. An empty lot. A tower. A lighthouse. These things are real and not real. They exist and they do not exist. I remake them in my mind with every new thought, every remembered detail, and each time they are slightly different. Sometimes they are camoflage or disguises. Sometimes they are something more truthful."

-Jeff VanderMeer

"The center is not the center."

A new hypertext: I now have a tumblr blog. I think it'll mostly be what I'm writing here - the reason I got it was because it seemed like a good pathway into a lot of the things I have an interest in. Anyways, I think I might also start working back and writing up my old posts from here onto the blog - pretty sure you can backdate posts. I'll have to actually make an effort at tagging things too. Who knows, maybe I'll run dry and the thing will be a dead end. But it'll be interesting to cross paths with myself.

sike[r]

"Maybe it is a good thing for us to keep a few dreams of a that we shall live in later, always later, so much later, in fact, that we shall not have time to achieve it. For a that was final, one that stood in symmetrical relation to the we were born in, would lead to thoughts—serious, sad thoughts—and not to dreams. It is better to live in a state of impermanence than in one of finality."

"Where I've been. | Where I am,"

"Then ... now ... what difficulties here, for the mind. (Pause.) To have been
always what I am - and so changed from what I was. (Pause.) I am the one, I say the one,
then the other. (Pause.) Now the one, then the other. (Pause.) There is so little one can say,
one says it all. (Pause.) All one can. (Pause.) And no truth in it anywhere. (Pause.)"

Tinnitus

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because even a person of poverty-

Someone I would have risked all for, once,
and allways,
gone now. Leaving hollows in streets
and crowds
and at the steps of buildings
in the final weeks of a month,
where someone once sat,
waiting for someone else.

Sheep in Fog

The hills step off into whiteness.
People or stars
Regard me sadly, I disappoint them.

The train leaves a line of breath.
O slow
Horse the colour of rust,

Hooves, dolorous bells ----
All morning the
Morning has been blackening,

A flower left out.
My bones hold a stillness, the far
Fields melt my heart.

They threaten
To let me through to a heaven
Starless and fatherless, a dark water.

 - Sylvia Plath

Neighbour

When you get to a certain stage of suicidal, every ''see you'' becomes a promise that you can't tell if you'll keep.

This time last year I was all pieces and splinters. Ugly. Hideous, really. I spent a bit of time visiting my neighbour down the hall. I don't really know how we ended up sharing those empty hours (or was it minutes?) together in his white-walled room, the window always open just a crack, enough to hear the bus going by. He was a 50-something French guy with hair like rust and stubble like steel wire. The guy was living in Manchester for work, but he'd had a wife back in Paris. They'd recently split up. Not quite divorced, but they were definitely apart. He wasn't that interested in the books I'd always end up talking to him about, and he'd always speak in turn about Beethoven. I knew nothing about him.

Once, he mentioned an essay.

"Lydia Goehr. 'The Imaginary Museum of Musical Works'. Have you read that?"

"No."

"Mm. She's fantastic." A long pause. He took a bite out of his toast. "Do you play Scrabble?"

"I have." I started thinking about Aarseth, about cybertexts and multicursal pathways.

"Think about when all the tiles are placed in their little rows. And you have all your words, right at the end of the game." I always won. It infuriated my brother. He broke the board. "And then the game's over, and you fold the board and let all the tiles slide back into the box. Where are the words then?"

He leant towards the window, placing his lips together and whistling a tune I'd heard through the walls sometimes. He held out some crumbs from his toast, and about three birds came fluttering down, out of the blue, landing on his hand for just moments before flying off again.

He looked back to me with a smile. I was at the door then. I could already hear in that unsounded language how it was time to leave.

"Au revoir."

"Yeah. See you."

-mysisterandI-

"Don't be scared."

Maybe it was the vacancy I had begun to taste, brought on by November—Novum ovum nine and all mine.

[re]curs[iv]e

New Blog Name

I've changed my blog title. I'd felt for a long time that the old one was ... eugh.

Frankly, I just liked the alliteration, the phonics, but the meaning of that string of words together was bland.

For now, before I can think of anything better, I'll just call it

Someone else

Mute clay smiles

'Shut up.'

  'Make me.'

Is it possible to suffer from the absence of something you don't desire?

too little too late

"Sometimes I think the best plan is to plan on a little coincidence."

Singed carte de visite

"the filmic phenomenon of the
                                                  afterimage, where what is seen

is something extra-orthographic, something

imagined"

Boom. Boom. Boom.
Boom blast and ruin.
Trying to outsound the panic
in our hollow guts.

"We have all been injured, profoundly."

Minos Trevet [Ascenius ----|

"A labyrinth without exit is a labyrinth without entrance; in other words, not a labyrinth at all."