|
|
dhalgren
|
|
|
Zeke
|
inhabit the ruined edifice of a life in flux adjust to lack of change as a progression from unself to deconstruction of I in passing and passing into the aimless will to
|
031119
|
|
... |
|
|
vv
|
lately
|
031205
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
the_ruins_of_morning
prism_mirror_lens
creatures_of_light_and_darkness
|
080204
|
|
... |
|
|
z
|
it is not that i have no past. rather, it continually fragments on the ephemera of now. in the long country, cut with rain, somehow there is nowhere to begin. loping and limping in the ruts, it would be easier not to think about what she did (was done to her, done to her, done), trying instead to reconstruct what it is at a distance.
|
080204
|
|
... |
|
|
see:
|
http://blather.newdream.net/cgi-bin/blather?refs;word=dhalgren
|
080204
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
blather is the Bellona of the internet
|
080205
|
|
... |
|
|
z
|
bellona is the blueprint for blather? perhaps that is why i like it so much. like bellona, blather does have an alarming mix of personalities. anything can happen here, and does, like the smoke-bound city of his imagining. i think your comparison is apt. funny that i never recognized that. thanks for that.
|
080206
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
It's one of my favorites now. I can understand why you periodically reread it, z. I love that nothing is answered.
|
080223
|
|
... |
|
|
z
|
the thing i find most remarkable about this book is that when i remember events from it i remember them as natural memory. it's not even cinematic, not stylized, but visceral, experiential. the way delaney uses passive voice seems to sneak past my fictive filters. the directionless light without shadows, the creosote tang of the low ceilinged sky, the ash grit under one foot all happened to me as i read. it is these which keep me returning to bellona.
|
080301
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
Yes, I can feel myself as a scorpion outside on the street, slightly befuddled that our house is burning. Or maybe I am the kid choosing the next house. The way the mall (?) tall building looked from the street to the kid before he went in. Getting lost in the sweet flesh of sex.
|
080316
|
|
... |
|
|
z
|
and the conversations, the lingering moments. time dragging and skipping. the shifting landscape, the myriad ways through that open to different places. who you are with seems as important as where you are. and it changes, not only what you find/see/experience, but who you are. it even changes the sky.
|
080317
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
looking down on the party from the balcony
|
080401
|
|
... |
|
|
z
|
operating the polychrome dress
|
080401
|
|
... |
|
|
z
|
artichokes.
|
080401
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
walking through the gardens, drunk
|
080401
|
|
... |
|
|
z
|
orchids
|
080402
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
one shoe
posters of george
|
080402
|
|
... |
|
|
z
|
non-sequential newspaper issue dates
|
080403
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
I sold my copy to a Brit ex-pat. I wish I still had it. I also hope he got it/got into it.
|
080701
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
Taking a break from moving, going to the downstairs apartment and smoking a joint
|
080701
|
|
... |
|
|
z
|
a woman in green coveralls with orange construction boots at the top of a ladder, changing the street name signs (randomly?)
|
080702
|
|
... |
|
|
()
|
(i think it may be time to read it again)
|
081205
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
yes- I'm going to purchase a copy
|
090227
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
Truly amazing, this one
|
100409
|
|
... |
|
|
()
|
(yeah. a perennial favorite, at least. i never tire of rereading this book. "leaves crashed against his cheek.")
|
100410
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
Here I am and am no I
|
121209
|
|
... |
|
|
z
|
...to wound the autumnal city.
|
121209
|
|
... |
|
|
Ouroboros
|
I am limited, finite, and fixed. I am in terror of the infinity before me, having come through the one behind bringing no knowledge I can take on. I commend myself up to what is greater than I, and try to be good. That is wrestling with what I have been given. Do I rage at what I have not? (Is infinity some illusion generated by the way in which time is perceived?) I try to end this pride and rage and commend myself to what is there, instead of illusion. But the veil is the juncture of the perceived and perception. And what in life can rip that? Is the only prayer, then, to live steadily and dully, doing and doubting what the mind demands? I am limited, finite, and fixed. I rage for reasons, cry for pity. Do with me what way you will.
|
130509
|
|
... |
|
|
(z)
|
(@oroboros: beautiful words)
|
130510
|
|
... |
|
|
that should be
|
@ouroboros
|
130510
|
|
|
what's it to you?
who
go
|
blather
from
|
