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...

Not in the habit of remembering dreams but saw you last night. You had glasses on and you were saying something...

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• Part2  slides 10pm

Ghazal

aashiyaa.N jal gayaa gulsitaa.N luT gayaa ham qafas se nikal kar kidhar jaaye.nge 
itane maanuus sayyaad se ho gaye ab rihaa_ii milegii to mar jaaye.nge 

aur kuchh din ye dastuur-e-maiKhaanaa hai tashnaakaamii ke ye din guzar jaaye.nge 
mere saaqii ko nazare.n uThaane to do jitane Khaalii hai.n sab jaam bhar jaaye.nge 

ai nasiim-e-sahar tujh ko un kii qasam un se jaakar na kahanaa meraa haal-e-Gam 
apane miTane kaa Gam to nahii.n hai magar Dar ye hai un ke gesuu bikhar jaaye.nge 

ashk-e-Gam leke aaKhir kahaa.N jaaye.n ham aa.Nsuo.n kii yahaa.N ko_ii qiimat nahii.n 
aap hii apanaa daaman ba.Daa diijiye varanaa motii zamii.n par bikhar jaaye.nge 

kaale kaale vo gesuu shikan dar shikan vo tabassum kaa aalam chaman dar chaman 
khe.nch lii un kii tasviir dil ne mere ab vo daaman bachaa kar kidhar jaaye.nge 

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Destroyer: An Actor's Revenge

An actor will seek revenge.
I don't know why and I don't know when.
There'll be talk. There'll be action.
Boys demanding satisfaction
From girls. Oh, you'd hate to play a girl!
An actor will seek revenge...

He came on too strong.
He was weird and he was wrong.
A bloodless cop at dawn
Throwing everybody out.
The kids twist and shout until the womb fucking wrecks it!

A boulevardier might say -
"Tomorrow's another day."
Alright, yes, but it's also just another mess!
Crime and Punishment - no, that's not what I meant!

An actor will seek revenge.
I don't know why and I don't know when.
There'll be talk. There'll be action.
Boys demanding satisfaction
From girls. Oh, you'd hate to be a girl!
An actor will seek revenge
Upon the ones who fed him those ridiculous lines
Saying - "What we really need now is an emotional history
Of the Lower Eastside, cause it was wild! It was wild!"
Oh no, here we go again...

(Ba da, ba da, ba da, ba da... Ba da, ba da, ba da, ba da da ba da!)

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Nina came to me

Nina came to me crying

the fancy pearls

cutting me to pieces 

tosca touche triviano

... summerless days

breeze through the ocean

Nina writing on a windowsill

mouthing curvy syllables

lost in the island

wandering all over

under thousand sad eyes 

Nina finished looking

for not to dare the sails

far far away from

the throne of pearls

Nina issued her curses

let Heavens part and see my torn breast 

 

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Hopscotch - pg. 147

"I was taking the liberty of using a trite image, Lucia. There is a bird sleeping in all good wines."

Hopscotch - pg. 96

She will never suspect that she has condemned me to read Spinoza. A strange judge, a judge with her hands, with her racing down the street, a judge because she can just look at me and leave me naked, a judge by being silly and unhappy and upset and dull and less than anything. By everything I have known from my bitter knowledge, with my rusty slide rule of a college graduate and enlightened man, by all of that judge. Fall down, swallow, with those sharp scissors with which you cut the sky of Saint-Germain-des Pres, pluck out these eyes that look without seeing, I have quickly been condemned without appeal to those blue gallows to which the hands of the woman caring for her son have raised me,let the execution be quick, quickly back to the false order of being alone and recovering one's self-sufficiency, self-knowledge, self-awareness. And with so much knowledge a useless anxiety to pity something, to have it rain here inside, so that at long last it will start to rain and smell of earth and living things, yes, living things at long last.

Hopscotch - pg. 89

"The only dangers for me are metaphysical." Oliviera said.

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Hopscotch - pg. 69

No one seemed diesposed to contradict him because Wong had quietly appeared with the coffee and  Ronald, shrugging his shoulders, had  turned loose Fred Waring and his Pennsylvanians and after a terrible scratching they reached the theme that fascinated Oliviera, an anonymous trumpet followed by the piano, all wrapped up in the smoke of an old phonograph and a bad recording, of a corny prejazz band, all in all like those old records, showboats, Storyville nights, where the old only really universal music of the century had come from, something that brought people closer together and in a better way than Esperanto, UNESCO, or airlines, a music which was primitive enough to have gained such universality and good enough to make its own history, with schisms, abdications, and heresies, its Charleston, its Black Bottom, its Shimmy, its Fox Trot, its Stomp, its Blues, to label its forms, this style and the other one, swing, bebop, cool, a counterpint of romanticism and classicism, hot and intellectual jazz, human music, music with a history in contrast to stupid animal dance music, the polka, the waltz, the zamba, a music that could be known andliked in Copenhagen as well as in Mendoza or Capetown, a music that brings adolescents together, with records under their arms, that gives them names and melodies to use as passwords so they can know each other and become intimate and feel less lonely surrounded by bosses, families, and bitter love affairs, a music that accepts all imaginations and tastes, a colection if instrumental 78's with Freddie Keppard or Bunk Johnson, the reactionary cult of Dixieland, an academic specialization in Bix Biederbecke, or in the adventures of Thelonious Monk, Horace Silver, or Thad Jones, the vulgarities of Erroll Garner or Art Tatum, repentance and rejection, a preference for small groups, mysterious recordings with false names and strange titles and labels made up on the spur of the moment, and that whole freemasony of Saturday nights in a student's room or in some basement cafe with girls who would rather dance to Stardust or When Your Man Is Going to Put You Down, and have a sweet slow smell of perfume and skin and heat, and let themselves be kissed when the hour is late and somebody has put on The Blues with a Feeling and hardly anybody is really dancing, just standing up together, swaying back and forth, and everything is hazy and dirty and lowdown and every man is in a mood to tear off those warm girdles as his hands go stroking shoulders and the girls have their mouths half-opened and turn themselves over to delightful fear and the night, while a trumpet comes on to possess them in the name of all men, taking them with a single hot phrase that drops them like a cut flower into the arms of their partners, and there comes a motionless race, a jump up into the night air, over the city, until a miniature piano brings them to again, exhausted, reconciled, and stil virgins until next Saturday, all of this from a kind of music that horrifies solid citizens who think that nothing is true unless there are programs and ushers, and that's the way things are and jazz is like a bird who migrates or emigrates or immigrates or transmigrates, roadblock jumper, smuggler, something that runs and mixes in and tonight in Vienna Ella Fitzgerald is singing while in Paris Kenny Clarke is helping open a new cave and in Perpignan Oscar Peterson's fingers are dancing around and Satchmo, everywhere,  with that gift of omnipresence given him by the Lord, in Birmingham, in Warsaw, in Milan, in Buenos Aires, in Geneva, in the whole world, is inevitable, is rain and bread and salt, something completely beyond national ritual, sacred traditions, language and folklore: a cloud without frontiers, a spy of air and water,  an archetypal form, something from before, from below, that brings Mexicans together with Norwegians and Russians and Spaniards, brings them back into that obscure and forgotten central flame, clumsily and badly and precariously he delivers them back to a betrayed origin, he shows them that perhaps there have been other paths and that the one they took was maybe not the only one or the best one, or that perhpas there made for softer walking and that they had not taken those, or that they only took them in a halfway sort of way, and that man is always more than a man and always less than a man, more than a man because he has in himself all that jazz suggests and lies in wait for and even anticipates, and less than a man because he has made an aesthetic and sterile game out of this liberty, a chessboard where one must be bishop or knight, a deifnition of liberty which is taught in school, in the very schools where the pupils are never taught ragtime rhythm or the first notes of the blues, and so forth and so on.

I set  right here and think

three thousand miles away,

set right here and think

three thousand miles away,

can't remember the night

had the blues this bad any-way...

Keats on Shakespeare

At once it struck me, what quality went to form a Man of Achievement especially in Literature and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously—I mean Negative Capability, that is when man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason.

Hopscotch - pg. 8

As for me, I'm already used to the fact that quietly exceptional things happen to me, and I don't find it too horribe when I go into a dark room looking for a record album and fell in my hand the wriggling form of a centipede who has chosen to sleep in the binding. That sort of thing. Or finding great gray or green tufts in a pack of cigarettes, or hearing the whistle of a locomotive coincide, ex officio in time and pitch with a passage from a symphony by Ludwig van, or going into a pissotiere on the Rue de Medicis and seeing a man apply himself to his urination and then step back from the urinal towards me as he holds in the palm of his hand as if it were a precious liturgical object a member of incredible colors and dimensions, and my realizing at that moment that this man is the replica of another (although they are not the same one) who twnety-four hours before in the Salle de Geographie had been lecturing on totems and taboos and had held up carefully in the palm of his hand ivory sticks, lyrebird feathers, ritual coins, magic fossils, starfish, dried fish, photographs of royal concubines, offering of hunters, enormous embalmed beetles which made the inevitable ladies present quiver with startled delight. 

TNR on Bolano

The larger movements of Bolano's prose tell the same story. One of the most consistent and striking features of his writing is its mixture of a frank, gritty, ironic realism with baroque and enigmatic passages of hallucination, vision, allegory, and dream. Time and space crack and warp; probability pitches like a ship in a storm. The fabric of everyday reality, everyday sanity, suddenly tears, disclosing mad and terrifying truths that we--and one senses, even Bolano--can only dimly glimpse. 

untitled

a cluster of colors coalesce in darkness

see - it is possible

to work hard on losing every single syllable

in a one line verse spoken

given back to silence:

your lies become innocent with time

spring brings the sun 

orange light gathers in emptiness

of my beer glass

a dense shade of red remains

long forgotten in words, gestures,

cells, fluids - winter's solace

will not be enough

in the newness of

seasons taking flights forlorn

in silences, in these insolences  

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Hopscotch - Opening

WOULD I find La Maga? Most of the time it was just a case of my putting in an appearance, going along the Rue de Seine to the arch leading into the Quai de Conti, and I would see her slender form against the olive-ashen light which floats along the river as she crossed back and forth on the Pont de Arts, or leaned over the iron rail looking at the water.

Copyright 1966 by Random House, Inc.

Originally pubished in Spanish as Rayuela, by Editorial Suamericana Sociedad Anonima. Copyright 1963, by Editorial Sudamericana Sociedad Anonima.

The selection from Lawrence Ferlinghetti, "A Coney Island of the Mind," is reprinted with the permission of the publisher, New Directions. Copyright  1958 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti.

Manufactured in the United States of America.

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Destroyer: What Road

Once I was made beautiful in the light of an hour,
But this year I'm just a meal laid out for August to devour.
So, quick, let's go!
It's time for a ride!
The future is yours.
No, wait, I lied!
It is not yours.
It is a replica
Of scattered ash and the road the rain's on...
What road...

Able, willing, ready!
Fuck the Spiral Jetty!
Tonight we work large! We aim high! Pillars stare at a sky
Designed to come down upon
Everyone at once...
So, quick, let's go!
It's time for a ride!
The future is yours.
No, wait, I lied!
It is not yours.
It is a replica
Of scattered ash and the road the rain's on...
What road...

I'd been working on some open-ended shit. I
Was looking for an 'in' and that was it.
Back at the recital, signs remain vital.
A statue is stone that rejects its own pulse.
Your heart's fair. Your heart's square. Your heart's not even there!...
Wasting shore leave on the girls from Point St. Claire...
There is a light and it goes out...

A Touch of Classicism in the Night!
Your backlash was right where I wanted you!
Yes, that's right, I wanted you to...
A Touch of Classicism in the Night!
Your backlash was right where I wanted you!
Yes, that's right I wanted you to...
A Touch of Classicism in the Night!
Your backlash was right where I wanted you!
Yes, that's right, I wanted you to...

untitled

in the incoherence lies my cat

a sorry little thing

since that circus over

under a box of wool and some

more cereal in a series

not quite fruitfully cooked

in the dungeon

the winter air cuts me

the cat's paws soiled

in the light of clouds

simplicity is not art

it kills the derelict from its

roots, make a plant

out of dead skeletons' souls

 

Paris Spleen - pg. 17

Annoyed with everyone and annoyed with myself, I long to redeem myself and to bolster my pride a bit in the silence and solitude of the night. Souls of those I have loved, souls of those I have sung, fortify me, sustain me, remove me from untruth and the world's corrupting fumes. And you, Lord my God! Grant me the grace to produce a few beautiful verses to prove to myself that I am not the lowest of men, and that I am not inferior to those I despise!

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Wolf Solent - pg. 491

The actual work he was engaged on lent itself to the breathless peacefulness of that grey afternoon. He had to take the gnomic commentaries and floating fragments of wicked gossip gathered together by his employer, and translate them into a style that had at least some beauty of its own. This style had been his own contribution to the book; and thought it had been evoked under external pressure, and in a sense had been a tour de force, it was in its essence the expression of Wolf's own soul -- the only purely aesthetic expression that Destiny had ever permitted to his deeper nature.

Phedre - Closing

I see the sun's ball through a mist,
And you, whom my very presence sickens,
I see you in a mist, darkening.
My eyes go dark. Now the sun's light at last
Can resume its purity unspoiled.

Panope
My lord, she is dying.

Theseus
If only
The results of her evil could die with her.
Come. Now my error of judgement
Is so monumental and plain
Let us go weep at my son's body.
Ley us embrace the little of him that' left
And expiate the madness of my prayer.
We shall give him the honours he has earned.
And to appease his shade,
And is spite of the old crime of your brothers,
Aricis, from today you are my daughter.

Phedre - pg. 26

Hippolytus

No!

Now let me tell you. Now I have begun.

When paassion boils, reason evaporates.

I mean - when the heart boils, when love moves.

My secret has become unbearable.

I cannot hold it any longer.

Am I Hippolytus the arrogant?

Am I a prince? Or a king?

No, I am a beggar - to be pitied.

Not so much the exemplar of pride

As of the stupidity of pride.

I set this lofty pride against love.

I mocked her captives in their ridiculous chains,

I saw her clowns shipwrecked and I laughed

To watch their storms while I sat  safe ashore.

But now you see me,

Flotsam in that tide of the common law.

A single surge has swept me far from myself.

A single wave, and it has overwhelmed me.

It happened in a moment.

Now this famous pride is crying for help.

Desperate, humiliated,

With the arrow in me,

Sixx months of mortification,

Fighting you, fighting myself.

I search your absence for you like a madman,

And yet I run from your presence.

 Everywhere in the woods your image hunts me.

I try to escape you

But every shaft of sunlight, 

Every night shadow

Set you in front of me, surrounds me wwith you.

Everything competes to fling

The obstinate fool Hippolytus

Helpless at your feet.

All my studied care to preserve myself

Has brought me to this - I have lost myself,

I search - but I cannot find myself,

My bow, my spears, my chariot,

They beckon to me, I ignore ethem.

The breaking and taming of wild horses,

Everything the god of the sea taight me,

It is beyond me - I have forogtten it.

My own horses run wild -

They have forgotten my voice.

Nothing hears mmy voice but the forest -

The black echoing depth of the forest.

Yes, my love is  a savage.

What raving words these are!

Maybe you blush to hear them.

All I had meant to do was declare my love.

Your delicate snare has caught a strange creautre.

Princess, grant my words

Perhaps a little more than their face value.

You know this is a language alien to me.

My love speaks crely, but do not reject it.

Without you, I could never have known it.

Phedre - pg. 15

I could conceal my anguish. I could be faithful.

I could even bear children.

But then, of a sudden,

All my precautions came to nothing.

Fate is inescapable.

Destroyer: City Of Daughters

Oh, City of Daughters,
is that what you wanted to be?
Oh, City of Daughters,
is that what you wanted to be?
Oh, City of Daughters,
is it not safe to say you've come when called?
A minor point of contention:
It's the pointlessness of the invention.
Trust, there's no need to remind us
we're all dying alone tonight!

In a City of Daughters.
Sister, I confess, I have forgotten just what it is that you wanted to be.
Fluffing and a-folding those clothes that you were sold in
to servicing what it is you always wanted to be.
In Vancouver, things are simple when they fit you to a "T".
Once again, you have refused the new pornographies
A minor bone of contention:
It's the soullessness of the convention.
Rock 'n' Roll sure came through for you.
Why would anybody want it to?

What is it about music that lends itself so well
To business-as-fucking-usual?
A minor source of contention:
the resourcelessness of the convention.
Rock 'n' Roll sure came through for you.
Why would anyone want it to
when we can burn the living
proof, go!

Phedre - Opening

Hippolytus, Theramene.

Hippolytus

I have made my decision.

It is six months now

And there hasn't been one word of my father.

Somebody somewhere knows what's happened to him.

Life here  in Troezzen is extremely pleasant

But I can't hang around doing nothing

With this uncertainty. My idleness makes me sweat.

I must find my father.