It is not as innocuous as it may seem.
Sunday 14 November 2010
Omniscience
"les bas se déchirent; les talons s'éculent, les blouses et les robes claires se salissent, les plissés se déplissent; cependent, elle devra réparer elle-même la plupart de ces accidents"
Saturday 18 September 2010
Wednesday 18 March 2009
obsolete
The obsolete. At the end of the stillest pond, rotting at the end of the pond, the motionless pond, we’re there floating in this mossy green space. No air can reach us here. Our skins have peeled, our faces have gone. Above, on the shore, the deeply rooted trees have flinched away from their petal leaves, leaving them to lose their fibres in the depths of the earth.
G.G. Melmoth
Monday 16 March 2009
waiting
All things come to those who wait.
I sat there waiting, on the small stone by the riverbed. I closed my eyes and lay my face in my hands, carefully balancing my elbows on my knees. How long did I have to wait? Could it be any longer? When did this time end? The river kept rustling on, endlessly. Would it ever stop?
Elle flotte, elle hésite; en un mot, elle est femme.
The bend in the road was so great that I would only see it approaching when it ultimately would. Would I move beyond the bend as to see it from afar? No, staying still was the only way to occupy these thoughts of mine. I would not move, I would rather gather moss. God moves in mysterious ways. Ido not budge, I do not even stare. I am still and all I (do not) see is darkness, I cannot see beyond thy bend, dear road of winding features.
I sat there waiting, on the small stone by the riverbed. I closed my eyes and lay my face in my hands, carefully balancing my elbows on my knees. How long did I have to wait? Could it be any longer? When did this time end? The river kept rustling on, endlessly. Would it ever stop?
Elle flotte, elle hésite; en un mot, elle est femme.
The bend in the road was so great that I would only see it approaching when it ultimately would. Would I move beyond the bend as to see it from afar? No, staying still was the only way to occupy these thoughts of mine. I would not move, I would rather gather moss. God moves in mysterious ways. Ido not budge, I do not even stare. I am still and all I (do not) see is darkness, I cannot see beyond thy bend, dear road of winding features.
Yet the sound of the river kept pulling me forward, the crowd of liquid motions, dragging me out of my mind.
G. G. Melmoth
Sunday 15 March 2009
rotting wood
It is more like rotten wood, having soaked too long in water. More like stale food, once so succulent and fresh, now over ripe and revolting.
Yes it was a pretty sight by the river bed; I sat there forever for it was the nicest I had ever felt. But the river was damp, and my bones are mortal. I rot here as old bark; I rot here under my sweet smelling skin.
It keeps going on and on, infernal train, tortuous ticking of time. Though I sit and just watch it pass like some boat on the water while I’m on the river bed.
Yes it was a pretty sight by the river bed; I sat there forever for it was the nicest I had ever felt. But the river was damp, and my bones are mortal. I rot here as old bark; I rot here under my sweet smelling skin.
It keeps going on and on, infernal train, tortuous ticking of time. Though I sit and just watch it pass like some boat on the water while I’m on the river bed.
G.G. Melmoth
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