smoky enlightenments

smoky enlightenments

stellaisadiver

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[	archive	\|	journal archive	]

(no subject)

[Nov. 13th, 2005|09:02 am]

[	Current Mood	\|	sleepy	]
[	Current Music	\|	Bright Eyes	]

She was there
my nicotine stained apparition

Seberg and Belmondo
all flickering lights and
big eyes

but shrouded in
the smell of him

all bitten nails
and
patchwork tales

I lost you before we knew

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Francoise Sagan- Bonjour Tristesse

[Nov. 13th, 2005|08:56 am]

[	Current Mood	\|	all of the above	]
[	Current Music	\|	kettles boiling, sleeping breath, rushing cars	]

A strange Melancholy pervades me to which I hesitate to give then grave and beautiful name of sadness. In the past, the idea of sadness always appealed to me, now I am almost ashamed of its complete egoism.
I had known bredom, regret and at times remorse, but never sadness .
Today something envelops me like a silken web, enervating and soft which isolates me.

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got to love a bit of cummings

[Aug. 29th, 2005|04:03 pm]

[	Current Mood	\|	like an apricot and a peach	]
[	Current Music	\|	blonde redhead	]

is the
unmea
ning
of (sil

ently) fal
ling) e
ver
yw
here)s

Now

woo oo
Got to see arcade fire dig a tunnel baby
wooo oo
summer holidays
wooo oo

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HAVE A NICE DAY SPADES... thats Mao my friends!

[Aug. 6th, 2005|04:38 pm]

[	Current Mood	\|	lemony	]
[	Current Music	\|	Joy Division	]

Today I put on my socks
and half of
Mission Beach
fell onto my
floorboards

Sweeeeeeeeeetttt!

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A life in stolen words

[Aug. 2nd, 2005|06:39 pm]

[	Current Mood	\|	giddy	]
[	Current Music	\|	Beth Gibbons	]

With thanks to the arcade Fire, Joanna Newsom, Interpol, Brigitte Bardot and H and M

"You climb out the chimney,
And meet me in the middle, the middle of the town. And since there's no one else around,
We let our hair grow long,
And forget all we used to know.
Then our skin gets thicker from
Living out in the snow.

You change all the lead
sleepin' in my head,
as the day grows dim
I hear you sing a golden hymn "

"And even when you touch my face
you know your place.

We should shine a light on, a light on. (...) "

"Now season with health
Two lovers walk on lakeside mile
Try pleasing with stealth, rodeo
See the stands long ending path"

"Tu aimes mes jambes? et mes pieds?"

"Bon Shopping chez H et M"

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Such good memories!

[Jul. 22nd, 2005|12:27 am]

[	Current Mood	\|	tired	]
[	Current Music	\|	the arcade fire	]

NOTES FROM A NONEXISTENT HIMALAYAN EXPEDITION
Wislawa Szymborska

So these are the Himalayas.
Mountains racing to the moon.
The moment of their start recorded
on the startling, ripped canvas of the sky.
Holes punched in a desert of clouds.
Thrust into nothing.
Echo- a white mute.
Quiet.

Yeti, down there we've got Wednesday,
bread and alphabets.
Two times two is four.
Roses are red there,
and violets are blue.

Yeti, crime is not all
we're up to down there.
Not every sentence there
means death.

We've inherited hope-
the gift of forgetting.
You'll see how we give
birth among the ruins.

Yeti, we've got Shakespeare there.
Yeti, we play solitaire
and violin. At nightfall,
we turn lights on, Yeti.

Up here it's neither moon nor earth.
Tears freeze.
Oh Yeti, semi-moonman,
turn back think again!

I called this to the Yeti
inside four walls of avalanche,
stomping my feet for warmth
on the everlasting
snow.

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TS Eliot: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

[Jun. 23rd, 2005|05:45 am]

[	Current Mood	\|	ecstatic	]
[	Current Music	\|	David Bowie	]

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo
Non tornò vivo alcun, s'i' odo il vero,
Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the windowpanes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the windowpanes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
(They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!")
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
(They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!")
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it towards some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . .

No!I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . . I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind?Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

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(no subject)

[Jun. 20th, 2005|01:12 am]

[	Current Mood	\|	energetic	]
[	Current Music	\|	Deerhoof	]

Deerhoof Desaparecere lyrics

Mira! Mira! piedra cabeza me ve
Mirame, que desaparecere
Busca, busca, bu-su-ca, busandome
Seres sentientes, oye

Fiesta! Fiesta! por supuesta!
Entra en la baila
Este Baile es para una persona sola

Cerca, cerca, venga cerca, respira
No me reconoce, aunque
En su sopa maravillosa oculto
Algo que no se puedo comer

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