(no subject)
She.. liked to travel at night in the dangerous Ziegeuner and Turkish sections of the city at night, wearing male clothing to disquise herself, even venturing to speak to the children who sometimes played near the loud, gurgling fountain full of beer bottles and stubs of burnt candles; it was a meeting place for men and women long after the children went to sleep. But they did play until dusk, and .... sat on the rim of its marble lip, listening to the destructive force of the water. How was it that this fountain was so loud. The tweed suit smelled of cigar ash and wine stains, and from the pocket she pulled out a candle and a beaten leather volumne of Robert Burns, as well as some of the cheap French wine sold in plastic bottles, and began to utter out the bastardized verse. How was it that amoun the bashing terror of the badly design fountain, the verse set aflame the english langauge, scortched it as if newburn fields, only stumps of recognitions remaining. She remembered a concert the other evening, and lit a cigar - must look masculine, as it was getting later and the moon rose onto robery - and while she smoked it, heard the notes once again. Bastardized notes of CPE Bach were being hammered out upon a giant black monstrousoty of a Flugelklavier, instead of a petite Spinet, or Virginal. This is what Burns did to English! Tore it down as if a badly cobbled wall, leaving gaping joints of mortar, where, yes (!) weeds and countless ruddy tree-like appendages could set their roots for a long, slow destruction of the wall.
The night began to awaken. Cats would come out; unlike in Wien, this was a city where the cats mated audibly and drank from the public fountains. Someday someone would discover her disguise; the half-negro flavored wig of rough, straw-like strands which sprouted outwards haphazardly from a scottsmans tweed cap, the motheaten matching sportcoat, the shoes from a chimneysweep, stained with soot and mud. And the fake mustache, *that* was a silent joke to herself - its utter falseness was like some profound lie told out loud, a secret laid bare which caused embarasment at a formal dinner. The little thing was so poor, so shaggy and bedrraggled, that she fell in love with it right away and wanted to glue it to her upper lip. It was the kernal of her amourous evening outings dresses up as a man, the accidental object which fist sparked the idea in her head. One night she would assume the male being so utterly and powerfully, that her armspit would exude a musk and athletic arouma, and she would enter a Türkenlokal and confront the dark-haired girl that kept slipping into her dreams whenever she drank too much grappa. Confront that girl, grasp her firmly by the wrist, sqeezing it hard, while pulling her out of the smoky room and into the clean moonlight. Sitting upon the rude, imporperly designed marble fountain together, she would light a candle and firmly press the funny, stupid little mustasche up against her perfect lips.
The tree looked strikingly anthropomorphic, so much that I was not only drawn to stop and stare at it, but also to change my course through the weeds and heavy grasses and move towards it down the hill. As I got closer I saw the the way the branches divided through time, formed surfaces or fissures that resembles human eyes, milky, like those of marble statues without pupils. The bark was not rough, but somehow different. When I came beneath the umbrella of its branches, they all moved soothingly towards me, cupping my body amoung them and moving me towards the truck. The milky eyes began to moisten, and stare at me, with a communion.
The birds-eye view of the wooden cities, houses all made of wood, and wandering through those rooftops; cobbled from stone, they must have held numerous chimneys, and nests. A sweeping survey of cities made of wood.
When one lay down in the small pond not much larger than the breadth or depth of a man, one heard voices. Taking turns, I watched as the others submerged themselves, and spoke aloud, anawering and asking phantom questions from a silent source. The voice could only be heard while within the waters. When it was my turn, the voice said.."You are not close enough to God"
I answered..."How do you know?...what does this God feel...how profound is it?" and felt angry that the voice degraded my inner life. The voice chastised me...it attempted to describe a power which was hidden and yet experiencing things on this earth as if amoung us.
The night began to awaken. Cats would come out; unlike in Wien, this was a city where the cats mated audibly and drank from the public fountains. Someday someone would discover her disguise; the half-negro flavored wig of rough, straw-like strands which sprouted outwards haphazardly from a scottsmans tweed cap, the motheaten matching sportcoat, the shoes from a chimneysweep, stained with soot and mud. And the fake mustache, *that* was a silent joke to herself - its utter falseness was like some profound lie told out loud, a secret laid bare which caused embarasment at a formal dinner. The little thing was so poor, so shaggy and bedrraggled, that she fell in love with it right away and wanted to glue it to her upper lip. It was the kernal of her amourous evening outings dresses up as a man, the accidental object which fist sparked the idea in her head. One night she would assume the male being so utterly and powerfully, that her armspit would exude a musk and athletic arouma, and she would enter a Türkenlokal and confront the dark-haired girl that kept slipping into her dreams whenever she drank too much grappa. Confront that girl, grasp her firmly by the wrist, sqeezing it hard, while pulling her out of the smoky room and into the clean moonlight. Sitting upon the rude, imporperly designed marble fountain together, she would light a candle and firmly press the funny, stupid little mustasche up against her perfect lips.
The tree looked strikingly anthropomorphic, so much that I was not only drawn to stop and stare at it, but also to change my course through the weeds and heavy grasses and move towards it down the hill. As I got closer I saw the the way the branches divided through time, formed surfaces or fissures that resembles human eyes, milky, like those of marble statues without pupils. The bark was not rough, but somehow different. When I came beneath the umbrella of its branches, they all moved soothingly towards me, cupping my body amoung them and moving me towards the truck. The milky eyes began to moisten, and stare at me, with a communion.
The birds-eye view of the wooden cities, houses all made of wood, and wandering through those rooftops; cobbled from stone, they must have held numerous chimneys, and nests. A sweeping survey of cities made of wood.
When one lay down in the small pond not much larger than the breadth or depth of a man, one heard voices. Taking turns, I watched as the others submerged themselves, and spoke aloud, anawering and asking phantom questions from a silent source. The voice could only be heard while within the waters. When it was my turn, the voice said.."You are not close enough to God"
I answered..."How do you know?...what does this God feel...how profound is it?" and felt angry that the voice degraded my inner life. The voice chastised me...it attempted to describe a power which was hidden and yet experiencing things on this earth as if amoung us.