Wearing Gartered Stockings memory is Hell (a museum)

Someone asked me if I joined in the Hispanic-American Immigration walk-outs/marches of the past few weeks, being that I'm Mexican and darkly so. Did I feel any obligation to attend? Nope, not at all, I'm no copper ingot. I was there at the very first rally downtown, not totally, I was merely there. I woke up that morning in a mood to go swimming, it was very hot, but I wound up doing quite the opposite or perhaps the same, that is, milling around. For days, there was a peculiar message being circulated among my countrymen , an eager plot to suffocate a street with bodies--a street I'm rather fond of seeing--and although some of the sweatier bodies I can do without, I dressed mine up in white and answered the call. As a whole, it reminded me of recess in tand that's Mostly free of her own egotistical intrusion, she originate-A Beginning and an end, And Then it's easy for her to exserted to middle. The middle is Mostly Composed of Ample pairings, subtle contrasts That mimic right / wrong, fun / boring, pain / pleasure, man / woman, etc. in object and action. A Writer Who Is Constantly thinking about writing you with memories and commerce Better Hopes, she will hook Into sally forward and futures variable as Many as possible, in effect her present state is the nexus of a web taut, never static, always vibrant, yet Adhering to timeless themes. Working with the present is oppressive, bothersome. Or maybe I'm just Incapable of setting forth opinions on Subjects Which Need to Be Informed via up-to-the-minute news and reports. For example, I've never felt the sliarrive to take center stage. Each faux window greeny Opened Into a quadrangle, a space Which Seemed uniform in appearance, going from window to window, pero a troubling difference Could Be spotted in the minute glyphs etched on the enclosing walls. Were These symbols as random and unintelligible As Any circular or linear design on an exotic animal hide. There WAS no sense in Trying to Read Them, Even If They Were left as warnings or instructions'. The windows all Seemed to point to (Perhaps fawn over) to shimmering gem in the center in September, What Was Surely - I Knew in dreams! - A minor

aleph in the Borgesia sense, a piece of glass That Contained the sun , the stars, Basically an exact model of the universe, Perceived as an assemblage of views or a small haystack of Splintered memories, but I was no longer peering through (at?) a window at all ... I was standing over a small, nondescript table, atop which was placed a flat fish bowl with rounded edges. Two submerged eyes swam about inside, lively as leashed fish or insidious balls-and-chains. Remarkably, these sentient orbs were unusually independent, they lacked the presence of a master brain fixed behind them. Instead, the thin membranes were loosely connected to a flat leech-like disc pressed to the rear of the glass, what might have looked like a scummy wall outlet. This mass was disturbingly oval and textured like ground meat, not grayish as would be expected, but verdigris. I realized very suddenly that, in order to employ the staggering visual effects of the
aleph
, I would have to devour tback to me as stark elderly abuse, But all the high fives I got from my fellow hecklers made me feel like I WAS doing the right thing (although I WAS MOST Certainly not). Thanks guys! With your reassurance, I can terrorize a Thousand grandmas!

theskimyoucrew : One of the Last Remaining sites on the web, Along With

les_voyages and

the_reviewers , to still bear mention to the

enprise / Brian Sullivan creature on the front page splash of Theire. Now, I do not read enprise 's last threads Surviving, But They persist in wanton of a writing community, and it Discomforts me to know of Their final resting place, Their ghastly stays, on These desert sands of Livejournal. It's like the weathered bust of Ozymandias. Anyway, It Does not seem right, after all, Having a place WHERE Are writers supposed to congregate. Instinctually, writers Are Not supposed to act in ANY WAY supposed Already by Others Before Them. They'll find comfort in a dark crevice Before they'll relax under a common LINK, a strict symbol. Needless to say, my application Here was dimly received, But what's this? It's like a Homels person Offering you a pair of pennies. I Must Admit to Being disgustingly irate back then. Not very graceful at all. It's shocking, actually, reading it over makes me wince. I Would Rather read a much more Collected invective. Maturity is far more relaxed. You'll forgive the agency of the quote in the link, it's really

Thomas Carlyle, pero as echelle Duly Noted, I'm partial to the old bait and hook . mmmrorschach : Note These rave reviews from the aforemention community. The second to last one or third or Fourth, Depending on the future, willing and the art one snacks on. To be honest, I can't deal with as much art as he juggles on a regular basis. Sometimes I'm gripped with a fear that so much exposure to art will drastically age me. The brain will burst forth with shoots of gray. The face will mimic the wrinkles of thought. I can imagine the sustained convolution as I'm forced to consider the manifold networks of influence in each piece. The constant fermentation would be overwhelming. For example: I am riding the bus one day when a Black guy with an IPOD sits next to me. He's listening to my favourite 2Pac album, Me Against The World , very loudly, in fact, we could be splitting his earpieces. Let it be written, I HATE IPODS. I can't help myself. I make a utters a saying, it sounds like a proverb, right? Like clockwork, an implacable gear whirs and turns in his noodle, he repeats it, Yeah! he says, A coward dies a thousand deaths, a soldier dies but once... I think it's an African proverb. I laugh in his face without a hint of remorse and I likely spit on him unvoluntarily. It occurs to me that he, like so many others, is a mere keeper of common knowledge, and even though he is quite adept at retaining abstract information, it is devoid of usefulness and application. No, I regret to inform him--I don't know why people ever say this--rather I take great satisfaction in telling him, that the quote is undoubtedly ... Shakespeare! You know, a lot of things in life are plain derivatives, and if you c kadigan . It's the circle of life and it rules us all. bow: The middle journal Between You, my books, and MOST of my translations. This post will mark the last of my translations to Appear in this journal. Coming up: poetry by Silvina Ocampo, Evaristo Carriego, Enrique Banchs, Almafuerte, José Saramago, etc., Never Before translated opinions of JLB, and stories by Leopoldo Lugones, Horacio Quiroga, and Rubén Darío. Finally, hotlavamonster

: There Was Something about this poem, Which I'm about t, Whose basin Things are dead and live as shadows ideas, and one of the cops next That is death in that whiteness. of how beautiful the world Owned by the age of the full moon. sad and longing to be loved, pain in the heart trembles. There is a city in the air, almost invisible A city suspended, Whose vague profiles on the clear transparent night. As the lines of water in a statement, Its multifaceted crystallization. A city so far, That anguish with his comic presence. Is it a city or a ship The land was abandoned. Quiet and felice s, and with such purity, only our souls live in the white plenilunar? ... And suddenly crosses a vague Shivering by the serene light. lines fade,
The immense changes in white stone,
and only remains on the fateful night The certainty of your absence. Bleached Solitude Beneath the calm of sleep, a lunar glowing calm of silk, the night as if It Were the soft body of silence, beds down in immensity Itself Gently, sweetly ... STI Unleashes Mane And in a phenomenal bloom of boulevards. turn sheer lines across the clear night like rays of water down a sheet of glass, a polyhedral crystallization. A city so distant That audacious Presence ITS arouse misery.
Was it a city or a boat on
Which Might Have we cast off earth speechless and happy Such purity and with That Our Souls Would only thrive in the white of the harvest moon? Suddenly, a vague commotion crosses the halcyon light. The lines evaporate, immensity shifts to white stone, and the only debris in the ominous night: the clarity of your Absence.