Robert Flynt, Smother (2004)I keep both hands in front of my face carefully observing the placement of fingers. I do not move them, and for a moment I wondered what could I be doing. No movement, not to think of a crowded street. Confections of indigo; clothing stores on the street of the slope, does not dare to move. I will say that it is also true that during occasions of despair, I rest balancing to never repeat, lying on a sidewalk, between alleyways, observing how people were standing—the way one walks and circumvents their haste carrying them throughout weekdays. Oscar Wilde’s “Art never expresses anything but itself.” Imagine if it were nutritional, like how a sneeze can “move” us. Our heads, anyhow. Anyhow, I love the four “i’s” in the word “minimalistically.” The word itself looks like a textual-train moving west. Whenever I travel west, even if taking a walk down the road, in my own neighborhood, I will make certain that I travel minimalistically. I will go east the same way; “y l l a c i t s i l a m i n i m.”
Whenever I sneeze, Lola-pop the lovely feline always rushes to me, mewing, mewing, mewing, as if she were checking on me. Whenever I walk up to her, whether purposely or if I am heading toward her direction to by-pass her, she nods her head, mewing, expecting a piece of lint from my pocket or a small, rolled-up piece of paper. Thought: ice pick where it slips, drips at the tips, and when I pick up a pen with fingertips, it melts and ink drips. Listening to Klaus Schulze’s “Bayreuth Return.” Wow’d. Has this piece ever been played by Steven Hill on “Hearts of Space”? — Inadvertently touched organs, // we are blessed // with ears, // fingers that brush // sound. Loud will typically win // like children quarreling. Sometime in late 2008, Grandmother said: “Well, I’m going to miss makin’ coffee for you every evening.” Evening is often “eren,” even so, the lemon meringue pie was as sweet as ever, as was the kitchen-windows where light produced angels that ate my angel food, but did not lay a halo on the cookie dough until they were warm. Hand through the fridge, so hungry, so hungry that even a beer commercial was starving the television-set-outta-me, but Benjamin Franklin had it right!: one has to learn to eat to live versus living to eat. I remember the bruise on Auntie L’s left arm, seemingly more “alive” and dramatic in color when she sat on the front porch. Grape-colored darkness approached (storm-clouds in the distance) as in-depth as Belafonte-flesh. Marsalis-y moody evenings that were capable of moving mountains into me.
Whenever I sneeze, Lola-pop the lovely feline always rushes to me, mewing, mewing, mewing, as if she were checking on me. Whenever I walk up to her, whether purposely or if I am heading toward her direction to by-pass her, she nods her head, mewing, expecting a piece of lint from my pocket or a small, rolled-up piece of paper. Thought: ice pick where it slips, drips at the tips, and when I pick up a pen with fingertips, it melts and ink drips. Listening to Klaus Schulze’s “Bayreuth Return.” Wow’d. Has this piece ever been played by Steven Hill on “Hearts of Space”? — Inadvertently touched organs, // we are blessed // with ears, // fingers that brush // sound. Loud will typically win // like children quarreling. Sometime in late 2008, Grandmother said: “Well, I’m going to miss makin’ coffee for you every evening.” Evening is often “eren,” even so, the lemon meringue pie was as sweet as ever, as was the kitchen-windows where light produced angels that ate my angel food, but did not lay a halo on the cookie dough until they were warm. Hand through the fridge, so hungry, so hungry that even a beer commercial was starving the television-set-outta-me, but Benjamin Franklin had it right!: one has to learn to eat to live versus living to eat. I remember the bruise on Auntie L’s left arm, seemingly more “alive” and dramatic in color when she sat on the front porch. Grape-colored darkness approached (storm-clouds in the distance) as in-depth as Belafonte-flesh. Marsalis-y moody evenings that were capable of moving mountains into me.
LA CHUTE DE LA MAISON USHER(France 1928, dir: Jean Epstein)
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