menin aedie thea

[sacreamour]

what does "each of us must suffer his own demanding ghost" mean?

we all carry our respective pasts as our ghosts.

[sacreamour]

people who love you v/s people who love themselves when they are with you.

the difference.

[sacreamour]

let go.

empty yourself.

become calm and complete.

[sacreamour]

What martial arts do you practice?

kenjutsu and iaido. almost stopped for an year but i have been doing swordcraft for nearly 12 years or so. also used to kickbox, don’t anymore.

started eskrima/kali 2 years ago.

[sacreamour]

Voices, rather. A chorus. Of commentary and interpretation. Of exchange. a chorus that points to the phenomenon of voice as such or, rather, to the phenomenon of changing voice, changing pespective. In a rhythm of voice - absence of voice - voice. This is why, in his later books, the rabbis, privileged interpreters though they are, disappear. They become absorbed into the white space between paragraphs, between aphorisms.

Rosmarie Waldrop, Lavish Absence

[sacreamour]

A writer, particularly a young and inexperienced writer, feels himself under an obligation to give his reader the fullest answers to all possible questions. Conscience will not let him shut his eyes to tormenting problems, and so he begins to speak of ‘first and ultimate things.’ As he cannot say anything profitable on such subjects—for it is not the business of the young to be profoundly philosophical—he grows excited, he shouts himself to hoarseness. In the end he is silent from exhaustion.

Leo Shestov

[sacreamour]

Once, the poet knew how to account for his poetry (‘To open it through prose’, as Dante puts it), and the critic was also a poet. Now, the critic has lost access to the work of creation and thus gets revenge by presuming to judge it, while the poet no longer knows how to save his own work and thus discounts this incapacity by blindly consigning himself to the frivolity of an angel.

Agamben, Nudities

[sacreamour]

In Species of Spaces, Perec explores the space of the page, the bed, the bedroom, the apartment, and so on. But here, in this bed, a bed that is not necessarily my own (I am currently living in a temporary space), in this space (a temporary, weighted space), in this space (meaning, my own psychological & emotional space), the bed is not so easily separated from the space of the room from the space of my heart from the space of the morning from the space of the sunlight sifting through the lacy white fabric covering the window.

Too,  reading the haunting language of Michael Seidlinger’s newest book The Fun We’ve Had, the space of the language in the novel becomes the space of my strange and own haunting relationships, resurfacing, repeating, renewing, becoming.

[sacreamour]

On the South

Guernica is an award-winning online magazine of ideas, art, poetry, and fiction published twice monthly.

Fifteen writers on a region, a culture, a mindset.

[viperslang]

it is possible to look like an adult.

but why try?

[viperslang]

circumference

qawwal, strip mine me an evanescence of camphor blossoming its ashen italic in an umbilical worship

a warship at the midriff of that arrogant tombolo this boy who grew up: a pier of sharks; a debut of eels

he still loves as a muezzin who contorts his inflections between a goldsmith and a glassblower; that fevered

dactyl limning his throat venerated into a bulletproof alchemy. a doorway is always open within us; a palindrome,

that glowing amnesia; a pigeon scale, a many-feathered wilderness. the puzzle of inheritance left me an undulation

of sundew spliced into the acerbic asphalt of the bombed city the chagrin left us many things; a hole in the opaque roost

a night pregnant with twin rainstorms; we walked for miles past the police ready to confiscate the reddened rialto of a beating

heart that coughed up stains of ache-drawn arpeggios; to never touch; to never travel the torture of that crestfallen cavity

he held my hand and the rest of the way was a small light bulb it wavered over each suspicion of echoes; garbled a cette fois

the morning after as the curfew doubled over the death toll like a hastily pulled tatami mat over an anthill; we heard the rattle

of unflinching trains running as a cortege of anonymous pallbearers. sleep is an amateur death; he whispered into

the cherry-grave of the last cigarette and tossed it out aimlessly the slag shot through the air - flyspecks of bruised firefinches

when i left that bedroom filled with battlewounds; i was an unkempt anticipation; pebble and crystal; a backbone’s blueprint

we never got the courage to ask our dead if they slept better now or if it is true that it is the world awoken that is teeming with nightmares

Scherezade Siobhan©

[sacreamour]

you hear that? that's the "proper" spanish accent. ;)

[landscapelifescape]

Saxon Switzerland National Park, Germany

Magic tree by mjagiellicz

[viperslang]

feeling somewhat better. 

[sacreamour]

August 30, 1932

You are testing my courage to the full, like a torturer. How to extricate myself from this nightmare? I have only one source of strength (humanly, I have no strength), I have only writing, and it is this which I am doing now with a desperation you can never conceive of— I am writing against myself, against what you call my imperfections, against the woman, against my humaneness, against the continents which are giving way.

— 

Anaïs Nin to Henry Miller

[motherground]

The Secret Language of Philately

Beautiful seizure, I’m writing this for you. Here, sitting inside the astronauts busy shredding their own balconies, I’m tracing a forest of invalids and strangers. I’m distilling the sleek, unhurried ambergris of a thousand misdirected packages and letters with the doubled folds of your vocal cords. I have mounted my entire collection of broken wings for the committee’s inspection. I have gathered the travelogues and all the hospital testimonials. Give me your braids, your shoddy Amsterdam,  your bull’s eye cancellation, your tete-a-tete. We live in a glassine world: the Blackjacks and the naturals all emerge from the jungle just long enough to calculate the alimony we owe. O amaranth, O phosphor, the shadows of lost horses move strangely tonight, beneath this imperforate moon. A smell of burning starts in the palms and proceeds towards frames of waterfalls and presidents. Skylab: whoops, we meant to do that. This is what we need: more frightening masks. A corrected confessional. The sublime.

[motherground]

— g. c. waldrep

[sacreamour]

To paraphrase Robab Moheb - men sink into mirrors, women grow from them.