the garden years

that will never come back

query the indian continentals

american dumbass

misguided foam on a wave

that without a cultural monarchy

crashed exponentially outward

which infinitely growing debt

could not stand behind

or outpace

devaluating data

which while slow with the monkeys

found the new primates

reengineering earth

as a machine of thought

without heart

 

 

 

in three hours

a backdrop of sod

mutt buffet or

living carpet

so i bought all this

weed killing fertilizer

and the dogs got sick

when leaves

stopped moving

grass in the 80s

we laid down

nested in it

light strings

new love

without
dollars or data

or other entities

in the soft rain

from lemon clouds

inside the sphere

when  we were young

and  america
could be good

now

espressoing

the mahogany and marble

your shadow numbers

seep into sight

a line of blood

from prior version(s)

and parents decisions

into yours

On our way home from mass we would often meet M. Legrandin, who, detained in Paris by his professional duties as an engineer, could only (except in the regular holiday seasons) visit his home at Combray between Saturday evenings and Monday mornings.

He was one of that class of men who, apart from a scientific career in which they may well have proved brilliantly successful, have acquired an entirely different kind of culture, literary or artistic, of which they make no use in the specialised work of their profession, but by which their conversation profits. More 'literary' than many 'men of letters', endowed with a greater ease in execution than many painters, they imagine that the life they are obliged to lead is not that for which they are really fitted, and they bring to their regular occupations either a fantastic indifference or a sustained and lofty application, scornful, bitter, and conscientious.

Tall, with a good figure, a fine, thoughtful face, drooping fair moustaches, a look of disillusionment in his blue eyes, an almost exaggerated refinement of courtesy; a talker such as we had never heard; he was in the sight of my family, who never ceased to quote him as an example, the very pattern of a gentleman, who took life in the noblest and most delicate manner.

My grandmother alone found fault with him for speaking a little too well, a little too much like a book, for not using a vocabulary as natural as his loosely knotted Lavallière neckties, his short, straight, almost schoolboyish coat. She was astonished, too, at the furious invective which he was always launching at the aristocracy, at fashionable life, and 'snobbishness'--"undoubtedly," he would say, "the sin of which Saint Paul is thinking when he speaks of the sin for which there is no forgiveness."

"Well met, my friends!" he would say as he came towards us. "You are lucky to spend so much time here; to-morrow I have to go back to Paris, to squeeze back into my niche. "Oh, I admit," he went on, with his own peculiar smile, gently ironical, disillusioned and vague, "I have every useless thing in the world in my house there. The only thing wanting is the necessary thing, a great patch of open sky like this.

Always try to keep a patch of sky above your life, little boy," he added, turning to me.   "You have a soul in you of rare quality, an artist's nature;

never let it starve for lack of what it needs."

      marcel

And I begin again to ask myself what it could have been, this unremembered state which brought with it no logical proof of its existence, but only the sense that it was a happy, that it was a real state in whose presence other states of consciousness melted and vanished.

I decide to attempt to make it reappear. I retrace my thoughts to the moment at which I drank the first spoonful of tea. I find again the same state, illumined by no fresh light.

I compel my mind to make one further effort, to follow and recapture once again the fleeting sensation.   And that nothing may interrupt it in its course I shut out every obstacle, every extraneous idea, I stop my ears and inhibit all attention to the sounds which come from the next room.

And then, feeling that my mind is growing fatigued without having any success to report, I compel it for a change to enjoy that distraction which I have just denied it, to think of other things, to rest and refresh itself before the supreme attempt.   And then for the second time I clear an empty space in front of it.

I place in position before my mind's eye the still recent taste of that first mouthful, and I feel something start within me, something that leaves its resting-place and attempts to rise, something that has been embedded like an anchor at a great depth; I do not know yet what it is, but I can feel it mounting slowly;  I can measure the resistance, I can hear the echo of great spaces traversed.

Will it ultimately reach the clear surface of my consciousness, this memory, this old, dead moment which the magnetism of an identical moment has travelled so far to importune, to disturb, to raise up out of the very depths of my being?

I cannot tell. Now that I feel nothing, it has stopped, has perhaps gone down again into its darkness, from which who can say whether it will ever rise?

Ten times over I must essay the task,  must lean down over the abyss.

                                                      *proust

BEST VIDEO OF THE YEAR!!!

pulled back the covers

opened the wake

he left it all

a complete dance

as his septum

falls into darkness

james is loving me

laughing as no christ ever could

at our predicament

singing like frank

of windy summers