Time and space in between

Fridaynight, Saturdaymorning...copious amounts of wine and an old card game. Cry "Coup Fourré!" and continue to speed on...

"There are sicknesses worse than sicknesses,
There are pains that do not ache, not even in the soul,
Yet are more painful than all the others.
There are anxieties dreamed of more real
Than those life brings us, sensations
Felt only by imagining them,
More our own than life itself.
So many things exist without existing,
Exist, and linger on and on,
And on and on belong to us, and are us . . .
Over the turbid green of the wide spreading river
The white circumflexes of the gulls . . .
Over and over the soul, the useless fluttering
Of what never was, nor ever can be, and that's all.

Let me have more wine, life is nothing."
(Fernando Pessoa)

WR by Labradford.

Walking home that early Saturday morning, I was elsewhere. Half a world away, a different season, in a place where everyone looked like me and everything was slightly familiar. Comforting and reassuring. My companion there that stood by my side. But this life was gone. And a ghost walked me all the way home.

Early Saturday evening. Two books and dinner for one. The Poetics of Space. And more Rexroth. Always Rexroth these days.

"By living the poems we read, we have then the salutary experience of emerging. This, no doubt, is emerging at short range. But these acts of emergence are repeated; poetry puts language into a state of emergence, in which life becomes manifest through its vivacity." (Gaston Bachelard).

Saturday night. An old, washed out, dirty and scratched Badlands. A vastness flickering in the dark on the screen. I have never personally experienced the emptiness of such a place. Never felt its hard soil underneath my shoes. But its stillness I have definitely felt. I imagine dust and dirt collecting on the hair in my nostrils. Desolate memories and poisonous nostalgia.

Burn it down: le Musée Mécanique. I've never been. Never got close. Will never go now. All those contraptions of the past are amusing but I need not revisit them. Adieu, bon débarras.

The transition from last night to this afternoon...

Burning Lights by Joe Strummer.