Retro

I've been reading Naomi Wolf's book Treehouse and if there's anything it's confirmed (other than my weakness for nonfiction, and other variations of self-help inspirational books haha!) it's that at end of the day, I need to be reminded about why I did what I did years ago, and why I would do it all over again. To know what one loves, I think, is the closest thing many of us can get to grace.

Resurrection Saturday

I'm back! And already I'm half-tempted to change the format of this site. No decent resurrection should ever happen without the fireworks. Willi, I've started looking for Sebald and Baker already. Too bad the only recollection I have of ever having held Austerlitz was in a booksale branch long closed. A boy. In black and white. And back then, it seemed like an odd book I thought I would never be interested in. U and I, on the other hand, must have been in aeon books. And yes, because, again, my taste wasn't as complicated as it probably is now, it too slipped past my hands. I will tell you how the writing and the reading goes.

It's a variation of regret: the regret of books not bought, long lost, and forsaken to someone else's whim (or wisdom). Nothing too bad though that's worthy of deep rumination here. It's covered up by other regrets, bigger losses.

Em, yes, I can spell write, right? And vera mau jud, mabasa ra jud. Kinsay dili mabasa walay silbi. Kinsaiy dili mabasa dili ma-unay.

Appetite has a way of ruining itself. By satisfying itself.

If, in the end, you deny yourself the satisfaction of a selfish grip of the day. Then I know you have long forsaken the pleasure of reading, of writing. You cannot understand. You will never.

End of Days?

OK. There seems to be something wrong with my blog. Because everytime I try to log on to it, all it shows is a nice big white BLANK. So if you can read this, then I've probably figured out what's wrong with it. And if you can't read, then obviously the past three sentences go into the purgatory of blog entries, where words probably fester or bloom into dead ends, or wrong airplanes, or hedges that are shaped into the faces of rocks. I'm not making sense. And this writing (invisible) into the void (visible) is scary.

This makes it to the big screen: A reply to Frances

Yes, choose someone else's class to sit in. haha I am in serious doubt that there is much I can teach you. (Although I can almost imagine now you raising your hand, speaking in tounges (how does one imagine someone one has not seen?) and the rest of the class fading into the background as I stumble to answer your question. With hesitation. With what's left of a good, deep question. The kind that doesn't end. While the world turns dark. Because it's already 6. And even the night too has its own mother waiting to close the door on it. Into the light.)

There are other days when things are simpler. When silence means yes there is much much happening in the blurry backdrop of a street scene. Or an old house. Or the whole throng of creation's hierarchy: angel, and devil, and sweet heads with wings, and rings of light. And one walks, or runs, as if with music. As if one was music. And a fit of laughter lifts the young girl into the gaping whole of the sky that must be the mouth of god.

But sometimes silence means no. And like with any swift refusal we have seen, heard, stolen away before. We have nothing to say to it. We pretend we have not heard. We are born again, and this time without ears.