The Gardener VII - The Queen's Gardener (or, Mary chooses Dickon)

"I'll come every day if tha' wants me, rain or shine," he answered stoutly. "It's the best fun I ever had in my life—shut in here an' wakenin' up a garden."
- The Secret Garden, Frances Hodgson Burnett

He befriends the butterflies in the garden. They pose for him in different flowers while he paints portraits of them. He said all he had to do was ask.

He asks me about the moon. I tell him no one ever asks me about the moon. He wonders how come no one has ever loved me that much. I wonder along with him. But then I hear him calling me Moon, and the question looses importance.

He complains about the plants not being watered properly, and cares for them generously: he becomes the rain after which flowers blossom and fruit grows. Under his care the land is healed.

But there is still such beauty

What was lost in the collapse: almost everything, almost everyone, but there is still such beauty. Twilight in the altered world, a performance of A Midsummer Night's Dream in a parking lot in the mysteriously named town of St. Deborah by the Water, Lake Michigan shining a half a mile away. Kirsten as Titania, a crown of flowers on her close-cropped hair, the jagged scar on her cheek-bone half-erased by candlelight.


Fragment of Station Eleven, by Emily St. John Mandel.

Pillow

Quisiera volverme hiedra,
y enredarme en tu cintura.
- Carmen Paris, Savia nueva

And it was worth it
After all
When
Settling a single pillow under both of our heads
We had no need to say anything at all

(And indeed, there was time for you and me)



Revisiting Elliot's Prufrock.

Les mots VIII - Articulate with the tongue of all the world

Into the golden vessel of great song
Let us pour all our passion; breast to breast
Let other lovers lie, in love and rest;
Not we, -articulate, so, but with the tongue
Of all the world: the churning blood, the long
Shuddering quiet, the desperate hot palms pressed
Sharply together upon the escaping guest,
The common soul, unguarded, and grown strong.

Longing alone is singer to the lute.



Fragment of a sonnet by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Moments of Being VII - Vast, nude space and the unheard music

I walk in accidentally. The room is vast. The space is vast. It didn't look particularly attractive seen from the hall, but when I peeked in, I was awed by the light of the stained-glass windows, by the vastness of the nude space. A couple danced in it. A man in a t-shirt, short pants and sandals led a tired body: a woman in similar attire who rested her head on his chest, her face hidden, as though she could hardly find the strenght to keep on going. He kept waltzing her, he did not want to let her give up, it seemed, but he did so tenderly, slowly. She let her body be waltzed to the music that only the man was able to hear. From a short distance, a boy in a cap and a little girl in a wheel chair looked at them. Mesmerized. Moved. Or waiting, perhaps. Or wanting attention. You're not allowed to dance! The little girl finally broke out. You're not allowed to...! I heard her shout in the distance, as I quickly walked away for I had to rush, in my mind the insidious image of her parents dancing to an unexisting vals, of her parents ignoring their little girl's selfish demands, the image of her parents clinging to that unheard music, to that moment they were stealing away.

Les mots VII - Quoth the raven

Nevermore.

The Nightingale Doth Sing VII - Innocence

Some kind of innocence is measured out in you.
- Hey Bulldog, The Beatles

There is a thread
subtler than silk
subtler than memory
or longing
or hope

There is a thread
thin as a spider's web
pearled with dew
Just as beautiful
Just as strong

Moonlight
and sunlight
dance on it
showing something dormant
something that cannot be dead
since it's never been quite born

There is a thread
If I follow it
it can almost take me back
to who you were

If I follow it
I can almost become
who I never was

Who we were
Who we never were

Les mots VI - ¿Puedes darle un nombre?

Graógraman calló largo rato.

- Señor -dijo luego-, ahora sé que mi muerte da la vida y mi vida da la muerte, y que ambas cosas son buenas. Ahora comprendo el sentido de mi existencia. Gracias.

Se dirigió lenta y solemnemente al rincón más oscuro de la caverna. Lo que hizo allí no pudo verlo Bastián, pero oyó un ruido metálico. Cuando Graógraman volvió, llevaba en la boca algo que puso antes los pies de Bastián con una profunda inclinación de cabeza.

Era una espada.

De todas formas, no parecía muy magnífica. La funda de hierro en que se alojaba estaba oxidada y el puño era casi como el de un sable de juguete hecho de algún viejo pedazo de madera.

- ¿Puedes darle un nombre? - preguntó Graograman.

- ¡Sikanda! - Dijo Bastián.

En aquel mismo instante, la espada salió chirriando de la funda y voló literalmente a sus manos. Bastián vio que la hoja era de luz resplandeciente que apenas podía mirarse. La espada tenía doble filo y se sentía ligera como una pluma en la mano.

- Esa espada -dijo Graógraman- estuvo siempre aquí para ti. Porque sólo puede tocarla sin peligro quien ha cabalgado sobre mis espaldas, ha comido y bebido de mi fuego y se ha bañado en él como tú. Pero únicamente porque has sabido darle su verdadero nombre te pertenece.


Fragmento de La historia Interminable, de Michael Ende.

The Garden V - Agua viva y santa

En un jardín te he soñado,
alto, Guiomar, sobre el río,
jardín de un tiempo cerrado
con verjas de hierro frío.

Un ave insólita canta
en el almez, dulcemente,
junto al agua viva y santa,
toda sed y toda fuente.

En ese jardín, Guiomar,
el mutuo jardín que inventan
dos corazones al par,
se funden y complementan
nuestras horas. Los racimos
de un sueño -juntos estamos-
en limpia copa exprimimos,
y el doble cuento olvidamos.


Segunda canción a Guiomar, de Alberto Machado.

The Gardener VI - Lluvia

Las flores se encienden
y alegres se abren
al beso del agua,
como manantiales.

Llueve y llueve esta tarde.


Fragmentos de "Llueve", de Juan Ramón Barat, en Poemas para gorriones.

The Nightingale Doth Sing VI - Blanks (versión censurada)

One day it will happen
One day it will all come true
One day when you're ready
One day when you're up to it.
I can feel it.
-Björk, One day

...even now, as the slugs begin their sluggish
withdrawal - each complete in love and lust;
each mother and father to what they've made
together; each alone, content, and free.
-Conversation with Slugs and Sarah, Jennifer Chang

I had a dream.
We were ourselves. We were not ourselves.
We inhabited our bodies.
They were possessed. By ancient eyes:

I am here. You are here.
Your lips steal an ancient longing from my lips.
Your mouth speaks of old yearnings to my mouth.
Your tongue feeds that never forgotten thirst on my neck.
Your hands press long kept desires unto my body.

I open up.
I let you summon me.
I let you shape me
into who I want to be:

Flesh that feels your flesh
Flesh that feeds on your flesh
Flesh that nests your flesh

I have you. You have me.
I hold you. You hold me.

We remember.
We wonder about a past
that could've been a mutual future.
Yet we prefer the now.
The many pleasures of the now.


When I woke up the first time
I knew you were still there
So I smiled before I opened my eyes:

You tuck me in
Before you leave.
Before you leave
I reassure you:
You are free.

The second time I woke up
I had new memories of you.
To fill in the blanks.

The Garden IV - Rosas como estrellas

¿Que es esto? ¡Prodigio! Mis manos florecen.

Rosas, rosas, rosas a mis dedos crecen.

Mi amante besóme las manos, y en ellas,

¡oh gracia! brotaron rosas como estrellas.

Y voy por la senda voceando el encanto

y de dicha alterno sonrisa con llanto

y bajo el milagro de mi encantamiento

se aroman de rosas las alas del viento.

Fragmento de El dulce milagro de  Juana de Ibarbourou

Les mots V - A painter using his stroke

Words 

     after all

are syllables just

and you put them

     in their place

     notes

     sounds

a painter using his stroke

     so the spot

where the article

     an umbrella

     a knife

we could find

     in its most intricate

     hiding

slashed as it was with color

     called “being”

     or even “it”

Passage, by Barbara Guest

Through the looking glass VI - Su propia imagen

No hubiera podido decir si había pasado mucho tiempo o poco, cuando la Hija de la Luna le tapó los ojos con la mano.

- ¿Por qué me has hecho esperar tanto? - oyó que le preguntaba -. ¿Por qué me has obligado a ir al Viejo de la Montaña Errante? ¿Por qué no viniste cuando te llamé?

Bastián tragó saliva.

- Porque... - pudo decir abochornado -, creí que... por muchas razones, también por miedo... Pero en realidad me daba vergüenza, Hija de la Luna.

Ella le retiró la mano y lo miró soprendida.

- ¿Vergüenza? ¿De qué?

- Bueno - titubeó Bastián-, sin duda esperabas a alguien digno de ti.

- ¿Y tu? - preguntó ella-. ¿No eres digno de mí?

- Quiero decir - tartamudeó Bastián, notando que enrojecía-, quiero decir alguien valiente y fuerte y bien parecido... un príncipe o algo así... En cualquier caso, no alguien como yo.

Había bajado la vista y oyó cómo ella se reía de nuevo de aquella forma suave y cantarina.

- Ya ves- dijo él-: también ahora te ríes de mí.

Hubo un silencio muy largo, y cuando Bastián se decidió por fin a levantar los ojos, vio que ella se había inclinado hacia él, acercándosele mucho. Tenía el rostro serio.

- Quiero enseñarte algo, Bastián - dijo-. ¡Mírame a los ojos!

Bastián lo hizo, aunque el corazón le latía y se sentía un poco mareado.

Y entonces vio en el espejo de oro de los ojos de ella, al principio pequeña aún y como muy lejana, una figura que poco a poco se fue haciendo mayor y cada vez más clara. Era un chico, aproximadamente de su edad, pero delgado y de maravillosa hermosura. Tenía el porte gallardo y apuesto, y el rostro noble y varonil. Parecía un joven príncipe. Lo más hermoso del joven eran sus manos, que parecían finas y distinguidas pero, sin embargo, insólitamente vigorosas.

Pasmado y lleno de admiración, Bastián contempló aquella imagen. No se cansaba de mirarla. Estaba a punto de preguntar quién era aquel hermoso hijo de rey, cuando lo sacudió como un rayo la idea de que era él mismo.

¡Era su propia imagen, reflejada en los ojos dorados de la Hija de la Luna!


Fragmento de La historia interminable, de Michael Ende.

Les mots IV - Let it be unnamed (Love & Freedom X)

Let it remain unnamed

Let it not know
the boundaries
of words
(There are no territories.

No walls.)

Let it be disdainful
of anything serving the purpose
of adverbs and adjectives
(they're nothing but preconceived ideas)

Let it be cautious
of Safe and Sane
and Must

Let it not know

the meaning of Power

the meaning of Pride

the meaning of Gain

Let it forge for itself another name
One far more legitimate,
far less misused, than Love

The Gardener V - Humble and grateful

I think the true gardener is a lover of his flowers, not a critic of them. I think the true gardener is the reverent servant of Nature, not her truculent, wife-beating master. I think the true gardener, the older he grows, should more and more develop a humble, grateful and uncertain spirit. 

Reginald Farrer, In a Yorkshire Garden, 1909

The Nightingale Doth Sing V - That certain night

I may be right, I may be wrong,

But I'm perfectly willing to swear

That when you turned and smiled at me,

A nightingale sang in Berkeley Square.

When dawn came stealing up, all gold and blue

To interrupt our rendez-vous,

I still remember how you smiled and said,

"Was that a dream? Or was it true?"

Lyrics to A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square

The Gardener IV - Heaven shall be here

- And what protection can the gardener afford this rose from the harsh elements of change?

- Under nature's eye all roses may bloom, althoug the elements may treat us cruely. Patience, care, and a little warmth from the sun are our best hope, your majesty.

Dialogue from the movie A little chaos.

Les Mots III - Un altro paradiso

And solitude, a wild solitude
’s reveald
- Childhood's Retreat, Robert Duncan

The word solitude
speaks of paradise:

Vast
calm lakes
filled with reflections
undisturbed

Winds dancing with leaves
free
and storms wild

Moonlight and sunlight
alter nothing
but the color of light

The word solitude
speaks of peace
It speaks of happiness

Love & Freedom IX - Thus duty does make cowards of us all

To wed, or not to wed; that is the question;

Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The bills and house rent of a wedded fortune,

Or to say “nit” when she proposes,

And by declining save her. To wed; to smoke

No more; And have a wife at home to mend

The holes in socks and shirts

And underwear and so forth. ’Tis a consummation

Devoutly to be wished. To wed for life;

To wed; perchance to fight; ay, there’s the rub;

For in that married life what fights may come,

When we have honeymooning ceased

Must give us pause; there’s the respect

That makes the joy of single life.

For who would bear her mother’s scornful tongue,

Canned goods for tea, the dying furnace fire;

The pangs of sleepless nights when baby cries;

The pain of barking shins upon a chair and

Closing waists that button down the back,

When he himself might all these troubles shirk

With a bare refusal? Who would bundles bear,

And grunt and sweat under a shopping load?

Who would samples match; buy rats for hair,

Cart cheese and crackers home to serve at night 

For lunch to feed your friends; play pedro

After tea; sing rag time songs, amusing

Friendly neighbors. Buy garden tools

To lend unto the same. Stay home at nights

In smoking coat and slippers and slink to bed

At ten o’clock to save the light bills?

Thus duty does make cowards of us all,

And thus the native hue of matrimony

Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of chores;

And thus the gloss of marriage fades away,

And loses its attraction.

Almost Edgar Albert Guest's The Bachelor's Soliloquy.

Stars aren't always fixed

Story let me die

Get to the garden and leave your body outside

Story let me live

Stars aren't always known nor fixed for all children

(Who'll leave us better told?

Would have to say our names like they've never been before

Like the oldest book that gets new life with a new title

Rush right past the words to the symbol)

A little bit of almost New Myth, by Lia Ices

The androgynous self I - Incandescent and undivided

And I went on amateurishly to sketck a plan of the soul so that in each of us two powers preside, one male, one female; and in the man's brain, the man predominates over the woman, and in the woman's brain, the woman predominates over the man. The normal and comfortable state of being is when the two live in harmony together, spiritually co-operating. If one is a man, still the woman part of the brain must have effect; and a woman also must have intercourse with the man in her. Coleridge perhaps meant this when he said that a great mind is androgynous. It is when this fusion takes place that the mind is fully fertilised and uses all its faculties.

He meant, perhaps, that the androgynous mind is resonant and porous; that it transmits emotion without impediment; that it is naturally creative, incandescent and undivided.

Fragment from Virginia Woolf's A Room of One's Own.

Orpheus's doubt

There's something about Orpheus' descent to Hades I'd never quite understood. Actually, it doesn't really have to do with his descent but rather with his and Eurydice's ascent back to life. It all seemed pretty simple, didn't it? All he had to do was walk out. Walk out, and not look back. That was it. He is unable to accomplish that, though, we all know that, and Eurydice remains in death while Orpheo is expelled from Hades.

Yet, why was it so important that he didn't turn back? Why did Hades asked that of him? What could be so troublesome and tragic about it? I'd never quite understood that, until recently. I'd never quite understood something that perhaps ain't as simple as walking: doubt. And the potential harm doubt contains which, when released, when enacted, or reenacted, might take the shape of a bomb, and expand in destruction around it. In destruction of what was already achieved, and of the possibilities that were potentially kept within that.

In Monteverdi's aria, Eurydice sings, right after Orfeo has given in to doubt and turned around: Ah, vista troppo dolce e troppo amara! Cosí, per troppo amor dunque mi perdi? Something like Oh, too sweet and too sour a vision! Is it thus that, because of too much love, you lose me? And here lies the other conundrum that puzzled me: how can love, too much love, be a cause of loss?

While Orfeo walks, in Monteverdi's opera, he first congratulates himself and his lyre for being able to move every heart in the underworld and gain Eurydice back, and then begins to savour the sweet company of his beloved which is so near at hand. But he then begins to doubt the gods, he thinks they might've played a cruel joke on him, he begins to think that maybe Eurydice isn't really following him, or that maybe the furies will try to steal her away from him. He begins to doubt, and doubt allows fear in. Both doubt and fear are fed by that very same and immense love, which in conjunction give birth to the ghost of loss. Orpheus hears a noise, and his fear is aroused. Lastly, fear causes him to break his promise to Hades and turn around, already convinced and scared that someone might be taking Eurydice away from him. But, alas! It is no one but himself who causes this loss. It is his doubt, followed by his fear, who inflict in himself the great pain of loss.

Trust, on the other hand, would've come in handy.

Y, disculparán sus mercedes el somewhat tacky clip y el súper tacky fondo musical, però, Christoffer Boe tuvo a bien retomar el mito hacia el final de su film Reconstruction. Sírvanse ustedes ir al minuto 2:30.

Through the looking glass V - Espejos

Jugamos que tu eras yo era tu
tomaba tu cuerpo y soñé

que era a mi a quien tomaba

Los árboles nos ven dormir

a través de la ventana

Creo llorar:

Tu llanto moja mi cara

(Lo ángeles nos ven dormir

a través de la ventana)

Letra de Espejo, de Santa Sabina, escrita por Adriana Enciso

Moments of Being VI - Smiles

Some day, when I'm awfully low
and the world is cold
I will feel a glow just thinking of you
- The way you look tonight, by Dorothy Fields

I leave the house at almost two in the afternoon as though I were rushing out at a much earlier hour, say nine thirty or nine or eight thirty in the morning (or worst), yet unaware of the hope already alerting me that we were finding ourselves again in a happy coincidence. I hear your voice saying hello behind my back as I pull the door closed. I smile. I know you're smiling behind me too. I inadvertently walk towards you with such ill-repressed enthusiasm that I bump into you. I laugh next to your ear acknowledging it, and I'm sure that you're heart is as grateful as mine. You smile and look at me, once the hugging is over, and I bet you're thinking that I rush out of my house as people normally do at a much earlier hour, say six thirty or seven or seven thirty in the morning, with my hair all undone and in whichever cleanish clothes I managed to find, and though you could find a dissapproving sentence or two for that, you just look at me and smile, and remember I am anything but normal.

¿Muy frágil? ¿Qué es muy frágil para ti? you asked, last time we'd met. At first I thought it was a metaphorical question, so I just looked down and played with your shirt and remained quiet. You asked me again, you insisted, you wanted to know what it is I consider fragile. I finally understood, and told you what I keep in that box.

(It's good to see you laugh, you'd said that other time, too, even though you didn't quite understand what I was laughing at).

Les mots II - I am proposing words

No one loves you more ... more ... more ...    
There were sincere lies everywhere placed directly before
the next step. Does everyone pretend, part of alive
I am proposing words — All structures have crumbled
in earliest death. I’m crossing the yellow sands
It’s so hard to know without relating it, to you
shaping a heart, take hold of me and someone says
I don’t get it! You don’t have to have love,
or you do, which? I don’t think you do; before
the explosion? I was here without it and have been in
many places loveless. I don’t want you
to know what I’m really thinking or do I, before
creation when there might be no “I knew”
Everything one’s ever said not quite true. He or she be-
trays you; why you want to hurt me ... bad
Want to, or just do? Treason was provoked
everywhere even here, by knowing one was one and
I was alone, a pale hue. The sky of death
is milky green today, like a poison pool near a
desert mine. Picked prickly pear fruit and I
tasted it, then we drove on, maybe to Yarnell.
These outposts where I grew up; I didn’t do that
I have no ... identity, and the love is an object
to kick as you walk on the blazing bare ground, where ...    
sentimental, when what I love, I ... don’t have that one
word. This fire all there is ... to find ... I find it
You have to find it. It isn’t love, it’s what?

This fire, by Alice Notley

Love and Freedom VIII - Magnetic pink and evolve princesslike, or What voice in what wilderness? (Love and obedience II)

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,  

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,  

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,  

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, 

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated

- Howl, by Alan Ginsberg

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by wedding planners, dieting, in shapewear, 

dragging themselves in cute outfits through the freezer section for the semifreddo bender,

blessed innovative cloister girl pin-ups burning to know the rabbi of electricity in poverty, obedience, in the dream stick of opium and the green Wi-Fi fuse,

not allowed to explore alleys or ride the rails or hitchhike either because of the magnetic pink and with all the years of training before spread out boundless the rules and safety tiresome before them,

who busted out against parents’ wishes clattered cross-county in a Model T with another girl to see the iron pyrite fool’s gold The West and the finally wide open-legged Pacific zones,

who talked all night in the tourist camps and were up with the sun and snappish with hunger,

the navigators in terror of the steep mountain road refreshing the radiator with water inhaling the rust steam fragrance of open road red oxygen metal and a lunar happiness,

who listened while the mechanic romanced over velocity and atonement die-stampings on sheet steel and drop forgings while the diner waitress ground out pies and pies and pies,

wandering nylons suffering while the word of engagements and new babies began its bone descent by mother’s phrasing and martini lunch date with the old school of the hot comb and the inner ear,

who broke up with boyfriends and walked tap heels on streets for dentist’s appointment a doctor’s appointment an interview a newspaper grocery dinner tomato,

who found the sublet which for what she was making she could afford but the roommate had trouble with rent alarm clock rooster cock boyfriend,

who saw her clothing was available in size 00 so it was time to disappear entirely, 

who listened to the TODAY show while she Kindled exasperated on an exercise bike in the new pink Manhattan Island 22.7 square miles of dawn,

who carried her infant in a baby sling she designed herself out of thrift store fabrics,

who wept because caesarean was a term for last resort, having felt cheated by the dictionary of the pain of real meaning and deliverance of child into atmosphere,

who anyway flamed ardent and breathless in illuminated swinging as she sang lulling smooth neurons already waddling inside the babygirl’s palimpsest brain,

who watched the girl with highlights blow her boyfriend and then blew her boyfriend and then copulated analytically with a stranger waiter painter truck driver in a sorcery of forgetfulness, 

who is up nights and days peeing restlessly endlessly with nothing but cranberry cranberry cranberry eucharist for the body’s  unyielding sciences and the UTI of the Punishing Boy God who decided who wins,

who felt the embryo always crunching futures with crushing weight of the fixed decree by which the laws of the universe are prescribed the bitch of necessity the bitch of chance and the DNA overlord,

who from curiosity and an old curse tried the spinning wheel in the coldest room of the castle and spilled drops of blood on the snow, fell into a sleep that would last a hundred years, until, what else, a boy kisses her,

who lost her virginity to the three bad playing cards in cardboard plastic coated false love the slippery wet Jack of Text Messages the forcible Jack of All Fours the odd can opener of need filled by the One-Eyed Jack who finally demystifies though it turns out not only slightly painful but truly unpleasant, followed by all the new information, 

who burned her novel this actually happened destroyed a second Bell Jar dedicated to him call her impossible but the leapt from it must have been split-second maddening rapturous,

who blew him three times and then his friend because it was hard to say no when you say no nobody likes you as much when you say yes or even whatever you are loved into momentary relevance existence,

who begged twenty dollars from each friend to pay for a secret abortion, her man needing the child but not her to show his father manliness by imperialism of the womb and eventual abandonment like any suburban mall, 

who should have been on the road but for the uterus repeatedly renewing its lease convincing energy affirmative right honey that’s right honey right there,

who gave a light touch delicate hand beautiful chisel cheek blonde wave Mother Image Madwoman chick and ignu driving inward toward an isolated, lonely peace, 

and lived the biography filled however with biographies of the others for which she made a home flashbulbed in silver their likenesses and tried love in living room, attic, slanted redeemable love their fingers articulated like saints,

who after the understandable and recognizable desire loveshape would then expand, against his will and this was a shame, this lie abandonment anger congenital analgesia against hope plan bugout for ten years,

returning in her saffron clothes her flat dimension the mother saint devotion song of spiritual angers lovingly pressed into an incense cone of spirituality, her image carved by apostles among the lonely goat forgotten sheep infant in cozy rags framed by any window to be honored in her eternal loneliness,

Amherst’s Evergreens’ First Congregational’s cupola and conservatory hothouse echoing pure song and archway and hymnal restraint, Daisy who bends her smaller life to his in her fenced-in field within which the horse can gallop wildly as she likes, grieve her your best girl

with a still, restrained, almost annoyed sigh, what voice in what wilderness, minutest cricket, most unworthy flower I will never be tired—I will never be noisy I will be your best little girl— nobody else will see me, but you — but that is enough — limitlessness, wilt thou say,
ah, ladies, good night, good night, good night ladies —

and who therefore know the biology of the soft matter and the cluster of creation in its salty stellar lonely archive is matched by the sweet violence of thought,

the madgirl and saint unrecognized and writing madrigal in bedroom and recipe in library and songs during class and sketching sunflowers for what’s left of us,

and remains magnified sanctified we should be allowed Yitgadal v’yitkadash sh’mei raba Acanthus whorled and dense and impossibly real multiplying in fields an abundance of sunflowers serious beauty,

with blooming, ridiculous with blooming, arriving and opening in endless profusion forever. 

Excerpts from Amy Newman's Howl

The Nightingale doth sing IV - Blooming and singing

La rosa enflorese                     The rose is blossoming

hoy en el mes de may              now, in the month of May

Los bilbilicos cantan                The nightingales are singing

con sospiros de aver                 sighing with desire

Los bilbilicos cantan                The nightingales are singing

en los arvos de la flor               on the blossoming trees

Letra de la canción sefardí Los bilbilicos, tomada del artículo When will that be, de Liang Sheng, publicado en Poemas del Río Wang.

The Gardener III - It's as alive as you or me

Dickon: The robin says he's been waiting for you. The animals tell me all their secrets.

Mary: He wouldn't tell you my secret, would he?

Dickon: About what Miss Mary?

Mary: A garden. I've stolen a garden. Maybe it's dead anyhow. I don't know.

Dickon: I'd know.

Mary: Promise you won't tell.

Dickon: Promise.

Mary: Nobody?

Dickon: Not a soul.

Mary: I'ts a secret garden.

Dickon: Secrets are safe with me.

Mary: And you'll really know if it's alive?

Dickon: 'Course!

Mary: Wait here.

Dickon: This garden's not dead. I'ts as alive as you or me. See? This part's wick. See the green!

Mary: Wick? What's wick?

Dickon: Alive. Full of live. There'll be so many roses in here this summer. You'll be sick of them.


Dialogue from the movie The Secret Garden, directed by Agnieszka Holland.

The Garden III - Searching for the garden

- Where's the door?
If you know the way, show me.

The Gardener II - Eden and Chaos

- Is this abundance of chaos... is this your Eden?

- My search for it.

Dialogue from the movie A Little Chaos, directed by Alan Rickman. 

Les mots I - Palabras como cavernas

Line the word caves
with panther skins,

widen them, hide-to and hide-fro,
sense-hither and sense-thither,

give them courtyards, chambers, drop doors
and wildnesses, parietal,

and listen for their second
and each time second and second
tone.

Paul Celan's Line the word caves, translated by Pierre Jorris

The Nightingale Doth Sing III - On the viewless wings of Poesy

Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,—
That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green, and shadows numberless,
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! Tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays.

Fragments of Ode to a Nigthingale, by John Keats

Las Horas X - El bosque de relojes

El maestro Hora volvió a sonreír.

- No, querida niña. Yo sólo soy el administrador. Mi obligación es dar a cada hombre el tiempo que le está destinado.

- ¿No podrías organizarlo de tal manera -preguntó Momo-, que los ladrones de tiempo no pudieran robar más a los hombres?

- No, eso no puedo hacerlo -contestó el maestro Hora-, porque lo que los hombres hacen con su tiempo, tienen que decidirlo ellos mismos. También son ellos quienes han de defenderlo. Yo sólo puedo adjudicárselo.

Momo recorrió con la mirada la sala y preguntó:

- Para eso tienes tantos relojes, ¿no? ¿Uno para cada hombre?

- No, Momo -contestó el maestro Hora-. Esos relojes no son más que una afición mía. Sólo son reproducciones muy imperfectas de algo que todo hombre lleva en su pecho. Porque al igual que tienen ojos para ver la luz, oídos para oír los sonidos, tienen un corazón para percibir, con él, el tiempo. Y todo el tiempo que no se percibe con el corazón está tan perdido como los colores del arcoiris para un ciego o el canto de un pájaro para un sordo. Pero, por desgracia, hay corazones ciegos y sordos que no perciben nada, a pesar de latir.

- ¿Y si un día mi corazón dejara de latir? -preguntó Momo.

- Entonces -replicó el maestro Hora-, el tiempo se habrá acabado para ti, mi niña. También se podría decir que eres tú quien vuelve a través del tiempo, a través de todos tus días y noches, tus meses y años. Regresas a través de tu vida hasta llegar al gran portal de plata por el que una vez entraste. Por allí vuelves a salir.

- Y, ¿qué hay del otro lado?

- Entonces has llegado al lugar de donde procede la música que, muy bajito, ya has oído alguna vez. Pero entonces tú formas parte de ella, eres un sonido dentro de ella.

Miró, inquisitivo, a Momo.

- Pero eso no podrás entenderlo todavía, ¿verdad?

- Sí -contestó Momo-, creo que sí.

Recordó su camino a través de la calle de Jamás, en la que lo había vivido todo al revés, y preguntó:

- ¿Eres tú la muerte?

El maestro Hora sonrió y calló un rato antes de contestar:

- Si los hombres supiesen lo que es la muerte, ya no le tendrían miedo. Y si ya no le tuvieran miedo, nadie podría robarles, nunca más, su tiempo de vida.

- No hace falta más que decírselo - propuso Momo.

-¿Tu crees? -preguntó el maestro Hora-. Yo se los digo con cada hora que les adjudico. Pero creo que no quieren escucharlo. Prefieren creer a aquellos que les dan miedo. Eso también es un enigma.

Fragmento de Momo, de Michael Ende. 

Love & Freedom VII - Love & obedience

And this is love: that we walk in obedience to his commands.


The Second Epistle of John, verse 6, Holy Bible.

The Gardener I - To hold your little fists like tender lotus-buds

Servant: Have mercy upon your servant, my queen!

Queen: The assembly is over and my servants are all gone. Why do you come at this late hour?

Servant: When you have finished with the others, that is my time. I come to ask what remains for your last servant to do. 

Queen: What can you expect when it is too late?

Servant: Make me the gardener of your flower garden.

Queen: What folly is this?

Servant: I will give up my other work. I throw my swords and lances down in the dust. Do not send me to distant courts; do not bid me undertake new conquests. But make me the gardener of your flower garden.

Queen: What will your duties be?

Servant: The service of your idle days. I will keep fresh the grassy path where you walk in the morning, where your feet will be greeted with praise at every step by the flowers eager for death. I will swing you in a swing among the branches of the saptaparna, where the early evening moon will struggle to kiss your skirt through the leaves. I will replenish with scented oil the lamp that burns by your bedside, and decorate your footstool with sandal and saffron paste in wondrous designs.

Queen: What will you have for your reward?

Servant: To be allowed to hold your little fists like tender lotus-buds and slip flower chains over your wrists; to tinge the soles of your feet with the red juice of ashoka petals and kiss away the speck of dust that may chance to linger there.

Queen: Your prayers will be granted, my servant, you will be the gardener of my flower garden.

Rabindranath Tagore, The Gardener, Poem I.

Through the Looking Glass IV - L'image du passage

Lorsque la licorne s'observe dans le miroir, elle tourne son regard en direction du lion qui détourne les yeux comme s'il n'était pas (ou plus) concerné. Son reflet regarde en direction d'elle-même comme si elle occupait la place du lion. Autrement dit, le miroir correspond à l'image du passage d'un monde à l'autre, de la sphère lunaire à la sphère solaire, du monde de l'être ordinaire, voire humain, au monde de l'être spirituel. Traverser le miroir signifie se détourner des sens et se tourner vers le cœur pour donner à l'être tout son sens.

Imagen: La vista, tapiz de la serie La dama del Unicornio, Museo Cluny
Fragmento de La dame à la licorne. Le toucher et la vue. 

Through the Looking Glass III - Mirror stage indeed

After the initial identification with Atreyu, Bastian becomes deeply invested in his story, entering his mirror stage. Bastian’s actions through the middle part of the movie are mimetic: he cries when Atreyu mourns the loss of his horse in the Swamps of Sadness, he screams when Atreyu is frightened by the appearance of Morla the Ancient One, he eats at the same moment that Atreyu breaks his  march for lunch, and he taps into his own confidence to urge Atreyu on through a magical test of will. Bastian, in a sense, becomes the champion of Fantasia. At one point, when Atreyu looks into a magical mirror, he sees Bastian’s face – a clever inversion of the process by which Bastian looks into the “mirror” of the book and sees Atreyu. Mirror stage indeed!

It also becomes clearer through the progression of the journey what Bastian is fighting. The Nothing could be taken as the persistence of Bastian’s emptiness, his failure to find substitutions for his relationship with his mother which would allow him to become a part of the Symbolic. Bastian has a choice between being and nothingness, even as Fantasia does – he must become a “desiring being” (Coats, 21). The alternative is made clear by the only visible monster of the movie, the G’Mork, who identifies desires with the imagination and with hope. He claims that he helps the “force behind the Nothing” out of admiration for its philosophy: “ … people who have no hopes are easy to control. And whoever has the control has the power!” If Bastian doesn’t choose his own place in the Symbolic, larger forces (a society, perhaps) will do so for him, and, as we have already seen with his tormentors, they’ll consult their convenience and pleasure more than his well being when they do so.
The book, by contrast, becomes Bastian’s “phallic mother”, inundating him with empowering language that casts and reshapes him as a hero in Atreyu’s mold. Through reading, Bastian’s mother’s loss becomes repressed in his Real, not gone but no longer obsessing him. Bastian is enabled to look beyond grief for substitutes to cover his ‘lack’ with meaningful mentoring relationships: with Atreyu, with Falkor the Luck Dragon, with the scientist gnomes Engyhook and Urgl, with the Southern Oracle, and eventually with the Childlike Empress herself. These fantastical beings instruct Bastian through Atreyu in where to go on the stages of his quest, how to get there, and how to behave when he arrives.

Fragment from "The Neverending Story: an epic of the mirror stage and the advent of subjectivity," by Michael K. Johnson.
Illustration by Chuck Groenink.
Image from the movie The Neverending  Story.

Through the Looking Glass II - True self

- Next is the Magic Mirror Gate. Atreyu has to face his true self.
- So what? That won't be too hard for him.
- Oh, that's what everyone thinks! But kind people find out that they are cruel. Brave men discover that they are really cowards! Confronted by their true selves, most men run away, screaming!


Dialogue from the movie The Neverending Story.
Illustration: Atreyu and the Magic Mirror Gate by Moe Balinger.

The Nightingale Doth Sing II - Songs for the Emperor (or, your heart better than your crown)

- Little bird, your song has gone straight to my heart. I wish to reward you. You may have my golden slipper, to wear around your neck.

- Thank you, no. I have been rewarded enough. I have seen tears in the Emperor's eyes. For me, that is the richest treasure.

Dialogue from The Nightingale, Faerie Tale Theatre

Song to myselves: Lirios en mi piel

I celebrate myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.

Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems,
You shall possess the good of the earth and sun, (there are millions of suns left,)
You shall no longer take things at second or third hand, nor look through the eyes of the dead,
nor feed on the spectres in books,
You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me,
You shall listen to all sides and filter them from your self.

Fragments of Walt Whitman's Song of Myself.

Moments of Being IV - El sueño de un recuerdo (or, the beginning is the end is the beginning)

Noche que sacas
las cuentas claras de tus estrellas
en los papeles que el río cala.
- Noche en el agua, Carlos Pellicer

Sometimes things have a strange, rather sad, rather cheerful perfection.

I'd forgotten I once was a firefly. I'd forgotten I once loved a poet. I'd forgotten I once had a dream.

Sometimes time has an astonishingly precise way of calculating itself, of beginning and reflecting and multiplying itself, of ending and beginning again. Time winks at me, and I wonder, what will I find beyond the new treshold.

Sometimes it's best not to know, not to anticipate anything at at all.

Escena de El amor de las luciérnagas. Fotografìa de Alfredo Millán. 

Through the Looking glass I - El flotante espejo de plata Parte 1

Érase una vez una hermosa princesa llamada Momo, que vestía de seda y terciopelo y vivía muy por encima del mundo, sobre la cima de una montaña, cubierta de nieve, en un castillo de cristal.

Tenía todo lo que se puede desear, no comía más que los manjares más finos y no bebía más que el vino más dulce. Dormía sobre almohadas de seda y se sentaba en sillas de marfil. Lo tenía todo, pero estaba completamente sola.

Todo lo que le rodeaba, la servidumbre, las camareras, gatos, perros y pájaros, e incluso las flores, todo, no era más que reflejo de un espejo.

Porque resulta que la princesa Momo tenía un espejo mágico grande, redondo y de la más pura plata. Lo enviaba cada día y cada noche por todo el mundo. Y el gran espejo flotaba sobre países y mares, sobre ciudades y campos. La gente que lo veía no se sorprendía, sino que decía "Es la luna".

Y cada vez que el espejo volvía, ponía delante de la princesa todos los reflejos que había recogido durante su viaje. Los había bonitos y feos, interesantes y aburridos, según como salía. La princesa escogía los que le gustaban, mientras que simplemente tiraba los otros a un arroyo. Y los reflejos liberados volvían a sus dueños, a través del agua, mucho más de prisa de lo que te imaginas. A eso se debe que veas tu propia imagen reflejada cuando te inclinas sobre un pozo o un charco de agua.


Fragmento de Momo, de Michael Ende. 

Through the Looking Glass I - El flotante espejo de plata Parte 2

A todo esto, he olvidado decir que la princesa Momo era inmortal. Porque nunca se había mirado a sí misma en el espejo mágico. Pues quien veía en él su propia imagen, se volvía, por ello, mortal. Eso lo sabía muy bien la princesa Momo, y por lo tanto no lo hacía. De ese modo vivía con todas sus imágenes, jugaba con ellas y estaba bastante contenta.

Pero un día el espejo mágico le trajo una imagen que le interesó más que todas las otras. Era la imagen de un joven príncipe. Cuando lo vio, le entró tal nostalgia, que quería llegar hasta él como fuera. Pero, ¿cómo? No sabía dónde vivía, ni quién era, no sabía ni siquiera cómo se llamaba.

Como no encontraba otra solución, decidió mirarse por fin en el espejo. Porque pensaba: a lo mejor el espejo llevará mi imagen hasta el príncipe. Puede que mire casualmente hacia el cielo, cuando pase el espejo, y verá mi imagen. Acaso siga el camino del espejo y me encuentre aquí.

Así que se miró largamente en el espejo y lo envió por el mundo con su reflejo. Pero así, claro está, se había vuelto mortal.


Fragmento de Momo, de Michael Ende. 

Through the Looking Glass I - El flotante espejo de plata Parte 3

En seguida oirás cómo sigue esta historia, pero primero he de hablarte del príncipe.

Este príncipe se llamaba Girolamo y vivía en un reino fabuloso. Todos los que vivían en él amaban y admiraban al príncipe. Un buen día, los ministros le dijeron al príncipe: "Majestad, debes casarte, porque así es como debe ser".

El príncipe Girolamo no tenía nada que oponer, de modo que llegaron al palacio las más bellas señortias del país, para que pudiera elegir a una. Todas se habían puesto lo más guapas posible, porque todas querían casarse con él.

Pero entre las muchachas también se había colado en el palacio un hada mala, que no tenía en las venas sangre roja y cálida, sino sangre verde y fría. Claro que eso no se le notaba, porque se había maquillado con mucho cuidado.

Cuando el príncipe entró en el gran salón dorado del trono, para hacer su elección, ella pronunció rápidamente un conjuro, de modo que Girolamo no vio más que a ella. Y además le pareció tan hermosa, que al momento le preguntó si quería ser su esposa.

- Con mucho gusto - dijo el hada mala -, pero pongo una condición.
- La cumpliré - respondió Girolamo, irreflexivo.
- Está bien - contestó el hada mala, y sonrió con tanta dulzura, que el desgraciado príncipe casi se marea -, durante un año no podrás mirar el flotante espejo de plata. Si lo haces, olvidarás al instante todo lo que es tuyo. Olvidarás lo que eres en realidad y tendrás que ir al país de Hoy, donde nadie te conoce, y allí vivirás como un pobre diablo. ¿Estás de acuerdo?
- Si no es más que eso - exclamó el príncipe Girolamo -, la condición es fácil.


Fragmento de Momo, de Michael Ende. 

Through the Looking Glass I - El flotante espejo de plata Parte 4

¿Qué ha ocurrido mientras tanto con la princesa Momo?

Había esperado y esperado, pero el príncipe no había venido. Entonces decidió salir a buscarlo ella misma. Devolvió la libertad a todas las imágenes que tenía a su alrededor. Entonces bajó, totalmente sola y en sus suaves zapatillas, desde su palacio de cristal, a través de las montañas nevadas, hacia el mundo. Recorrió todos los países, hasta que llegó al país de Hoy. A estas alturas sus zapatillas estaban gastadas y tenía que ir descalza. Pero el espejo mágico con su imagen seguía flotando por el cielo.

Una noche, el príncipe Girolamo estaba sentado en el tejado de su palacio dorado y jugaba a las damas con el hada de la sangre verde y fría. De repente cayó una gota diminuta sobre la mano del príncipe.

- Empieza a llover - dijo el hada de la sangre verde.
- No - contestó el príncipe-, no puede ser, porque no hay ni una sola nube en el cielo.

Y miró hacia lo alto, directamente al gran espejo mágico, plateado, que flotaba allí arriba. Entonces vio la imagen de la princesa Momo y observó que lloraba y que una de sus lágrimas le había caído sobre la mano. En el mismo momento se dio cuenta de que el hada lo había engañado, que no era hermosa y que en sus venas sólo tenía sangre verde y fría. Era a la princesa Momo a la que amaba en verdad.

- Acabas de romper tu promesa - dijo el hada verde, y su cara se crispó hasta parecer la de una serpiente - y ahora has de pagarlo.

Introdujo sus largos dedos verdes en el pecho de Girolamo, que se quedó sentado como paralizado, y le hizo un nudo en el corazón. En ese mismo instante olvidó que era el príncipe Girolamo. Salió de su palacio y de su reino como un ladrón furtivo. Caminó por todo el mundo, hasta que llegó al país de Hoy, donde vivió en adelante como un pobre inútil desconocido y se llamaba simplemente Gigi. Lo único que había llevado consigo era la imagen del espejo mágico que desde entonces quedó vacío.

Fragmento de Momo, de Michael Ende. 

The Nightingale Doth Sing I - Escuchar el silencio

Otra vez un chico le trajo su canario, que no quería cantar. Eso era una tarea mucho más difícil para Momo. Tuvo que estarse escuchándolo toda una semana hasta que por fin volvió a cantar y silbar.

Momo escuchaba a todos: a perros y gatos, a grillos y ranas, incluso a la lluvia y al viento en los árboles. Y todos le hablaban en su propia lengua.

Algunas noches, cuando ya se habían ido a sus casas todos sus amigos, se quedaba sola en el círculo de piedra del viejo teatro sobre el que se alzaba la gran cúpula estrellada del cielo y escuchaba el enorme silencio.

Entonces le parecía que estaba en el centro de una gran oreja, que escuchaba el universo de estrellas. Y también que oía una música callada, pero aun así muy impresionante, que le llegaba muy adentro, al alma.

En esas noches solía soñar cosas especialmente hermosas.

Y quien ahora siga creyendo que el escuchar no tiene nada de especial, que pruebe, a ver si sabe hacerlo tan bien.

Fragmento de Momo, de Michael Ende.
Canto ilustrado tomado de Nick of Time

The Gravedigger's Requiem (or, the early death of the newly born twin trees)

And was it worth it,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
After the porcelain, after all those talks of you and me,
to have bitten off all those matters with a smile
to have squeezed the universe into so many balls
and rolled them towards all those overwhelming questions,
to have said "That's exactly what I mean"
or "That is not what I meant"?
Was it worthwhile,
after having laid our pillows by each other's head
and had no need to say anything at all?

For I am not Prince Hamlet, but I am no attendant lord.
I am no attendant lady, either.
I'm a gravedigger.
I find no difference between a jester and a king,
and burying the death has become so auspicious
that I can dig while whistling a merry tune.
I can dig and bury even if the occassion
requires a requiem.

I'm also a good prophet.
I could tell you all, but you'll find it out yourself.



Yet again, another variation on Elliot's Prufrock.

Love & Freedom VI - Seek thy part

Seek thy part

devote thyself

thy small self

like a book amongst

the many on a shelf

I was the Cheshire Cat

ART: Paul and I go back to the sixth grade where we grew up, in Queens. They cast the two of us in the elementary school graduation play, Alice in Wonderland, and, I was the Cheshire cat, and ah... it's been a lot of laughs ever since. With a few interruptions this year would be the 50th anniversary of this friendship that I deeply cherish.

PAUL: We met when we were 11 years old in... Alice in Wonderland and... I was the white rabbit, the leading role... And Artie was the Cheshire cat, supporting role... Very important, very important supporting role...

Simon & Garfunkel. Old Friends. 2004 Concert.

min. 24:55

Love & Freedom V - Wings

The tame bird was in a cage, the free bird was in the forest.
They met when the time came, it was a decree of fate.
The free bird cries, "O my love, let us fly to wood."
The cage bird whispers, "Come hither, let us both live in the
cage."
Says the free bird, "Among bars, where is there room to spread
one's wings?"
"Alas," cries the cage bird, "I should not know where to sit
perched in the sky."

The free bird cries, "My darling, sing the songs of the
woodlands."
The cage bird says, "Sit by my side, I'll teach you the speech of
the learned."
The forest bird cries, "No, ah no! songs can never be taught."
The cage bird says, "Alas for me, I know not the songs of the
woodlands."

Their love is intense with longing, but they cannot find how to fly wing
to wing.
Through the bars of the cage they look, and strong is their wish to
know each other.
They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, "Come closer, my
love!"
The free bird cries, "Can it be? I fear the closed doors of
the cage!"
The caged bird whispers, "Alas, are my wings powerless? Dead?"


Almost Rabindranath Tagore's Poem 6, from The Gardener

Through the Looking Glass I - El flotante espejo de plata Parte 5

Mientras tanto, los vestidos de seda y terciopelo de la princesa Momo se habían gastado. Ahora llevaba un chaquetón de hombre, viejo, demasiado grande, y una falda de remiendos de todos los colores. Y vivía en unas ruinas.

Aquí se encuentran un buen día. Pero la princesa Momo no reconoce al príncipe Girolamo, porque ahora es un pobre diablo. Tampoco Gigi reconoció a la princesa, porque ya no tenía ningún aspecto de princesa. Pero en la desgracia común, los dos se hicieron amigos y se consolaban mutuamente.

Una noche, cuando volvía a flotar en el cielo el espejo mágico, que ahora estaba vacío, Gigi sacó del bolsillo la imagen y se la enseñó a Momo. Estaba ya muy arrugada y desvaída, pero aun así, la princesa se dio cuenta en seguida que se trataba de su propia imagen. Y entonces también reconoció, bajo la máscara de pobre diablo, al príncipe Girolamo, al que siempre había buscado y por quien se había vuelto mortal. Y se lo contó todo.

Pero Gigi movió triste la cabeza y dijo:

- No puedo entender nada de lo que dices, porque tengo un nudo en el corazón y no puedo acordarme de nada.

Entonces, la princesa Momo metió la mano en su pecho y desató, con toda facilidad, el nudo que tenía en el corazón. Y, de repente, el príncipe Girolamo volvió a saber quién era. Tomó a la princesa de la mano y se fue con ella muy lejos, a su país.


Fragmento de Momo, de Michael Ende. 

Moments of Being III - That moment. Right then.

To M.

And I remember thinking to myself: So, this is the beginning of happiness. This is where it starts. And of course there will always be more. It never occurred to me it wasn't the beginning. It was happiness. It was the moment. Right then.
-Clarissa Vaughan, The Hours

Among all the things you desired
That afternoon
Close again to another end
You wished just for one

It wasn't my body
Nor to call me your own
It was not my voice singing to you
nor my tears mourning you
It wasn't even to spend
at least one night together
or even just to sleep side by side

You wished for a gift
Something not for yourself
but for me
You wished for something
that would end up driving me
even farther away from you
Something that could only do me good
Or someone, that is
Someone who would treat me right
Someone who could never hurt me
You insisted I deserved it
You almost demanded it of me
that promise
That I would take nothing other than that

That moment
That wish

Perhaps that's the closest to being loved
I have ever been

En busca del tiempo perdido XIX

Y de pronto todo el edificio resucita, surge de la tierra, crece, se eleva ante los ojos y la mirada que lo siguen: no es sólo el recuerdo, es la experiencia, intacta. La gramática precisa y elocuente de un sueño ignoto.

El alma siempre es ave.

Lloroncita III - Te soñaba dormida (con la verdad por delante)

Love & Freedom IV - Either/or

                                        Why can't lust be

love and love be lust? you're always asking,

even now as the slugs begin their sluggish

withdrawal - each complete in love and lust;

each mother and father to what they've made

together; each alone, content, and free.

(It's either fucking or marriage, I say,
saying more than I mean).                          

Why Can’t Lust be Love? / The Poetry Magazine Podcast : The Poetry Foundation

(Go to minute 6:24)

 Thoughts borrowed from Conversation with Slugs and Sarah, by Jennifer Chang