Κυριακή, 25 Μαρτίου 2012

The malady of our era

Το παρακάτω είναι μια τσαπατσουλιά μιας άγνωστης.



She thought she was filming a movie with her eyes, particularly when walking down the corridor to her room. It was getting narrower and narrower.



“The ink has spilled all over, washing the whiteness of the blank. We can speak of a blank within and of a void eternally expanding, never reaching its end. An imperfect void (perfect=τέλειος=complete). I am holding a borrowed pen, and I malfunction, moving spasmodically for one more time, over these points in time that, if cared for, they give birth to doors, to roofs, and to locks, and, in the best of chases, to whole of huts. I know we don’t have a lot of time, you think I’m a fool?”


“I need to thank Grace for sharing her utensils. I asked her for a pen yesterday night. Of utility means of futility, whereas an idiom signifies one’s possession of the language. I do not entertain the idioms because I breastfed from a non-English speaking mother, and thus I was shaped according to foreign customs, pastors and so on and so forth.”


“I do not share anybody’s enthusiasm for re-watching the Disney movies on the threshold of adultness, because I do not believe in assisted recollection nor in predicted stirring. Enthusiasm means to sleep with a god inside your stomach. The ink has spilled all over, it is like ants are resting on my fingers. It feels like biting some time.”


“I want to somehow attach my biological mechanisms to writing. It is tough, I understand, but I won’t rest in p(e)ace unless I’m allowed some symbolisms, some innovative forms. And some blood-ink. Ι want to become an organically crude whole. Altogether now. ‘I won’t write again’. Once more; ‘I won’t write again’. I can’t hear you. Louder! Loudeeeer!”, she was screaming almost in paranoia, her veins making a map down her throat.


“I began with the intention to imitate a masterpiece, Faulkner’s ‘As I Lay Dying’; but I digressed. Thank God. My only influence is ‘Nadja’ at this point. The malady of our era is the impudent number of literary allusions to great works of art, in attempt, let us be honest with each other, to filch some of their splendor and camouflage our unbearable lack of skill.”



“I wrote my piece exclusively to music of Robert Wyatt. Close quotation marks.

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