jueves, 30 de septiembre de 2010

BOWL OF LILACS [lletres escandinaves]


"Each word needs to be turned inside out like a glove, and emptied of its substance. Each speech should wrench itself from the ground like an aeroplane and smash through the surrounding walls. Up till now you have been slaves. You have been given words to obey, words to enslave, words to write slavish poems and slavish philosophies. It is time to arm words. Arm them and hurl them against the walls. Perhaps they will even reach the other side”
[“The giants” Le Clézio]



- He called her name across the lake from where he stood, on the worm eaten platform. Her name spanned the air, the creak of a burdened branch splitting further from the bark; the tick of the clock’s hand triumphantly making its last step uphill to midnight. He had Johannisbeeren.  He knew the names of all the berries. She could imagine him filling his mother’s lap with them on a summers' day, the apron blooming with stains as it bulged under their weight. She would push her hand under them and letting her palm fill with their tight bodies, they would bounce and collide like marbles. Slowly closing her fist around them, all the ruby plump spheres would collapse into bloody drained bladders. But as she stood there looking into his palm, the lone berry lay intact. All was solid around him. She could smell the crisp sureness that enveloped him but she could not reach it, like mist etching to be fractal. Plump berries with their proper names nestled in soft outlined hands. Names fade into the dusk.-


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