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Adamastor, by Júlio Vaz Júnior

READIN

Jeremy's journal

All of the true things that I am about to tell you are shameless lies.

Bokonon


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Friday, September 13th, 2013

🦋 Bleeding Edge



Just a few more days! I can hardly wait. Check out Jonathan Lethem's review for the NY Times.

posted evening of September 13th, 2013: 1 response
➳ More posts about Thomas Pynchon

Thursday, September 12th, 2013

🦋 Summertime fiddle

posted evening of September 12th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Fiddling

Wednesday, September 11th, 2013

🦋 Rolling east across Hudson Co.


headed in to work

posted evening of September 11th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Pretty Pictures

by Jeremy Osner

The dead of 9/11
are photographed
and silent
and the crater they fell into long since filled
with detritus of 21st C. dreams in America
and ragged strips of newsprint
without any columns of ink,
they're blank and they're torn. and the
names of the dead
scroll by beneath the image
of America.

posted evening of September 11th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Poetry

Saturday, September 7th, 2013

🦋 2 rostros asémicos

posted evening of September 7th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Logograms

🦋 ejercicio en la forma pronominal

por Jeremy Osner

Dream is not a revelation. If a dream affords the dreamer some light on himself, it is not the person with closed eyes who makes the discovery but the person with open eyes lucid enough to fit thoughts together. Dream — a scintillating mirage surrounded by shadows — is essentially poetry.
El sueño no es revelación. Si al soñador un sueño lo permitería ahorrar algún luz sobre si mismo, no realice ese descubrimiento la persona de ojos cerrados sino la de ojos abiertos y lúcidos suficientamente para los pensamientos juntos a unirse. El sueño —entre las sombras chispea el miraje— en su esencia es poesía.

Michel Leiris

Se debe escribir en una lengua que no sea materna.

You must write in a language not your own.

Vicente Huidobro

posted morning of September 7th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Writing Projects

Friday, September 6th, 2013

posted evening of September 6th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Mirar al agua

🦋 What does the fox say?

What a gorgeous video.

posted evening of September 6th, 2013: Respond
➳ More posts about Music

Tuesday, September third, 2013

🦋 Sangre en el Ojo

Reading some notes from a while back I happened on the name of Lina Meruane, a Chilean author, and a recent book of hers. Sangre en el Ojo is a memoir (fictionalized, I don't know to what extent — what I've been able to find online suggests that Dr. Meruane, who teaches at NYU, does have juvenile diabetes; but this is presented as a work of fiction, so I'm taking the Lina Meruane who is the book's main character as a distinct person from the Lina Meruane who wrote it) of losing her vision from hemorrhage caused by diabetes. The story is set in New York and Santiago de Chile, we meet Lina (a graduate student, if I've understood correctly) in 2001 just as she begins to lose her vision; the first chapters have some mesmerizing descriptions of looking at the bleeding in her eyes.

posted evening of September third, 2013: 1 response
➳ More posts about Readings

Monday, September second, 2013

🦋 Unos borredores

En las últimas semanas he escrito mucho de la forma poética (si todavía muy desordenado), en ambas idiomas. Aquí unos borredores crípticos.

Ibamos muy despacio en busca
del parking tú y yo
esta noche en que me has dicho
como creyeras
que se haya cambiado cosa importante
entre nosotros
en días recientes
¿cuándo vas a entender, Carlos? he dicho
Nunca he podido resistir...
Suspiras solamente y con mirada colérica
te vuelves a la calle
Navegamos callados y tú caes
otra vez consumido
por la negrura

A través de un momento que no coresponde
a ninguna cantidad temporal—
ya has perdido toda
expectación de la secuencia y todo interés
en nombrar los tensos sutiles
de los eventos que forman
tu vida, tu vida
todavía que merece esta nombre

Y te encuentras viviendo en el pecho
y cerebro de Manuel que se marcha
en las huestes de Pizarro
andas caminos angostos y peligrosos
por la cordillera. Despiertes
en medio paso tu memoria llena
solamente del recuerdo de la marcha
Los gritos de tus compañeros
te aporrean a las orejas. Están
ambuscados. En la oscuridad
ves a tu brazo, se mueve
como poseído
saca la espada y me corta
y se fluye la sangre
no más de éso puedes soportar y no más ves
porque los dedos negros y vacíos del tiempo
tu cabeza herida
han atrapado, y no ves nada.

posted afternoon of September second, 2013: 1 response
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