Christchurch, April 2009I am afraid of cities. But you mustn't leave them. If you go too far you come up against the vegetation belt. Vegetation has crawled for miles towards the cities. It is waiting. Once the city is dead, the vegetation will cover it, will climb over the stones, grip them, search them, make them burst with its long black pincers; it will blind the holes and let its green paws hang over everything. You must stay in the cities as long as they are alive, you must never penetrate alone this great mass of hair waiting at the gates; you must let it undulate and crack all by itself. In the cities, if you know how to take care of yourself, and choose the times when all the beasts are sleeping in their holes and digesting, behind the heaps of organic debris, you rarely come across anything more than minerals, the least frightening of all existants.
Jean Paul Sartre, Nausea
Christchurch, April 2009
1 comment:
With good intent, an automated response to the continuing 'singularity' of your focus.
An old poem.
---------------------------------
Judith <-title
When you go there dressed in plates,
how old you will be and lost in favour,
as you fall on another day up a few of the stairs,
why not say his name and invoke an angel,
why not rest for a moment there.
All alone and lost in favour,
distant from and distant made,
why not say his name and invoke an angel,
why not try a little faith,
and be, as some time in their lives everyone is,
whole again.
Post a Comment