stories last longer: but only by becoming only stories

The tower is fifty ells down and the same up. There is a man kept in the dungeon under the tower. The king has bound him to his conscience with a chain. After a wonderful life he is counting days, but not waiting.
On the top of the tower lives an astronomer. The king bought him a telescope to bind him to the universe. The astronomer counts the stars, but isn't afraid. The man on the top and the man down below fall asleep full of numbers.
That's why they understand each other. They have no pigeon, but a black cat carries messages from the dungeon to the top of the tower.
- There goes another day - it says to the astronomer.
To the prisoner:
- A star was born.
All three of them have green eyes.
From the long vigil, not from hope.

Zbigniew Herbert, Tower



a world in a grain of sand

Didn’t you tell me that pain is part of life? I think that we can only feel happiness and true connection to others in rare, intensive moments and that we are condemned to loneliness for most of the time. I shared such moments with you, an intensity that will never be destroyed, regardless of doors you closed and sealed.

Sienna Miller as Edie Sedgwick & Guy Pearce as Andy Warhol in "Factory Girl"


I expect to make rather a good death. The essence of death is loneliness, and I have had plenty of practice at this.
T. H. White, Diary 1960

Neglect and abandonment, overwhelming, fathomless.
That old feeling, so familiar since earliest childhood, washes away
the fragile sand castles I built and rebuild again and again.

Horace Vernet - The Maiden's Lament.jpg

To seek fire & warmth, only to find
the cold muddy sea, dragging at your clothes.

"I knew it would be you," she said

eulogy to a hell of a dame

some dogs who sleep at night
must dream of bones
and I remember your bones
in flesh
and best
in that dark green dress
and those high-heeled bright
black shoes,
you always cursed when you drank,
your hair coming down you
wanted to explode out of
what was holding you:
rotten memories of a
past, and
you finally got
by dying,
leaving me with the
you've been dead
28 years
yet I remember you
better than any of
the rest;
you were the only one
who understood
the futility of the
arrangement of
all the others were only
displeased with
trivial segments,
nonsensically about
Jane, you were
killed by
knowing too much.
here's a drink
to your bones
this dog
dreams about.

Charles Bukowski


as the gentle rain from heaven

1947 young writer Truman Capote had the opportunity to visit one of his admired idols, the legendary French author Colette:

Shyness, nerves, I don’t know what it was, but after the first quick study I couldn’t really look at Colette, and was somewhat tongue-tied to boot. Instead, I concentrated on what seemed to me a magical exhibition, some fragment of a dream. It was a collection of antique crystal paperweights.There were perhaps a hundred of them covering two tables situated on either side of the bed: crystal spheres imprisoning green lizards, salamanders, millefiori bouquets, dragonflies, a basket of pears, butterflies alighted on a frond of fern, swirls of pink and white and blue and white, shimmering like fireworks, cobras coiled to strike, pretty little arrangements of pansies, magnificent poinsettias.

Colette draw him into conversation by explaining her fascination with these “snowflakes,” as she calls them. She told him how difficult it is to find these rare objets d'art from the 19th century, immaculate pieces of great craftmanship. Capote was absolutely stunned by one of them, a simple white rose with green leaves sunk in dead center - also one of Colette's favourites. She smiled and handed it over to him as a gift. It started his own collection.

Occasionally I have given a weight as a gift to some very particular friend, and always it is from among those I treasure most, for as Colette said that long-ago afternoon, when I protested that I couldn’t accept as a present something she so clearly adored, 'My dear, really there is no point in giving a gift unless one also treasures it oneself.'

Truman Capote, The White Rose


"into the mirror / Of my cold and dark soul"

I leave that roof, our roof now.
It’s cold and dark.
Treat others better than you treated me.

Time to move on.

I wonder sometimes how I'll look back at this experience in years to come.
I tend to remember the bad moments, the words that hurt, the silence, the neglect.
I tend to look back at the inspiration, the lesson, the value and a man that looked at me once with eyes full of love.

Mond 04-dec-18-b.jpg


white noise

Watching, not doing. Seeking safety in not  being seen. It's a habit you can fall into, willing yourself into invisibility. And it doesn't serve you well in life. Believe me it doesn't. Not with people and loves and hearts and homes and work.
Helen MacDonald, H is for Hawk

As the child of a refugee who decided to assimilate as fast and as perfect as possible into the new culture and country, I learned very early in life to adapt and to melt into a background like a chameleon. For my mother it was a survival strategy. It came with a high price as you can never deny your roots without betraying yourself. You can never be one of them, remaining a foreigner with a borrowed identity. While your own betrayed identity becomes more and more blurred.

You feel very uncomfortable when the spot is on you, when someone gives you attention. You might be found out as a pretender, a fake, unreal. At the same time you wish someone sees through this masquerade and accepts you as you are. But what are you?

What are you?