Dreaming of Lesbos

April 30, 2020

I can enter the morning with traces of an eternal dream: to live
on a planet of women. we sing in the fertile forest, caress on
lavender hills, bathe beneath cascades of clear waters. and just
like that, nude and wet, we mount each other’s bodies. our
desire is a whale that searches for calm in the depth of the sea.

I smell sex in my hair when I awaken.

the dream perfumes all of my days. I go to the post office and
look for stamps with etchings of flowers and fruits so that I can
send letters to the women who loved me in my sleep.

we are in a world that is not ours. what do we do with the
dreams that touch our consciousness in the nude each night?

our planet of women is nothing more than a dream. who knows
how many of us bathe in the woods or which ones of us have
wings that let us fly with our flesh? it’s not for anyone to know.
fortunately, we always dream paradise, we make it ours. there,
we find each other and live in our collective memory.

and so, I smell sex in my hair when I awaken.

Tatiana de la Tierra

No more fucks to give

April 30, 2020

I’ve tried, tried, tried
And I’ve tried even more
I’ve Cried, Cried, Cried
And I can’t recall what for
I’ve pressed, I’ve pushed, I’ve yelled, I’ve begged
In hope of some success
But the inevitable fact is that
It never will impress

I’ve no more fucks to give,
My fucks have runneth dry,
I’ve tried to go fuck shopping
But there’s no fucks left to buy
I’ve no more fucks to give,
Though more fucks I’ve tried to get,
I’m over my fuck budget and
I’m now in fucking debt

I strive, strive, strive
To get everything done
I’ve played by all the rules
But I’ve very rarely won,
I’ve smiled, I’ve charmed, I’ve wooed I’ve laughed,
Alas to no avail
I’ve run round like a moron,
To unequivocally fail!

I’ve no more fucks to give,
My fuck fuse has just blown,
I’ve been hunting for my fucks all day,
But they’ve upped and fucked off home,
I’ve no more fucks to give,
My fuck rations are depleted,
I’ve rallied my fuck army but It’s been fucking defeated!

The effort has just not been worth
The time or the expense
I’ve exhausted all my energy
For minimal recompense
The complete lack of acknowledgement
Has now begun to gall
And I’ve come to realise that I
Don’t give a fuck at all!

I’ve no more fucks to give,
My fucks have flown away,
My fucks are now so fucked off
They’ve refused to fucking stay!
I’ve no more fucks to give,
My fucks have gone insane
They’ve come back round and passed me
While they’re fucking off again!

I’ve no more fucks to give,
My fucks have all dissolved,
I’ve planned many projects
But my fucks won’t be involved!
I’ve no more fucks to give,
My fucks have all been spent,
They’ve fucked off from the building
And I don’t know where they went!

I’ve no more fucks to give,
I’ve no more fucks to give,
I’ve no more fucks,
I’ve no more fucks,
I’ve no more fucks to give!

Thomas Benjamin Wild

In Hamilton’s The Universe Wreckers…it was in that novel that, for the first time, I learned Neptune had a satellite named Triton…It was from The Drums of Tapajos that I first learned there was a Mato Grosso area in the Amazon basin. It was from The Black Star Passes and other stories by John W. Campbell that I first heard of relativity.

The pleasure of reading about such things in the dramatic and fascinating form of science fiction gave me a push toward science that was irresistible. It was science fiction that made me want to be a scientist strongly enough to eventually make me one.

That is not to say that science fiction stories can be completely trusted as a source of specific knowledge…However, the misguiding’s of science fiction can be unlearned. Sometimes the unlearning process is not easy, but it is a low price to pay for the gift of fascination over science.”

Isaac Asimov
Before the Golden Age: A Science Fiction Anthology of the 1930s (Intro)

So therefore I dedicate myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labours, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.

Jack Kerouac
Letter to Myself – September 5, 1945

The song of angels

April 30, 2020

No one sings as purely as those who inhabit the deepest hell – what we take to be the song of angels is their song.

Franz Kafka
August 1920 letter to Milena Jesenská

Lose

April 30, 2020

Always remember, boys & girls, to lose means you’ve stopped fighting.

New Year

April 29, 2020

New Year, don’t come to our homes, for we are wanderers
from a ghost-world, denied by man.
Night flees from us, fate has deserted us
We live as wandering spirits
with no memory
no dreams, no longings, no hopes.

The horizons of our eyes have grown ashen
the gray of a still lake,
like our silent brows,
pulseless, heatless,
denuded of poetry.
We live not knowing life.

New Year, move on. There is the path
to lead your footsteps.
Ours are veins of hard reed,
and we know not of sadness.
We wish to be dead, and refused by the graves.
We wish to write history by the years
If only we knew what it is to be bound to a place
If only snow could bring us winter
to wrap our faces in darkness
If only memory, or hope, or regret
could one day block our country from its path
If only we feared madness
If only our lives could be disturbed by travel
or shock,
or the sadness of an impossible love.
If only we could die like other people.

Nazik al-Mala’ika
Trans. Rebecca Carol Johnson

RIDE A WHITE SWAN

April 29, 2020

Ride it on out like a bird in the skyway,
Ride it on out like you were a bird,
Fly it all out like an eagle in a sunbeam,
Ride it all out like you were a bird.

Wear a tall hat like the druid in the old days
Wear a tall hat and a Tattooed gown
Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane,
Wear your hair long, babe, you can’t go wrong.

Catch a bright star and place it on your forehead,
Say a few spells and baby, there you go,
Take a black cat and sit it on your shoulder,
And in the morning you’ll know all you know.

Wear a tall hat like the druid in the old days
Wear a tall hat and a Tattooed gown
Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane,
Wear your hair long, babe, you can’t go wrong.

Da di di da, da di di da”

Marc Bolan
Marc Bolan Lyric Book

The world of J.R.R. Tolkien is a world without sexuality in it. I can’t help comparing it with Wagner’s “Ring,” a much greater work in every conceivable way, which is actually throbbing with sexual understanding and sexual passion and so on.

There’s none of that in “The Lord of the Rings.” It’s as if they had their children by a courier or something: please send a boy child by Federal Express to Mrs. Blah blah blah. And once you’re aware that that’s missing, you can then see the other gaps in it. He doesn’t do any sort of speculative thinking about what’s good and what’s evil. The only interesting character in that way is Gollum, but it’s not interesting enough. It’s nowhere near as interesting as the books of realistic fiction that I was reading. You read “Middlemarch,” that’s a real story about real human beings. It’s about the kind of things that you know when you’re young and you discover when you’re growing up and you’ll learn when you’re old. But, orcs and hobbits, they don’t tell you anything at all. It’s very, very thin stuff. No nourishment in it.

So to find myself writing a fantasy was a bit of a surprise. But I thought of it as realism. I wanted to make the characters as real as I could make them. Mrs. Coulter, for example, is not just a one-dimensional figure of wickedness—she’s not the witch queen, of whatever it is, like Narnia. She finds herself, over the course of the story, being invaded by something she has never suspected she was capable of, and that’s her love for her daughter. She never dreamed she could feel that, and it’s taken over her life. That’s the great change in Mrs. Coulter that I was so looking forward to seeing Nicole Kidman embody in the sequels, if there were any sequels to the “Golden Compass” movie, but that never happened.

Philip Pullman
Interview in The New Yorker, 29th September 2019