for beside the dolly sailor, i'm to voyage and explore, to land upon the island where no dolly was before.. reach into every black hole i seem to know.. and to fire the penny cannon in the bow...  and when 'the vessel goes a divie-divie dive' '= your bed is little boat; nurse helps you in when you embark

in an interview the artist man ray was once asked what satisfied him most in life, looking back on it.  man thought for a
few seconds then said: "women."  he created the best of his work when his possibly most inspiring muse, lee miller left
him. he wrote to her: "accounts never balance one never pays enough etc. etc. love Man"
he also dedicated the following poem to her [although he possibly killed her many
times over in his mind as well as in his art, in outrage]:


with an eye always in reserve
material indestructible...
forever being put away
taken for a ride...
put on the spot...
the racket must go on --
I am always in reserve

Above painting by Man Ray
"La Fortune/ Chance" (1938)

I stretched the canvas

halloween
because i can dress up, put on a mask and still be me. and because it's a spirited time of the year. fun.


[... but tonight, thanksgiving is my favourite holiday. i got a great introduction to strings (guitar, harp, ukulele & vocal chords) in the home of a pathologist who was very close to becoming a professional musician early in life. then he decided he wanted to get real. now he knows that reality is strange. and that it's okay to pick up the ping-pong bat late in life and settle for less than becoming an exceptional player. one day, he might still get that backhand chop shot just right. so there is hope. (lief is strange. but strange is good. so lief is good) further great conversations about shazam, airports, oxygen, fingerprints, talent and genius. no date-setups (whew!), just pure goodness. i returned home with a drawing, a play dough ring and leftovers. i am snacking right now (not over-eating), and feeling thankful, because no matter what, i know i won't starve; even if i must keep writing. (which i must)]

gracias/ thank you

dearest u, a & u, i ~


you thought i would vanish and you, that i would not return. you have said so many prayers, spending your breath in the park on me, and you, stretched out on our magnificent chair kept an eye over me, worried. you planted trees and jasmines so that when your son is born, you will still remember what it was like when he was not. you taught me correct spelling and vocabulary and kept me in the house, holding the ark of my neck with a strong hand sometimes, forcing my gaze on the one door i was not supposed to open. you have tortured me. you have washed and nurtured me. you praised my beauty. you admired my strength. you have showed me manners. you, silence. you are north. you are south. when i arrived, you each offered me a home. you thought i came on a boat. you knew that i took the train. you knew you would not take care of me. you wanted to, but then decided against it. you wanted the best for me, always. you were not sure. you are loved. you are loved. and 'you will be loved,' you say. you will hike a mountain one day and when the sun comes up, you will have to fight the urge to say my name. you will see me pass you in the street one day and have no idea how to say my name, how to make it sound. you have tried to abandon me. 'it's all right, you, you can go. you are free.' 'you have given me a story,' you said, a year agoish.. 'you remember...' 'i remember you.' you were standing alone, watching, quiet, and i wanted to give you more, always more. 'i need your attention! (are you watching? watch this!)' i made you into my mirror. you looked into it - and came back for more. you are here. you: are you? i don't know... i can't see... how i wish you and you could meet! 'you: i would like you to meet: you,' and 'you: this is you.' 'a pleasure.' 'encantado.' you see, i am playing again. how long has this been going on? 'messenger!' 'oh dear...' listen...

Nov. 25th, 2008 12:28 am

**— a process that calls itself, or calls a similar process—may be a fundamental aspect of what it means to be human. in the human mind, ~ is actually much more complex than the notion of returning to the same place over and over. we put phrases within phrases because we hold thoughts in memory; thus we have language and a sense of a past self. we are aware that we are thinking about what someone else is thinking; on this awareness we build a sense of self and the ability to be deceptive or to act on shared belief. ~ gives us the ability to mentally travel in time


ever,

---------

the envy that they affect the rest spread among any bright-eyed for them to breathe desire d

'are you a good man?' the question came from nimit and hit the ground like an arrow, right in front of him. my mind shut down in the silence that followed. i could hear my heartbeat, strong, even. he did not move and without looking, i knew he was standing nimit's piercing gaze before he answered. 'i didn't know..., until... this very moment...,' he responded, sounding like he fought for every word, making a presence by voice after a long time in the hiding. 'and i thank you for asking me, nimit.. but you and dog be my witnesses: i am not only a man, now. i am a good man. yes. and i would give my life for this one, to prove it' .. that string of words seemed to come easier, more coherent and then: he moved. he gathered me like a lump of dust. he lifted me up, hiding me under the coat that now covered the both of us. it all seemed so effortless. i felt light, weightless. instinctively, i spread my left arm around his neck, holding the coat with my free right hand, peeking outside from our make-shift shelter, watching the horizon breaking up with the first slivers of the colors of a glorious sunrise. 'good,' nimit said. 'because this one that you are holding, so close i envy your heart, has already sacrificed many a lives of her own to infuse new blood into your veins. so you owe her. big time..' 'we need to find you a good name before we leave this fire,' dog said. 'what will you say we call you?' 'in my previous life,' he said, 'my only friends called me berlioz.' 'you got a new composer in mind? or do you prefer we put our blind trust in you, just like angel, tzadik?' 'please call me day,' he said. 'or i could be john. as in: john cage. your choice.'

'i want to start my story with the end - and dedicate it to angel,' he said. 'it is you my story begins and ends with, angyal.' food had never tasted so good as those baked apples but we all quieted down when he spoke. 'are you going to sprinkle some brown sugar over our last bites?' dog ventured. he smiled. i looked at him astray. i could tell he was ready. but what did anything have to do with me? i was so tired. and i wanted to make sure i would give my full attention. but for that, i needed to lose some comfort, so i lifted his coat off my shoulders. he responded immediately, not missing a beat 'you are always giving, angel,' i heard him say as he moved closer and took one wing of the coat: the left side. 'you have disassembled my mind,' and with that, he put his right arm around me. my eyelids felt heavy at once and i couldn't but notice that the fabric of the night was changing into a deep indigo. 'don't fight the urge to sleep when it comes,' he said. 'i'll just talk about how i got here, out of a different city, a different time.' 'dream i tell you,' my mind latched on and i let myself drift on that thought as he continued: 'you have all let me be all this while, without ever wanting to know who i was or where i came from. you don't even know my real name... i lost everything before i found you. i had to. i was too far gone after a major loss of my own. a friend: a connection older than time. when i looked at him in his bathtub, he seemed at peace. his eyes still open, i could hear him speak to me from the other side, saying: you are on your own now. i have worked out the winning theory. my work is complete. but now..., now: you must go on living and be strong. good luck. and goodbye... the next day, i didn't go to work. then, i stopped going home altogether. i became lost to friends and family. i disappeared. the emptiness he left behind: i realized i could only fight it if i entered a path that presented itself unplanned, unexpected. finally, i accepted that i had to leave our city and get on the road. ' the next thing i knew, we were climbing. the hike was difficult but we kept going. i was leading the way. he was behind me. nimit, who came third, was talking about our van waiting at the top, rattling his keys, and dog, last in our row, was whistling back to every morning bird we could hear. every once in a while, i kept looking back, making sure he was still there, still close by. 'when we go back we will build a new foundation,' he said. 'i have already envisioned our new space: a large, open structure, inside and out, filled with light. you will see: it will take no time for me to draw it for you. as long as you all want to build it with me.' my eyes opened for these words. the skies have changed colors yet again and a symphony of purples, light blues, silver and steel unfolded in front of my vision. the fire was still going but it was clear that we reached daybreak. 'i don't care who you are -- or who you have been,' i said. 'i know you are good, and i will want to help you create a new foundation,' and i swallowed, recognizing that i had fallen asleep and might have missed a large part of his story. he pulled me closer and started rocking me, covering me under the warmth of the coat. 'that's the spirit, angel,' he said and reached over with his left hand, placing it on my forehead. 'i could not do it without you. felhőcske would be proud. he always thought that one day, i would find you.' 'felhőcske...' i repeated. 'he found me. you need not worry any more.'

in a situation provided with maximum amplification, perform a disciplined action
(so i'll only name one):

imagine that you have a time machine:
> ok.. not a problem

which deceased musician:
> john cage

would you most want to travel back in time to watch perform live:
> imaginary landscapes no. 1-5. ---- one3 = 4′33″ (0′00″) + GClef.svg. ----- atlas eclipticalis ... the list is long

w despierta en medio de la noche: sz no está. la llama, tal vez fue al baño, piensa. pero no sale asustado. se pone los zapatos, toma la linterna. camina unos pasos hacia acá, hacia allá. ¡_! - grita y nada. - ¡_! ü el silencio lo aturde, no sabe qué hacer. ve huellas. entre los árboles negras avanza. caminando, corriendo. no quiere perdir el rastro. junto a un enorme pino la ve: blanca como la nieve, de espaldas, apenas vestida, como se había ido a dormir. está quieta, como paralizada. -¡_! - ella se da vuelta: su mirada está ausente. e licor chorrea de su boca y a su lado se mueve algo: pálido, horrible, pequeño. tiene ojos como los del viejito y de repente aletea negro y se va: es un murciélago. sz cae al suelo de agujas y raíces. w la carga hasta la carpa. no sabe qué pensar.

w wakes in the middle of the night: sz isn't there. he calls out to her, maybe she went to the bathroom, he thinks. but he is not frightened. he puts on his shoes, takes the flashlight. he takes a few steps this way and that. -_! - he cries, and nothing. the silence stuns him, he doesn't know what to do. he goes towards the black trees. he is walking, running. he doesn't want to lose the track. beside a large pine, he finds her: white as snow, leaning, barely dressed, as if she had gone to sleep. she is quiet, as if paralyzed. -_! she comes to, her look is absent. a liqueor is gushing from her mouth and by her side, something moves: pale, horrible, small. it has eyes just like the old man and suddenly, the dark something flutters, and takes off: it is a bat. sz falls onto the needles and roots. w carries her back to the tent. he doesn't know what to think.

como un licor, viejo, recuerdo. ya no hay para mi nada: mi sangre se agotó en la espada y los restos de un humano me hacen recordar.

like an old liqueor, i remember. right now, i haven't got anyting: my blood has tired of the sword and the remnants of a human make me remember

------ and if a mirror looks into a mirror then.. try looking into that
it is like looking into your poem and that huge and holy forest
multiplying all around, with flickering grey beautiful eyes, quick
eyes, and always the question.. / no te preocupes, ¡perejil!
sea valiente: estás libre. vaya... y no te mires atrás.



el aire en el bosque es más frío. la luz se cuela apenas entre las ramas y cada tanto hay un chorrillo que cruza. sz tiene frío y paran para que saque su abrigo. el silencio es inmenso en el bosque. sólo se siente el viento frío que pasa entre los árboles. cuando vuelven a mirar al camino lo ven: es un hombrecito pequeño, encorvado junto a un árbol, como una mancha. no estaba ahí. no lo habían visto. el silencio crece, frío. sz se agarra de w y se miran en silencio. la cabeza gira y se oye un ruido como de hojas secas: es un anciano, flaco y duro como una rama. sus ojos pequeños todo lo ven. - ¡bueenas! -, dice el viejito. - estaba juntando hongos. - hola, - dicen y sz trata de sonreír. es un viejito con acento alemán. [...] mi nombre es arturo -, dice. [...]

w sueña esa noche con un lobo que acecha desde las sombras de sz. no hay lobos en el sur, piensa al despertar.

the air is much cooler in the forest. light barely filters through the branches of the trees and every so often there is [only] a trickle that cuts through. sz is cold, they stop and he removes his coat. silence is immense in the forest. only the cold wind seems to pass through the trees. when they return to look at the path, they see it: a little man, hunched against a tree, like a stain. he had not been there. they had not seen him. the silence grows, spreads like cold. sz holds onto w and they look in silence. the head spins and they hear a noise, like dead leaves: it is old, thin and hard as a branch. his little eyes see everything. - greetings! - says the old man. - i was gathering mushrooms. - greetings to you too, - they say, and sz tries to smile. the old man has a german accent. [...] - my name is arturo, - he says.

that night, w dreams of a wolf that lies waiting for sz in the shadows. there are no wolves in the south, he thinks upon waking.

thank you for this question. my proudest life accomplishment so far has been being alive, well and here today.
why? because a couple of things could have gone wrong. as i am writing this, i am filled with gratitude. have a
great day and thank you again!

i collapsed into the coat and the fire was gone, the smell of my baked apple was gone and i heard my teeth grinding, fighting the words i wanted to swallow. i was drenched in sweat. and i wanted to hide in the dark damp shelter of the coat, as if in a tent. my throat was salty and as i listened i recognized my own voice: a low humming, still trying to come out, still making a presence. then, a hand appeared and peeled back the few layers of the fabric that covered me. 'angyal, angyalom... the night is darkest right before daybreak, haven't you known?' i looked up, his entire figure a dense dark shadow towering in front of me against the strong, warm light of the fire in the background. 'your medicine is working... but it is no small feat, helping us to let these ghosts out of the bottle, all in one night...,' he said, and started to wipe my face and my eyes clear with his sleeve. 'you have been brave. and you are starving. here...' and he picked up my stick and pulled off the apple. he moved it close to my nose and the sweet-and-sour fragrance revived my senses. my mouth watered and i perked up, unintentionally. i evened out my spine, my chest pushed forward and i yielded to the urge of changing my sitting posture. then i took a deep breath and felt his hand on my head, caressing my unkempt hair. 'good,' he said and moved aside, out of the way from my vision and the fire, staying right next to me. 'what color is the ring around the fire, angel?' he said. 'violet,' i answered immediately, without thinking, without making the slightest effort. it was violet in my eyes, just washed clean by the memory of my own vulnerability. i was in a daze yet breaking through: sometime a fire, sometime a fire. i looked at nimit and dog. they were smiling reassuringly, sitting with their arms folded around their knees, in their lap. 'we will eat first,' he said. and then i will tell you my story. 'and also, i want you to put this back on, angel.' he took the hat off as i turned my gaze towards his direction, and nodded. he placed it on my head. 'it looks so much better on you,' he said.

'did you realize at the time that the first word you spoke after three years of silence was 'dog'?,' i asked in a raspy voice. dog nodded and kept his eyes on the fire. 'i did,' he said. 'and not only that but also that i chose it as my name. i came back from the dead to language as a dog. and her eyes made me do that.' a profound silence fell over our group. yet in that silence we were more connected than ever before. then it came again: my honest yearning for not having to talk ever again. a desire just having been confirmed by dog's story as one of the happiest times in his life. in that silence, nevertheless, language was swelling within me with a greater-than-ever force. i was standing on the edge of an island, watching an ocean come in and hurl grains of sand back and forth, back and forth, again and again. walking the shoreline, running on its delicate contour, i felt in charge of our struggle on the borderline between life and death. my mind was revolting, while my body sat still, surrendering to the smell of the baking apples, yet pulling ahead and taking the first bite. no, i could not stay in the moment. suddenly, i was on a ship, exposed to the rhythm of that cosmic ocean i claimed to have understood but failed to have yielded to, to have been consumed by. i was fighting for survival. the next moment, i stepped out as a dancer, mimicking the voiceless, soundless logic of the knowledge we have shared. i wanted to save us. and i wanted to do it in motion. finally, exhausted, i realized i was nobody, meshed into the fabric of the night, pushed back into the outer spheres of the fire that called forth that darkness and kept it at bay, simultaneously, by my choice. then a memory came, and i saw myself on a photograph, wide-eyed and still innocent, conversing with the roses in my grandmother's garden. i even remembered that i was wearing a blue dress, with white umbrellas on it. caught in the light of day, inside the camera of my aunt, i became fixed for this night to come and lost in the exposure by the fire we had made to keep us together. as i felt silent tears helplessly streaming down my face, i started chewing my words, the first ones saying, 'i'm sorry...' 'it's all right, angel,' dog whispered. 'it's all right. we understand. she could have been you...' 'not me...,' i pleaded, 'i am here, still alive... but we could have been sisters long-lost, like you and yours...,' i said, and placed my stick with the fully baked apple on a rock next to me. then i took off his hat and with a stretch, i placed it on his head, withdrew and continued to chew any further words that tried to rush to my lips.

'my apple is going to take the longest time to bake,' dog mused 'but it will be just ready before your story,' he said and focused his look on him. 'i want to share it with you. i bet you have a good one.' he did not respond. i drew nearer and wanted to give back the hat at least. he had no extra clothing on, just his jeans, shirt and the sweater he wore that afternoon. 'hey...,' i nudged him. 'you can always have that story-telling hat back, you know...' 'i know, angel. but i want you to have it and keep it on. i am not cold. trust me.' i turned towards the fire and heard dog say: 'why do you call her angel, anyways?' 'so typical...' nimit mumbled. all of a sudden, he was a talker, commenting, especially on things that dog said. 'haven't you ever noticed?' 'i sure have...' dog said. 'she is just like one.' 'besides,' i said, quite unexpectedly to them both, i thought, 'my last name is 'angyal' ... although i am sure it has never occurred to you there might be a connection,' and i poked a tongue at dog. he grinned back. 'i'm sure as a forfeit, now i owe you a story for that information,' he said. 'we'll take it,' i responded. 'it's about a ghost too,' he added and tested the apple on his stick first with his fingers and then his nose. 'i was an odd kid,' he started. 'always on my own but always talking, as if i had someone by my side, constantly. the funny thing is: my parents did not think it was weird. all my friends did. i told them i was talking to my twin brother. they always just laughed at me. and when i said they should believe me because we even made music together, me being the singer and my brother the piano and song-writer, they left no doubt that in their eyes, i was a complete nut. but at least i was never alone. and i was really very musical so my mom sent me to learn scores and an instrument early. i picked the piano. i must have been around 11 or 12 years old when i showed a piece i wrote to mother and she started crying. i did not understand why. she said that if i was to continue like that, i would make it to international fame one day. but i could tell she was sad, not happy. so i asked her again: what it was that made her that way. and she told me the unimaginable. i learned that i had had a twin sister who died at birth. my words, the dialogue i wrote in the song, reminded her of that. i remember staring at her. standing there and looking up at my mother who had just told me i had a sister i had never known about. my mother, who had just made me feel like a murderer.... after that conversation, i stopped talking. and i did not start again, for three years. my mother almost became mad with the pain this caused her. she blamed herself for everything, and i watched her fighting for her mind, in quiet. i wanted her to make it on her own and i wanted to protect the muteness i gained by my music and her story. all therapy sessions ended after a while but not my music lessons and my writing. i was pretty normal, even nice, save for the not speaking.... looking back on it, it was one of the best parts of my life. i learned to listened and to imagine. and i expressed everything in music or written words. i had very few friends. but the ones i had: we were solid, inseparable. like a very small school of fish, moving together, floating like a tiny cloud, communicating on invisible wavelengths.
he stopped for a second and reached behind him for another log. he threw it on the fire and said: 'i only started speaking again when the puppy my mother gave me turned two and on his anniversary walk i met a girl in the park who came over to say hi and play. she asked what my name was. 'dog,' i said, and we both started laughing, until i asked hers. angel, you must have looked like her when you were a kid.' '...oh it could not have been me, in the park, dog...' i said, suddenly feeling an urge to clear my throat, startled by his reference. 'i know,' dog said. 'besides, i still remember her name. it was nothing like yours. her name was ibolya.'

---- now it is i who am running




w es su nombre. conoce los secretos de la pesca y no les faltan alimentos. además llevan latas y reservas. cocinan y ella sonríe. se la ve feliz y cansada. él acaricia su rostro y la guarda del frío. ya oscurece. el fuego empieza a ser la única luz.
él tiene venititrés años y muchos veranos en el sur. es la primera vez que su acompañante es una mujer. conoció a sy una noche en casa de unos amigos. desde entonces no ha dejado de enamorarse y de desearla.
es temprano y se acercana un río: deciden pescar. él pesca en la desembocadura y ella, mientras tanto, busca maderas en el bosque. en poco tiempo ya tienen qué comer.
hacen fuego y ella se encarga de la trucha. en silencio sienten el fuego en el aire. hablan de lago. para ella es el más lindo ahora. él le promete mucho más. hay lagos más chicos que no son tán fríos.
una tarde llueve y se empapan hasta que logran armar la carpa. se cambian las ropas mojadas y pasan el restro del día resguardados. cuando ella se viste él no puede mirar: así se entienden por ahora. al llegar la noche duermen, pero ella se despierte al rato. se asoma a la noche y ve el bosque inundado por la luna que brilla en lo alto. su luz es blanca. en las sombras siente algo se mueve y la observa. cierra y vuelve a dormir.


his name is w. he knows how to fish and they have enough food. they also have cooking utensils and pans. they cook and she smiles. she looks happy and tired to him. he caresses her face and protects her from the cold. it's got dark. the fire has begun to become the one and only source of light.
he is twenty-three. he spent many summers in the south. this is the first time his companion is a woman. he met sz one night at the house of some friends. from then on he hasn't stopped falling in love with and wanting her.
it is summer and as they get near a river, they decide to fish. he fishes at the mouth of the river and she, in the meantime, collects logs from the forest. soon they will have to eat.
they make a fire and she prepares the trout he caught. in silence, they sense the fire in the air. they talk about the lake. she has never seen such beauty. he promises her much more. there are smaller lakes that aren't so cold.
one afternoon, it rains and they get soaking wet until they finally manage to pitch the tent. they change into dry clothes and spend the rest of the day inside their shelter. when she [... must return; unfinished]: for now, they understand. when night sets in they sleep but she soon awakes. she goes outside and sees the forest flooded by the bright light of the moon pouring from high above. it is a white light. in the shadows, something moves and watches her. she closes down and goes back to sleep.

i would like to be a jazz trumpeter
because even though i would have remarkable talents as a piano & drum player as well,
and i would be a phenomenal bassist,
the trumpet would still be my love

[la lluvia es azul]


¿qué hace tu mano en mi alma? / what is your hand doing in my soul?

hable me de montañas... /  speak to me of mountains...

y el agua corre entre las piedras / and water runs between the rocks,
como recién nacida as if just born

dearest a u ~

three oranges on
doorstep wait when you return:
squeeze them. drink their blood!

[thank you. i will continue ]

ever,

--------------

**— a process that calls itself, or calls a similar process—may be a fundamental aspect of what it means to be human. in the human mind, ~ is actually much more complex than the notion of returning to the same place over and over. we put phrases within phrases because we hold thoughts in memory; thus we have language and a sense of a past self. we are aware that we are thinking about what someone else is thinking; on this awareness we build a sense of self and the ability to be deceptive or to act on shared belief. ~ gives us the ability to mentally travel in time

i would move /
yes.

i returned with the three apples that i found in the van and some garments, hats and stuff. 'we should bake these,' i proposed. 'they will be more tasty warm. and here are some things to put on.' i settled next to him and he said 'put this on,' and handed me his hat. 'are you sure? i thought you might want to keep it on and go next in story-telling.' 'which reminds me...' dog intervened. 'i thought you were going to tell us about your dead friend.' a moment of silence ensued. for a second, i had the feeling we were in a tarantino movie, in a scene where everyone just pulled their guns. 'nah...' i broke in. 'i could have talked about kung-fu panda. but you have all seen it, i guess.' 'she is done, dog,' he picked up. 'and yes, i want you to put on the hat and my coat, angel.' so i took both and as i bundled up in his size Ls (he is tall), i heard him add 'she takes no orders, from anyone, dog.' it was true. '...besides,' nimit followed, 'i thought i was next.' and we all turned his direction, while he pulled out his knife and made three sticks ready for staking the apples and handed one over to me, one to nimit and the last one to dog. nimit had a scarf and his face was covered up to his nose as he started talking. 'so my story is about a car... that was not just any car. it was a mercedes. i learned to drive with her. i went and picked her up in berlin, on the summer of 200_ because i fell in love with it the minute i saw it first. i wanted to have that car like i had wanted nothing else in my entire life.' he paused. 'you must understand: i was just a kid, a hopeless romantic and i went more for the story. i forgot to look carefully at the details. to buy a car in germany was like a symbol to me. and she was something else: a 1981 TD station wagon, one owner: an architect, standard shift... a beauty. but the minute i had owned her, she turned against me. it was as though she had a soul incompatible with mine.' i knew what he meant. 'did she try to kill you?' i asked. 'almost,' he said. 'this one time, i was out on the highway and she stopped running. the gasometer was broken, so she ran out of gas. i almost caused a mass-accident. another time, i smashed the door on my finger. i had never done it before. it hurt so bad i thought i was going to lose that finger.' 'had you stolen something?' dog grinned. 'trust me: it went through my head, dude,' nimit confided as his lips curled into a bitter grin. the scarf slipped for a second and we could all see it. quickly, he readjusted it.  'i got some past experience with the gypsies,' he continued. 'they taught me stuff, you know... but that wasn't it. then the last time she turned against me was when i was crossing borders. our authorities would not register her, let alone provide insurance. she was considered to be 'an old car,' unfit for the new 'green laws' bullshit. so i had to go back to berlin every four months. it was a good excuse but it came back to haunt me. the last time i went, border patrols on a random check pulled me over and took me in. they claimed my passport was fake and they locked me up. i spent an entire night in jail in the middle of nowhere, with a guy who tried to get to germany across the green border, all the way from moldavia. the stories he told me were unreal. he had to hide under water with a straw in his mouth, while helicopters and dogs searched for him. compared to him, i felt like a small-timer. and i knew i was me. in the morning, the patrols took a good look at me and said i could get out if i paid a stellar amount. naturally, i agreed, even though i decided i would never pay it.' '...which was going to cost you berlin and the car.' 'yeah.' nimit looked uneasy, even in the dark. his eyes were focused on the fire. then suddenly, he lifted the apple to his nose above his scarf. 'smells good, angel.' 'give it a few more minutes,' i said. 'you want it to be really moist and soft in the middle.'

                                                                                                           ¿no ha de haber un espíritu valiente?
                                                                                                           ¿siempre se ha de sentir lo que se dice?
                                                                                                           ¿nunca se ha de decir lo que se siente?

my dearest autheur ~


i wonder when you wlll have read this... because by the time you will have read this, i  will have already become, yet again. forgive me for not writing this note in your tongue. i wish i would be. but in fact, i have been studying an entirely different kind of language tonight. listen to what it says: have you ever tried to locate a city on a map using a key, or used a grid to calculate an area? or: the variable b is called the denominator. there is one restriction: the denominator cannot have the value of 0. as i am reading this, i cannot help but wonder what it would sound like if you have written these words. you must have guessed already: i am stopping with 'nieve,' for now. not because i cannot go on. but because i must wait. i left out a key part: when she (sz) meets the old one in the forrest. it was too hard on me. i could not follow her there. not yet. you said 'i have written this before i made it into the city'. i know now that it is not entirely true because you came to the city from nordic lands. from the mountains. not from another city. i could be wrong. you have seen: i have been wrong a few times during the process of opening up your text, exposing it to the light of these days in time. but if it is true, i only dare to say it is not with confidence because it has been my intuition that has guided me in revealing the details, to begin with. i never knew what would come next, when and what i would start typing. and you must know, because you have followed me, that i have often struggled. i struggled because i wanted the truth to come alive. so i attacked the text; but it fought back, holding its own ground. still, i think it fair and just to have done what i did to it. you may disagree. believe me: there is nothing that would please me more. remember that sunny morning when we sat down in the bookstore and i provoked you? do you remember what has come out of it? you and i did not know it at the time but we have become what we wanted to become since then. and this is where i want to leave things right now. eventually, just like that sunday afternoon when we went on a long walk by the river together, i am offering you my surrender. my wrist is hurting as i am writing this. but i want you to know that i will only be able to finish this if you approve. i need your consent to go on, to go there. if not with this, then something else. but even if you disown me, and even if i cannot remain a captive, you must speak. otherwise, the memory of seeing you from the window holding those oranges to your chest before i left the city will throw me into a state of complete lockdown and i will not be able to mount my horse to meet you, my warrior, on those prairies when the time comes, again. your blood will have been spilled in vain...

i will be waiting for your answer
and i truly thank you in advance.

ever,

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**— a process that calls itself, or calls a similar process—may be a fundamental aspect of what it means to be human. in the human mind, ~ is actually much more complex than the notion of returning to the same place over and over. we put phrases within phrases because we hold thoughts in memory; thus we have language and a sense of a past self. we are aware that we are thinking about what someone else is thinking; on this awareness we build a sense of self and the ability to be deceptive or to act on shared belief. ~ gives us the ability to mentally travel in time