“You can be a silent witness, which means silence itself can become a way of communication. There is so much in silence. There is an archeology of silence. There is a geography of silence. There is a theology of silence. There is a history of silence. Silence is universal and you can work within it, within its own parameters and its own context, and make that silence into a testimony. Job was silent after he lost his children and everything, his fortune and his health. Job, for seven days and seven nights he was silent, and his three friends who came to visit him were also silent. That must have been a powerful silence, a brilliant silence. You see, silence itself can be testimony and I was waiting for ten years, really, but it wasn’t the intention. My intention simply was to be sure that the words I would use are the proper words. I was afraid of language.”
-Elie Wiesel:
(N.B. All is noise. Ref. Serres, Genesis.)
(via bastardette)
drought
then flood
we wait
then it comes in a rush gush
i would prefer a little much more
current over the course
no one remembers the truth of the dreams
a scene that keeps coming back
no matter how hard you try to push it
we wait for the bird to build its lovenest in the morning
praying for the mercury to rise
then lamenting warmth’s brevity
all the while in awe
and regretful of the inevitable end
must we spend our lives in sadness, knowing life ends?
it does lend a sense of levity
-from eso es
the valley like god’s vein.
dream: the hill’s valley by duck creek was full of red hot air balloons. they all were the same shade of crimson red but each one had the most intricate texture, perhaps embroidered, it looked like the surfaces were crawling. the sky was very dark. the autumnal land was shadowed. it occurs to me the hot air balloons were like red blood cells and the valley like god’s vein.
rondeau (RON-do) noun
A poem of 13 lines with two rhymes and the opening words used as a refrain in two places.
I dreamt you died and I awoke.
The hills and valleys are no joke.
We trudged through sludge in the
Woods on the way home to Minnesota.
The bloated arm of sky pressed our necks
Voices pinged off our eardrums
And basslines strangely raised our mojo.
The vacuum was heavy and I slipped in a puddle
My girlfriend and her manfriend broke up
Carrie gave me mushrooms and big boobs
In the middle of a police parade
I dreamt you died and I awoke.
The hills and valleys are no joke.
