Aren't you supposed to see what you describe? Where's the ass? Perhaps the tan formatted squares could symbolically represent a butt but aren't descriptive metaphors just prettified explanations?
Metaphors have too much negative capability to be explanations. The more obscure, the better, especially if they ring true, being the lies that they are. This blog is a drunken lightening bug.
Ok. So here's the phenomenological news from Berlin. The graffiti is some of the best art I've seen -- Kristalyn would be all eyes. I'm all eyes. I will do my best to get some photos up here, but if you can: imagine a five story mural of an unhappy looking face -- worry-wrinkles, scowl, yellow skinny hands, half-woman, half man, slumped shoulders, arms hanging straight down, all in colors of yellow and green except for the bloody nipples, the face frowns down on a busy corner full of weeds, a sandy playground and people speeding by on bicycles. Very fierce and a little sad. Today, while taking a nap, I slipped into a dream inhabited by a dozens of half-naked children screaming and splashing and dancing around on a cobble-stone street underneath sycamore trees. And then I woke, looked out the window and saw it wasn't a dream at all. A little boy, about 18 months, butt-naked, sitting on a yellow toy truck careened down the sidewalk, getting in the way of the Turkish women on their bikes, their burkas (sp?) flying out behind them, who almost run over all the children, who lay on towels in the middle of the sidewalk and chant na-na-na-na-poppy! They leave small wet footprints all down the block. This afternoon a thunderstorm settled the hot dust and all the sidewalk cafes pulled themselves in. The air smells like damp granite and the pigeons are drinking from the cracks in between the cobblestones. In the flat I will call home, up four flights and overlooking the sycamore-lined street (Lubener Strasse) there is a collection of records and a turntable that will play Dylan, Miles Davis, Pink Floyd, Cat Stevens, and Beethoven. The ceilings are high, the windows all open and there are daisies in the windowbox. Outside this cafe where I'm writing a little girl in lime-green and pink with tangles in her hair chases pigeons. More than traffic sounds, there is the click and spin of bicycle wheels. My German is returning ein bissen. Aber meine vocabulieren ist schlect. I will viele mehr spater schreiben. Until then, Tschuss and vielen Lieben!
May needs the MayQueen. Some instructions on how to find her: Wish on Venus by accident. Fall in love. Get lost in a foreign city. Follow the April Fool.
5 comments:
Wow. That was one kick ass blog. That is my description, not my explanation. . . miss me yet?
Aren't you supposed to see what you describe? Where's the ass? Perhaps the tan formatted squares could symbolically represent a butt but aren't descriptive metaphors just prettified explanations?
Metaphors have too much negative capability to be explanations. The more obscure, the better, especially if they ring true, being the lies that they are.
This blog is a drunken lightening bug.
Ok. So here's the phenomenological news from Berlin. The graffiti is some of the best art I've seen -- Kristalyn would be all eyes. I'm all eyes. I will do my best to get some photos up here, but if you can: imagine a five story mural of an unhappy looking face -- worry-wrinkles, scowl, yellow skinny hands, half-woman, half man, slumped shoulders, arms hanging straight down, all in colors of yellow and green except for the bloody nipples, the face frowns down on a busy corner full of weeds, a sandy playground and people speeding by on bicycles. Very fierce and a little sad.
Today, while taking a nap, I slipped into a dream inhabited by a dozens of half-naked children screaming and splashing and dancing around on a cobble-stone street underneath sycamore trees. And then I woke, looked out the window and saw it wasn't a dream at all. A little boy, about 18 months, butt-naked, sitting on a yellow toy truck careened down the sidewalk, getting in the way of the Turkish women on their bikes, their burkas (sp?) flying out behind them, who almost run over all the children, who lay on towels in the middle of the sidewalk and chant na-na-na-na-poppy! They leave small wet footprints all down the block.
This afternoon a thunderstorm settled the hot dust and all the sidewalk cafes pulled themselves in. The air smells like damp granite and the pigeons are drinking from the cracks in between the cobblestones.
In the flat I will call home, up four flights and overlooking the sycamore-lined street (Lubener Strasse) there is a collection of records and a turntable that will play Dylan, Miles Davis, Pink Floyd, Cat Stevens, and Beethoven. The ceilings are high, the windows all open and there are daisies in the windowbox.
Outside this cafe where I'm writing a little girl in lime-green and pink with tangles in her hair chases pigeons.
More than traffic sounds, there is the click and spin of bicycle wheels.
My German is returning ein bissen. Aber meine vocabulieren ist schlect.
I will viele mehr spater schreiben. Until then, Tschuss and vielen Lieben!
May needs the MayQueen. Some instructions on how to find her: Wish on Venus by accident. Fall in love. Get lost in a foreign city. Follow the April Fool.
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