Thursday, October 20, 2005
Poe, afternoon, queerness
This happened one afternoon that stretched langorously over many anaesthetic eternities. I read a verse by Poe.
Something like this:
'If in your dream you went to heaven,
And you plucked a flower,
And then you woke up and found the flower in your hand,
Ah! What then?'
Excellent drowsy imagery. White, poisonous, spectacular flower - like Datura. Linen - soft creases, thick drapes, cool glass of water at the bedside table. Japanese beads at the foot of the bed. Some chimes ringing like the Chariots of Fire tune. A very gracious conundrum. A soothing cenotaph of reason.
My bai cooked meat when there was no oil. Hadn't realized there was meat in the house. My fountain pen had stopped leaking, all of a sudden. Hadn't realized that stain was ink.
Strange. Like Poe in the afternoon.