nepenthes-75

[nepenthes-75]

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She is often baffled by the human conventions that the rest of us have accepted.

True lovers, she explained, don’t really want to be loved for who they are; they want to be loved because neither of them is happy with who he or she is.

[nepenthes-75]

Fragen Schreib mir, was du anhast! Ist es warm? Schreib mir, wie du liegst! Liegst du auch weich? Schreib mir, wie du aussiehst! Ist’s noch gleich? Schreib mir, was dir fehlt! Ist es mein Arm? Schreib mir, wie’s dir geht! Verschont man dich? Schreib mir, was sie treiben! Reicht dein Mut? Schreib mir, was du tust! Ist es auch gut? Schreib mir, woran denkst du? Bin es ich? Freilich hab ich dir nur meine Fragen! Und die Antwort hör ich, wie sie fällt! Wenn du müd bist, kann ich dir nichts tragen. Hungerst du, hab ich dir nichts zum Essen. Und so bin ich grad wie aus der Welt Nicht mehr da, als hätt ich dich vergessen.

Bertolt Brecht, 1934

[nepenthes-75]

Anh chỉ sợ rồi trời sẽ mưa Xóa nhòa hết những điều em hứa Mây đen tới trời chẳng còn xanh nữa Nắng không trong như nắng buổi ban đầu

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décembre

I thought I saw your face today But I just turned my head away Your face against the trees But I just see the memories As they come As they come

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novembre

être assise dans un café, en attendant la prochaine mousson. cet après-midi, dans le bus. ce sentiment de croiser un visage qu'on pense reconnaître.

[nepenthes-75]

A Song

I wish you were here, dear, I wish you were here. I wish you sat on the sofa and I sat near. The handkerchief could be yours, the tear could be mine, chin-bound. Though it could be, of course, the other way around.

I wish you were here, dear, I wish you were here. I wish we were in my car and you'd shift the gear. We'd find ourselves elsewhere, on an unknown shore. Or else we'd repair to where we've been before.

I wish you were here, dear, I wish you were here. I wish I knew no astronomy when stars appear, when the moon skims the water that sighs and shifts in its slumber. I wish it were still a quarter to dial your number.

I wish you were here, dear, in this hemisphere, as I sit on the porch sipping a beer. It's evening, the sun is setting; boys shout and gulls are crying. What's the point of forgetting if it's followed by dying?

Joseph Brodsky

[nepenthes-75]

La Muette

biến thành người câm (lặng).

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Es tan corto el amor y tan largo el olvido.

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You have a girlfriend. Don't know why I'm upset about it.

[nepenthes-75]

I saw a song titled Copenhague. It reminds me of that cold winter night in Eindhoven, when I went on a day trip with a group of exchanges (female) students. Christmas was coming, there was a light festival in the city with futuristic atmosphere, and we were freezing outside queueing up for a table in an Italian restaurant. I loved my life back then. It's never coming back.

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On a raté notre amour de jeunesse.

You fell into silence, and I mistook emptiness for a broken heart.

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Margaret Atwood, "Orpheus (2)"

Whether he will go on singing or not, knowing what he knows of the horror of this world: He was not wandering among meadows all this time. He was down there among the mouthless ones, among those with no fingers, those whose names are forbidden, those washed up eaten into among the gray stones of the shore where nobody goes through fear. Those with silence. He has been trying to sing love into existence again and he has failed. Yet he will continue to sing, in the stadium crowded with the already dead who raise their eyeless faces to listen to him; while the red flowers grow up and splatter open against the walls. They have cut off both his hands and soon they will tear his head from his body in one burst of furious refusal. He foresees this. Yet he will go on singing, and in praise. To sing is either praise or defiance. Praise is defiance.

[nepenthes-75]

I've been preparing my disappearance from the Internet. For the first time, I genuinely don't want to be seend or found, anywhere. It's holding on to the last piece of privacy (and perhaps dignity) that I have left.