It is not yet clear whether a figure has emerged from the dense and dark walls of this city whose
is of interest to the general public. Stumbling, searching and with constant curiosity, always
off-beat paths, there are only a few sections worth sharing. Admittedly, this self-evaluation is
She could not speak to him for she knew no words that he knew and he said nothing to her that she
understood, and she walked to her bed and slipped into it and he lay with his back to her in his bed
he was like one of these brown-baked people of this faraway town upon the moon, and the real earth was
off somewhere where it would take a starflight to reach it. If only he could speak with her and she to
him tonight, how good the night might be, and how easy to breathe and how lax the vessels of blood in
her ankles and in her wrists and the under-arms, but there was no speaking and the night was ten
thousand tickings and ten thousand twistings of the blankets, and the pillow was like a tiny white
stove under-cheek, and the blackness of the room was a mosquito netting draped all about so that a
entangled her in it. If only there was one word, one word between them. But there was no word and the
veins did not rest easy in the wrists and the heart was a bellows forever blowing upon a little coal
fear, forever illumining and making it into a cherry light, again, pulse, and again, an ingrown light
which her inner eyes stared upon with unwanting fascination. The lungs did not rest but were exercised
as if she were a drowned person and she herself performing artificial respiration to keep the last
going. And all of these things were lubricated by the sweat of her glowing body, and she was glued
between the heavy blankets like something pressed, smashed, redolently moist between the white pages
a heavy book.
And as she lay this way the long hours of midnight came when again she was a child. She lay, now and
again thumping her heart in tambourine hysteria, then, quieting, the slow sad thoughts of bronze
childhood when everything was sun on green trees and sun on water and sun on blond child hair. Faces
flowed by on merry-go-rounds of memory, a face rushing to meet her, facing her, and away to the right;
another, whirling in from the left, a quick fragment of lost conversation, and out to the right.
Oh, the night was very long."
~ Bradbury, The October Country
a.k.a. text filler for now until i figure out what i want here
inspiration 🙰 influences
Ralph Ellison, William "Strata" Smith, Jim Jarmusch, Kazuki Tomokawa, Phil Elverum, Sun Ra, William
Carlos Williams, Matana Roberts, Mohsen Makhmalbaf, Sterling R. Smith, Ivan Aivazovsky, Jared Diamond,
Richard Adams, Masaki Kobayashi, Pandit Pran Nath, Eliane Radigue, Jane Jacobs, Walter Benjamin, Ray
Bradbury, William S. Burroughs, F.W.J. Schelling, Philip K. Dick, J.C. Dahl, C.D. Friedrich, Geir
Jenssen, Terrence Malick, Nils Frahm, Haruki Murakami, Sylvia Plath, Hayao Miyazaki, Yasujirō Ozu, ...