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    Every word is old.

    Wed, Jan 2, 2008  Permanent link

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    bpwnes     Thu, Jan 3, 2008  Permanent link
    Swastika.
    3LSZVJA9     Thu, Jan 3, 2008  Permanent link


    Sanskrit: svastika (in Devanagari, स्वस्तिक), meaning any lucky or auspicious object, and in particular a mark made on persons and things to denote good luck. It is composed of su- (cognate with Greek ευ-, eu-), meaning "good, well" and asti (cognate with the Romance copula, coming ultimately from the Proto-Indo European root *h1es-), a verbal abstract to the root as "to be"; svasti thus means "well-being." The suffix -ka forms a diminutive, and svastika might thus be translated literally as "little thing associated with well-being," corresponding to "lucky charm" or "thing that is auspicious."[1] The word first appears in the Classical Sanskrit (in the Ramayana and Mahabharata epics).

    The Sanskrit term has been in use in English since 1871, replacing gammadion (from Greek γαμμάδιον).
    Wildcat     Thu, Jan 3, 2008  Permanent link
    Mind
    3LSZVJA9     Thu, Jan 3, 2008  Permanent link
    The task of softening the brick everyday,
    the task of making oneself way in the sticky mass that claims itself world,
    each morning to stumble upon the parallelepiped of repulsive name,
    with the canine satisfaction of everything being in place,
    the same woman to the side, the same shoes,
    the same flavour of the same toothpaste,
    the same sadness of the houses in front,
    of the same board of windows of time with its Hotel de Belgique sign.

    To stick the head like an apathetic bull
    against the transparent mass in which’s centre
    we drink coffee and open the newspaper
    to know what happened
    in any of the corners of the crystal brick.
    To refuse that the delicate act of twisting the door handle,
    that act by which everything could be transformed,
    gets accomplished with the cold effectiveness of an everyday reflex.
    See you later, dear. Have a good day.

    To squeeze a coffee spoon between the fingers and feel its metallic pulse,
    its suspicious warning.
    How it hurts to deny a spoon, to deny a door,
    to deny everything the habit laps until it gets satisfactorily smooth.
    It’s much more simple to accept the easy diligence of the spoon,
    to use it to stir the coffee.



















    And it’s not that is wrong if the things find us again everyday and they are the same.
    That on our side there’s the same woman,
    the same clock, and that the novel, opened over the table,
    starts riding again on the bicycle of our glasses,
    why would it be wrong?

    But like a sad bull, one must lower the head,
    from the centre of the brick out,
    towards the something else so close to us,
    ungraspable like the picador so close to the bull.
    To punish one’s eyes looking at that which passes by the sky
    and craftily accept its cloud name,
    its replica catalogued in the memory.
    Don’t believe that the phone will give you the numbers that you need.
    Why would it?
    There will only come what you have ready and resolved,
    the sad reflex of your hope,
    that monkey that scratches over a table and shivers because he is cold.
    Break that monkey’s head,
    Run from the centre to the wall and make yourself way.
    How they sing upstairs!
    There’s another flat above this house, with other people.
    There´s a flat upstairs where people lives
    that don’t suspect their flat downstairs,
    and we are all in the crystal brick.
    And if suddenly a a moth stands at the edge of a pen,
    and beats like a cindery fire,
    look at it, I am,
    I am palpating its tiny heart,
    And I hear it, that moth resounds in the paste of frozen crystal,
    not all is lost.
    When I open the door and stick out the stairs,
    I will know that downstairs begins the street;
    not the already accepted mould,
    not the already known things,
    not the hotel across the street:
    the street, the living forest where every instant
    can jump on me like a magnolia,
    where the faces will born when I look at them,
    when I go a little further,
    when with elbows and eyelashes
    and fingernails y break myself meticulously
    against the paste of the crystal brick,
    and bet my life while I go further step by step
    to buy the newspaper in the corner.
    3LSZVJA9     Thu, Jan 3, 2008  Permanent link
    Wildcat     Thu, Jan 3, 2008  Permanent link
    that is a brilliant piece, both the animation and the philosophy, thx 3LS
    Daemon Davis     Thu, Jan 3, 2008  Permanent link
    Oxyphenbutazone.
    If you ever have a chance to use this word in scrabble. I say you go for it.

     
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