itsthetrees > Recent Status Updates

"Glassmaking has long been known in the Orient, but the craft never developed as in the West. Great progress has been made, however, in the manufacture of pottery. We do not dislike everything that shines, but we do prefer a pensive luster to a shallow brilliance, a murky light that, whether in a stone or an artefact, bespeaks a sheen of antiquity."

"They both sat then and the woman returned to the work of deveining shrimp. Twelve rings, two on three fingers of each hand, snatched light from the ceiling fixture and seemed to elevate her task from drudgery to sorcery."

"To paint a picture of our embrace, I'd almost have to use her blood and guts."

"Sometimes writing was like finding a parking spot: Just as I was about to give up I managed to achieve a perfect fit, thanks to a bit of skillful maneuvering. Other times it was like examining food that had been left sitting out for so long that ants and cockroaches had gotten to it. On other occasions it was like a major year-end cleaning where I was forced to throw something away"

"I threw open the balcony door and stepped outside to cool off. I hoped to catch a glimpse of other kindred souls standing naked out on their own balconies. That's how it is, writing a serious literary work.

Even if this book is neither popular nor serious, at least it's sensational. Five cents a word.

It's about getting a diploma and writing."

"In the postmodern age, horror is not a holocaust, but something far more intimate and painstaking. I've reread some of my journal entries and get the sense horror may actually be a metaphor for something else . . . The category was les poulets and the subcategory — new to me — la vaccination" (55-56)

"Oh, the dream circles me that you might give up the accolades of men and come here, vanish with me among my fugitive leaves."

Kinda puzzled, kinda gagged atp.
Apple orchard>>>

This is slowly annihilating me.

In the square below: a nun, on fire,
runs silently towards her god —

Open, he says.
She opens.

"The swordswoman and I are not so dissimilar . . . What we have in common are the words at our backs. The ideographs for revenge are 'report a crime' and 'report to five families.' The reporting is the vengeance - not the beheading, not the gutting, but the words. And I have so many words - 'chink' words and 'gook' words too - that they do not fit on my skin."

In the darkness, she spoke to me. You are hungry, she said. You must eat. You must feed. Do you know who I am? she asked. I am exiled, as you are, from Paradise. You are mine.

Ok

"Ma," he says to no one, his eyes filling, "I didn't mean it."
"Ma!" he calls out, taking a few clipped steps. He drops the radio, it falls mouth-down in the dirt, and turns toward the house. "Ma!" He runs back inside, his hand still wet with a single-use life, looking for her.

At last, το περιμένω κυριολεκτικά 10 ΧΡΟΝΙΑ. Jandy θεά μου 😭 Oh the person I'm about to become.....

Second person narration will forever be my weak spot.

We give and take love for one night, maybe a couple of weeks. But not longer than that. There is too much resentment. Too much hatred. You live for pleasure if you're like this, and hope the police won't stop you.(33)

"Wretched as was the space they crouched in, it was nevertheless blank where a past did not haunt nor a future beckon. Women of and for men, in those few moments they were neither. And when finally the lamp died, swaddling them in black, for a long time . . . they did not stir. For them, unable to see the sky, time became simply the running sea, unmarked, eternal and of no matter."