Looking from outside into an open window one never sees as much as when one looks through a closed window. There is nothing more profound, more mysterious, more pregnant, more insidious, more dazzling than a window lighted by a single candle. What one can see out in the sunlight is always less interesting than what goes on behind a windowpane. In that black or luminous square life lives, life dreams, life suffers.
Across the ocean of roofs I can see a middle-aged woman, her face already lined, who is forever bending over something and who never goes out. Out of her face, her dress, and her gestures, out of practically nothing at all, I have made up this woman’s story, or rather legend, and sometimes I tell it to myself and weep.
If it had been an old man I could have made up his just the same.
And I go to bed proud to have lived and to have suffered in some one besides myself.
Perhaps you are asking, “Are you sure that your story is the real one?” But what does it matter what reality is outside myself, so long as it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am?
Original poem by Charles Baudelaire
If all of our reminders were writ in knitted neural wires,
There’d be no need for pens and paper, screens or keys.
The paths all our thoughts travel-
living streets of layered matter-
Are all the space a being could ever need.
This galaxy’s an island-
A continent of stars,
And a billion other galaxies
Drift right alongside ours.
A black, vast sea before us,
An image from the past.
Everything is now some place else,
But our vision’s not as fast.
Hidden folds of wonder,
Life humble as clay.
Strokes as bold as thunder,
Origin of days.
Inside Room 103
On the back left hand wall,
6 portraits are hanging,
And each one of them all
Shows the very same building,
Just on different days.
6 sides of 1 person:
A revealing display.
Snapshots of progression-
2 Para ll e ll ines
Grouped 2 by 2
Side by side.
We gather before them,
Linking thoughts into chains
To be wound round the table
And fastened to legs.
Transfixed, we stay seated,
Though time marches past.
Every moment a portrait-
Each the first,
Each the last.
There’s nothing you can do about the sores on your spine.
Growth spurts once hurt during youthful days gone by.
But now there’s dizziness in the morning.
And nights of tile for pillows, wondering
How soon sleep can turn to death.
You now face grim realizations;
So have a seat and catch your breath.
One in a million-
If they’re lucky- will drink of a sweet wine
Before a tired draught weighs down the dozing eIe.
You may get to be that happy one,
Or it may wind up you won’t.
But if you’re counting on a miracle,
Men trace the lines of cloud folds
With brushstrokes slight as flesh,
Yet draw no closer to the true shape.
We just try to do our best.
The new mother, Not-Nature, has begun providing for
A creature craving to devour all the piss-poor stock and store
Of a world so stuffed with hunger that it praeys to feed no more.
Nesting instincts with bad habits birthed this bestial kind of bore.
Deadbolt locks on deadened hearts, laid brick in open doors-
Lives now recede into themselves, untouched like none before.
How should one view a parasite?
Is there a right or a wrong way?
As monsters, thieves, or upside down-
It’s good to know, they say.
Well then, survey them all around,
And too the one called host.
You’ll find him in alarming form,
Much needier than most.
As a flower which by self volition,
Bedecks itself in hues
He draws-in awestruck, hungry patrons
With a little, cunning rouge.
Perhaps all patriarchs and matrons
From which great history feeds
Are equally as much dependent
Due to vulnerabilities.
How should one view a parasite?
From the vantage of within.
You’re a host or you’re the other kind,
Which are the same thing to begin.