How can I speak or sing or sigh - or signify
How can I tell you? How can you know?
The joy, the splendor, the love - a blessed communion
The sweetness of the sun beaming through my window in dolcet streams,
The first kiss of a warm and gentle spring.
Bathing and washing my hands of the dank drear cobwebs left
By a winter’s worth of bleak and barren toil.
Anointing my weary and broken head
With a soft sprinkling of the dappled honey of promise.
The rushing rising earth smell of the South,
Impetuous, imperious, capering through the house,
Gamboling in mirth with the scent of rising bread dough.
How can I tell you? How can you know?
A joy without singing, a mirth without speaking. Love’s spring.
Hittite is a tongue of the Anatolian family of languages. It was written in cuneiform - inscribed with a stylus on clay tablets. Other Anatolian languages I recall are Luwian and Lycian. Hittite was the written language of the ruling class of the Hittite Empire, which flourished from 1800-1200 A.C. The Hittites controlled - at one point or another - modern central Turkey, Syria, and Lebanon. They fought the inconclusive Battle of Megiddo against the Egyptians, the first recorded battle in history. They sacrificed puppies. The Hittites of the Bible were a series of successor states that still identified themselves as Hittites, but there is little evidence of cultural or linguistic continuity between these successor states and the Hittite Empire.
The women are talking in Spanish downstairs. They’re mopping the floors and dusting the counters with rags, making the air in this big house smell clean. Both have eyes the color of leaves capable of bearing fruit, both clean houses for a living, one house every day of the week, five houses total. And the money is on the table for them to take before they leave. Sixty-five dollars cash: a day’s work.
christopher sly @ 11:41 pm
Filed under: short stories
photo by christopher sly
clutching my head between my knees, i braced myself as my stomach violently contracted once more, ejecting what was left of my dinner, soaked in a sour acidic liquid. it burned my throat on the way out and emitted a stale, citrusy odor as it splattered onto the street. the result looked bizarrely familiar, something i’ve seen before, maybe in some museum. jackson pollock was it? something like that. it was amazing how much came out of my stomach. the longer i stared, the more that the chunky brown soup seemed alive; squirming, pulsing like the blob. god, i’m wasted, i exclaimed as if someone needed to know the obvious. that was another one of my annoying habits–stating the obvious. i’ve only recently noticed it as bothering others, and feeling a bit ashamed, have thus tried my best to correct it, although it’s a little difficult and greatly amplified under heavy influence. as i dizzily stood back up and hastily wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, looking quickly to see if anyone was around, i was reminded that i had a huge burrito for dinner. la pasadita, my favorite burrito place, although returning for the first time in awhile, i had found out they had jacked up their prices. the burrito was a little sub-par–the extra fifteen cents seemed to go towards more salt. there were still chunks of that once salty now putrid beef in my mouth. disgusted, i unsuccessfully tried to rid myself of it by compulsively spitting into the grass next to the sidewalk, all the while stumbling, searching for the way home.
It came from a split second thought, occurring at the moment the three girls broke into a run in the narrow Parisian alleyway that late afternoon, which could have been an instinctual reaction, had the visual stimuli not reached my mind, but it did, and it was only much later on after this event that I realized that in that split second my mind was able to see the picture already, as if the picture, this picture in my mind that would be taken a split second in the future, projected itself onto reality, from my mind, through the nerves and the muscles and my eyes, I somehow calibrated the proper exposure, the shutter speed that would not completely freeze the motion of the three girls but leave a slight blur to perfectly capture their essence – akin to a violinist’s vibrato that vibrates between two near pitches to give birth to the one in between – and at the same time move my arms to frame the composition, trying to move it in beat with the three girls, hoping to instill a sense of movement and excitement through a slight blurring of the background, and yet keeping focus on the expression of their faces in that split-second of pure joy and freedom of youth extended out toeternity through the medium of film, and in one swift burst, ultimately reduced to the single click of the shutter-release, that split-second was immortalized such that those who look upon this picture henceforth will experience the joy of the subjects and intuit, even if subconsciously, the path backwards: the aesthetics that hint at the conditions in which the photo was composed, that hint at how it was composed, that hint at the photographer’s thoughts and feelings at that very moment on a cool November day in 2008 as he wandered the streets of Paris, his own joy in being free mirrored in the three girls breaking into a run in the alleyway.
christopher sly @ 2:51 am
Filed under: short stories
photo by christopher sly
Her perfume smelt of rosewood: a natural, earthy smell punctuated with a faint sweetness recalling, of course, a rose. Our eyes were closed only because our lips were millimeters apart. Such proximity allowed me to feel her calming presence. With her smells, her warmth, and her tenderness, I could not move, I did not want to leave, I did not want to do anything else except keep my face near these things that made the world so very peaceful for the moment.
Playing on the Net
The Killers - “Goodnight, travel well”
I like their old stuff more.
Next song:
Kanye West – “Into the night”
He just switched things up
Kanye’s not a rapper anymore
Yeah, Kanye sounds like Wilson Phillips depressed
Third:
Del Tha Funky Homosapien kissing the speaker wire.
Is this Del
This is Del.
Del sounds good:
“Always supporting my pals, and that’s more important than making a thousand dollars.”
This is Miami, home of the MetroZoo
When I realized what was going on, I appreciated the idea behind this video. The old man near the beginning makes me laugh every time. Enjoy yet another web find:
Hold your grandmother’s Bible to your breast.
Gonna put it to the test.
You want it to be blessed. And in your heart, you know it to be true.
You know what you gotta do.
They all depend on you.
And you already know.
Yeah, you already know how this will end.
There is no escape,
From the slave-catchers’ songs.
For all of the loved ones gone.
Forevers not so long. And in your soul,
They poked a million holes.
But you never let em show.
C’mon it’s time to go. And you already know.
Yeah, you already know how this will end.
Now you’ve seen his face. And you know that there’s a place, in the sun, for all that you’ve done, for you and your children.
No longer shall you need.
You always wanted to believe,
Just ask and you’ll receive,
Beyond your wildest dreams.
And You Already know.
Yeah, you already know
How this will end.
You already know (You already know)
You already know (you already know)
You already know-how this will end.
There are some songs that make me feel sexy, and I don’t like using that word, sexy, to describe any part of me. Maybe I should’ve said feline, there are some songs that make me feel feline. As You can see, my vocabulary is limited.
It is nighttime. I wear ear buds and listen to Zero 7, a band who makes me feel sexy. I remember the past, as has become my habit, and begin to mope. Why is the past always a sore subject with me? It isn’t that way for everyone, right? No matter, for me the past is lined with painful memories. This is because not much has gone my way.
There are some songs that make me feel sexy, and I don’t like using that word, sexy, to describe any part of me. Maybe I should’ve said feline, there are some songs that make me feel feline. As You can see, my vocabulary is limited.