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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2010-11-12 | [Acest text ar trebui citit în english] |
A slide-guitar and a gentle song
in the earthly hours- oh, the luxury of a room of one's own. A tumble of white sheets, and an avalanche of laundry escapes from a plastic basket- disorder collecting around me like filings butterflying around a magnet. I have to remind myself that there is some beauty in chaos- a dignified surrender. For what a lie there is in order! A man lies dying, so we tidy his bed; a woman is left alone in the empty house of years past, and we sweep the floor. The lights of the city burn in a tangle of cool, blue-white disorder. The crabapple trees outside the window sweat, exhausted by summer, their leaves a flagrancy, an entropy of squamous flesh. I'm kept awake by this disorderly goddess- Chaos. How comforting, to have a tidy and patriarchal God. I fear I am stuck with this wild-haired harpie, this bad-tempered shrew. I sit up, unable to sleep. My bedroom seems to have been visited by some kindly, hard-working poltergeist. What can I say? I scribble pages in the dark, and the oxygen of disorder quickens my veins.
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