Dreaming/masking interlude

As promised, the excerpt where my new blog title is from:

John: We live still.
Anne: But what has become of the dead? They forget.
John: These. Smilers, all who stand on promontories, slinkers, whisperers; deliberate approaches, echoes, time, promises of mercy, what dreams or goes masked, embraces that fail, insufficient evidence, touches of the old wound… But let us not think of things which we hope will be long in coming.

– W. H. Auden, Paid on Both Sides (first version)




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Love (24)

That week, in tribute to December, I wrote another bold column: “How to be Happy on a Bicycle at the Age of Ninety.

On the night of her birthday I sang the entire song to Delgadina, and I kissed her all over her body until I was breathless: her spine, the side with the mole, the side of her inexhaustible heart. As I kissed her the heat of her body increased, and it exhaled a wild, untamed fragrance. She responded with new vibrations along every inch of her skin, and on each one I found a distinctive heat, a unique taste, a different moan, and her entire body resonated inside with an arpeggio, and her nipples opened and flowered without being touched. I was beginning to fall asleep in the small hours when I heard something like the sound of multitudes in the sea and a panic in the trees that pierced my heart. I went to the bathroom and wrote on the mirror: Delgadina, my love, the Christmas breezes have arrived.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores (originally Memoria de mis putas tristes, Colombia, 2004

Sorry for disappearing for a bit, currently doing my best not to abandon this blog. The name change is a sign of that, as well as a quote from an absolutely superb bit by W. H. Auden, which I’ll post around here soon enough. If you’re reading this, thanks for sticking around.

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My cat and I have decided to spend a lazy summer afternoon together.

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northfullove (pathetic updates)

from Virginia Woolf’s suicide note:

March 28, 1941

I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can’t go through another of those terrible times. And I shan’t recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can’t concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don’t think two people could have been happier ’til this terrible disease came. I can’t fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can’t even write this properly. I can’t read.


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this was nice, can I go home now please

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July 7, 2013 · 12:49 am

Leaving home

If you ever come by here, for Jane or for me,
Well, your enemy’s sleeping, and this woman is free

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Parallels 12 – Wolves (1)

i.e., a mini collection of wolf references in Shakespeare, more to follow. I’m thinking of doing a series of Wolves posts, just like the one on Love, but I’ll see…


No, he’s in Tartar limbo, worse than hell.
A devil in an everlasting garment hath him;
One whose hard heart is button’d up with steel;
A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough;
A wolf, nay, worse, a fellow all in buff;

Comedy of Errors


Now the hungry lion roars,
And the wolf behowls the moon;
Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task fordone.

A Midsummer Night’s Dream


Thou best know’st
What torment I did find thee in; thy groans
Did make wolves howl and penetrate the breasts
Of ever angry bears: it was a torment
To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax
Could not again undo: it was mine art,
When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape
The pine and let thee out.

The Tempest


Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men;
As hounds and greyhounds, mongrels, spaniels, curs,
Shoughs, water-rugs and demi-wolves, are clept
All by the name of dogs

Now o’er the one halfworld
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain’d sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate’s offerings, and wither’d murder,
Alarum’d by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace.
With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost.

Third Witch

Scale of dragon, tooth of wolf,
Witches’ mummy, maw and gulf
Of the ravin’d salt-sea shark,
Root of hemlock digg’d i’ the dark,
Liver of blaspheming Jew,
Gall of goat, and slips of yew
Silver’d in the moon’s eclipse,
Nose of Turk and Tartar’s lips,
Finger of birth-strangled babe
Ditch-deliver’d by a drab,
Make the gruel thick and slab:
Add thereto a tiger’s chaudron,
For the ingredients of our cauldron.

Macbeth (who would’ve thought)

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