Faces (24)

(24) The soft curves of her face drew me in, with a few controlled strokes of a brush I could draw her gentle face except for the sharp splatters of her irises, that lay deep in their sockets, observing me with care.

Faces (23)

(23)She swallowed her words, which cluttered in her mouth and shaped her highly cheeks full and round, like a broad bridge across her face, while her black eyes had turned sweet and inwardly, light like a little star barely visible and without constellation.

Mini Manga: Never A Loner ^^

The Diaries of Arnon Grunberg (11)

"Don't you grow tired by your own disquiet?"
"Sometimes," only to add at the last moment,"perhaps."
Such a settled question, Arnon thought. Only an old man, whose years have worn down his body, sees struggling and making efforts as a burden. To the vigor of a youth, being challenged feels like an elevation of the mind, to which he looks eagerly forward.

"But then you also run from deadline to deadline."
The interviewer's questions started to irritate Arnon, realizing that this man's decay was printing itself on his mind and thus polluted his lust for life. The interviewer seemed to suggest that it was all too much, that this restless inspiration needed a break, take some time off, lay in bed and do nothing for a whole day but fetish itself in lazy dinners.

"Yes, but everything that has a pattern, is easy, and I don't forget."

While Arnon heard his own voice say the last lines, hearing himself, he realized already did the gray haired, saggy face with the coarse scraping voice affect him. He reflected on the absurdity of the answer, embarrassed by the apparent habit of himself that he displayed in public. This pattern of routines was what tired him, not the exerting demands.

Prometheus Bound

Les Pensées (24)

Artaud had always remained Artaud, or in other words, he never had really been Artaud.

Identity in Stasis

John was a member of the Luo tribe, according to his passport he was Kenian, though with a permanent residence in the United States, where he practiced as a Harvard trained general practitioner and he had lived the last ten years of his life in Boston. He was one of the proudest members of the Luo, and the tribe was at least as proud of him. When I met him, Obama was president for two years, while John was elaborating on his theory of self identity and advocating the importance of the tribe. He had not asked me about my tribe, he knew of course, there was no such entity in western society. I wasn't sure if he had immediately guessed my Dutch origin, but I was pretty sure that he was not aware of the tensions between the westerners, the southerners, the easterners and the Frisians, in the Netherlands. I of course am a member of the Heracleitian tribe of thought, and I do not believe in the concept of identity, or it would be in my persona as an anarchist deliberately trying to disturb all my pre-existing attachments and ideas like a Nietzschean lion. The main argument I tried to make against John's was based on Marxist principles however, where identity is the superstructure of my class origin, which is determined mostly by technology and ownership of capital, but this is a very typical belief for someone of the middle classes, and a very white and western notion, which he refuted of course.

The Wild Animals Rose Up

The wild animals rose up and complained about the lack of respect, in a furious row, they beat their chests and pulled out their hair, about the unfairness of their treatment. Blind hatred ran through their bloodshed eyes, as their masters who had unleashed them, kicked them in their guts, back to the muddy ditch. They spit foam filled words, lost in the rage of their voices. I stood by and observed their helpless anger. The calmer lot of them, had climbed out of the gutter years ago. Here were left the riffraff who felt entitled to the thrones and bones of greater dogs above them, but they got stumps instead, which served them better. I was completely indifferent to the pack of rats that crawled in their filth, not capable perhaps, not trained, not guided with strict enough leashes. Their words were incoherent, but words to them were intelligence already, entitlements. All the dogs feel entitled. All the lots kicking down the doors, and when they get hit in the face, and lay on the wet asphalt, crying, they are filled with anger once more. Beating a drum, their fear their reason, their beliefs their words, and each time again, they find them selves locked out. They feel the hand of compassion and slam it, cause they don't need it. When they search to get up, they find the steps too high, and with indignation they curse the lack of hands reached out to them.

Night Poem: 120910

Dogs against the tethered heat of night with
voice raised rage in the reflection of the room against the
dark frame of the night.

And whose demon screams
pitched thick through ink roll hot as a breath
and heavy

tear the night fitful

Faces (21-22)

(21) The black stripes on her forehead were not her own natural eyebrows. She had drawn two lines too high above her eyes, in half circles. She looked wildly with a mimicked expression of lamenting surprise, her mouth open, her lips pursed in astonishment, as if a complete stranger had just slapped her in the face in public, while she scurried past me with a cup of coffee in her hand, busy, crazy. (22) Her face was lighted by a white-blue light that elevated her eyes, the same translucent color as the palms of her hand, the brown shadow breaking on her high round cheeks, her large, curling ears freed by a pony-tail in which her long black hair was tied, as if she was being upheld like a puppet by its string, as her fingers tapped gently on the screen of her iPad, which lay on the table before her, her face prostrated over it, pushing her shoulders above her neck.