From Finnegan's Wake, James Joyce

A tale told of Shaun or Shem? All Livia's daughter-sons. Dark hawks near us. Night! Night! My ho head halls. I feel as heavy as yonder stone. Tell me of John or Shaun? Who were Shem and Shaun the living sons or daughters of? Night now! Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, elm. Night night. Tehmetale of stem or stone. Beside the rivering waters of, hitherandthithering waters of. Night!

From Lavengro, George Burrow

There's night and day, brother,
both sweet things; sun, moon, and
stars, brother, all sweet things; there's
likewise a wind on the heath. Life is
very sweet, brother; who would wish
to die?

"Pretty Noises," A Pantoum for English 28D

My admiration welled up inside as she spoke:
Her mouth movements produced pretty noises.
My grin had become rictus; my eyes locked
To hers: they flickered as she read my face.

Her mouth movements produced pretty noises,
Still, on and on she went, until I pressed my lips
To hers: they flickered as I read her face.
Her expression was tired, a stillness hung expectantly, then

On she went, until I pressed my lips
Against my finger and she stopped truncated.
Her expression was tired, a stillness hung expectantly, as
She put her hand in mine. I could feel her warmth

Against my fingers and I stopped truncated.
It was over, all over. I understood.
She put her other hand in mine. I could feel her warmth
Leave, as she made for the door.

It was over, all over. I don’t understand
And then there was nothing, nothing. I wasn’t ready to
Leave, as she made for the door.
The pretty noises still haunt the rafters, and I still don’t know.

Grievances to Lisa the Receptionist, Greenberg Traurig, LLP

From: Radocay, Jonathan (BStf-OC-Rec)
Sent: Monday, October 01, 2007 6:01 PM
To: Lidestri, Lisa M. (BStf-OC-Rec)
Subject: RIP

Dearest Lisa,

Our beloved printer has passed on. I think we should meet to arrange services. The mortician, Mr. Doray, placed the death at around 5:30 p.m., Pacific Standard Time, the first of October, in the year of our Lord two-thousand and seven. I am grieved as I am sure you are as well, but we must concentrate on the good times we've shared; the laughs and cries; the wisdom imparted. I don't think we'll ever again be blessed with a printer of such outstanding caliber.

And our mouse. The water proved too much to bear; insanity has afflicted it. I'm sorry. This was my fault. I thought it thirsty -- little did I know then, water is poison to this gentle creature. Mr. Doray comforted me, though. Another mouse will enter our service.

Oh sweet heavens! As I write this morbid letter, our little tucker the mouse has grown well. Mr. Doray, however, has provided a companion just in case. It is in your personal drawer.

I fear of late I am the bringer of death; the bleak grim: a most accursed omen. Forgive me if you ever could. I've half a mind to enter the priesthood, after all that I have done. I can only hope God can forgive my most egregious sins.

With great sorrow and regret,

Jonathan D. Radocay
Intern
Greenberg Traurig, LLP

The Human in Supplication, Psalm 13

לַמְנַצֵּחַ, מִזְמוֹר לְדָוִד
ב עַד-אָנָה יְהוָה, תִּשְׁכָּחֵנִי נֶצַח; עַד-אָנָה, תַּסְתִּיר אֶת-פָּנֶיךָ מִמֶּנִּי
ג עַד-אָנָה אָשִׁית עֵצוֹת, בְּנַפְשִׁי-- יָגוֹן בִּלְבָבִי יוֹמָם;עַד-אָנָה, יָרוּם אֹיְבִי עָלָי
ד הַבִּיטָה עֲנֵנִי, יְהוָה אֱלֹהָי; הָאִירָה עֵינַי, פֶּן-אִישַׁן הַמָּוֶת
ה פֶּן-יֹאמַר אֹיְבִי יְכָלְתִּיו; צָרַי יָגִילוּ, כִּי אֶמּוֹט
ו וַאֲנִי, בְּחַסְדְּךָ בָטַחְתִּי-- יָגֵל לִבִּי, בִּישׁוּעָתֶךָ:אָשִׁירָה לַיהוָה, כִּי גָמַל עָלָי

_____________________________________

For the Leader. A Psalm of David

1. How long wilt thou forget me, O LORD? for ever? how long wilt thou hide thy face from me?
2. How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily? how long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?
3. Consider and hear me, O LORD my God: lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death;
4. Lest mine enemy say, I have prevailed against him; and those that trouble me rejoice when I am moved.
5. But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation.
6. I will sing unto the LORD, because he hath dealt bountifully with me.

Satin, you're pedantic. Get off it.

Pedantry is like sheets of satin.
Linens would do -- they're rather lovely, really -- but would I deny satin?
Certainly not: its touch is luxurious -- rich -- opulent.
I can't help but take a corner and rub it against my cheek.
Isn't this nice I think.
Why yes; it's smooth and pure and its gloss beams.
I could sleep -- and have slept -- soundly under these sheets.
But I have tired of them.
Their feel sickens me;
I've half a mind to shred them into long, spindly strips and hang them from the ceiling.
That would be artistic.
I'd be bare naked.
The draft from the window would chill my skin.
Goose pimples would break out all over.
It'd take a few minutes to get comfortable, but the swampy cool air would feel refreshing.
I'd make mattress angels, my arms pumping and my legs kicking.
Can you see them, made over and over again, the first one better than the last?

To happiness

Its taste is sweet;
its passage down loosens the body,
like a draught of mulled wine quaffed in the company of friends.

The feeling -- worries are dulled -- brims about the heart,
but it nigh always'll overflow, roaring down the heart-walls.
What is left is a feeling not brimming, but sickly comfortable,
as if required to settle for a bit less than before.
In general, however, you feel untroubled, yet slightly wanting.

I suppose it's the nature of happiness, its fleeting quality:
the flower wilts because it is beautiful.
Pretty things are decked in fineries ephemeral.
You should know. You can't very well ooo and ahh all day long,
or laugh incessantly.

Do I express sorrow or regret?
No, quite the contrary.
Consider this -- this poem -- an ode.
An ode to happiness; may it forever be in flight.

Podcasts, podcasts, podcasts

"The Ethicist," Randy Cohen, The New York Times
Flight of the Conchords, Bret Mckenzie and Jemaine Clement
The Harvard Press: "Authors Off the Page"
IndieFeed: Indie Pop Music
KCRW's Bookworm, Film Reviews, Morning Becomes Eclectic, To the Point and Today's Top Tune
Animated Cartoons from The New Yorker
Fiction from The New Yorker
Wine Library TV

In the yard, flowering

Fair the flowers fell, crimped and cut.

Afternoons when the sun drooped lazy and its rays softened gold, she clipped roses in the yard. Though, she loved the rare occasion when ash from a nearby brush-fire filtered the sunlight into clay reds and orangey pinks -- those were best, she said.

I loved her sun-hat, whose shade stretched as a loose thatch across her face. Pocks of light shifted with each tilt of the hat -- snip, snip, snip. She worked diligently.

And her garden dress. She hated floral prints, but loved checkered colors of reds and whites and yellows: "you look like a tablecloth," I reeled playfully, but I could never hold for long and a smirk soon broke across my face; my eyes betrayed me first. She gave a giggle in protest and waved her clippers at me in playful indignation.

I loved her hair that day. She had stuck flowers she'd plucked from the annuals behind her ears. Her hair bloomed colors of red and white and yellow. She looked as part of the yard blossoms.

There was interruption in our play. I took her 'round the waist in embrace and kissed her. She sounded an "uh-huh" hum as our lips met. She always made this sound when one of my frequent advances pleased her especially.

After awhile, we parted, I went inside to fetch water and she resumed clipping. But I wouldn't return; I was opening up the blinds and windows to let the breeze in.

After awhile, she came looking; she found me -- on the couch. She took my hand and lead upstairs.

From So It Is in Life, Daniil Kharms, published in The New Yorker

A window with a drawn curtain was getting brighter and brighter because the day was beginning. The floors squeaked, the doors creaked, chairs were being moved around in apartments. Climbing out of bed, Ruzhetsky fell on the floor and smashed his face. He was in a rush to get to work, so he went outside, covering his face with his hands. His hands made it hard for him to see where he was going. Twice he bumped into an advertising kiosk; then he shoved some old man in a vinyl hat with fur earflaps, which sent the old man into such a fury that a janitor, who happened to be in proximity, because he was trying to catch a cat with a shovel, said to the increasingly agitated old man, “Shame on you, Gramps, for making so much trouble at your age.”

(1935)

A man to meet

I met a man today. He approached me as he walked across the street; I was standing at the corner of his destination. He looked flustered, muttering obscenities and curses upon himself. I asked if he had a smoke. He fumbled around his pockets, when at last he gave up and stammered an apologetic explanation. I told him not to worry and offered him a smoke. He accepted the offer, but gave a confused look. I did indeed lie. I had smokes. Truth is, though, I didn't want to puff alone. I figured he could use the company.

Our smoke wasn't to be seen; the morning fog hadn't burned off yet. The smoke became as the fog and only pinheads of ember could be made out from a distance. We chucked our butts and parted ways. The man went off feeling better, it seemed.

That was a good morning.

The Erector Set

Tried.

Yeah, sure. Let's construct the Erector Set on this rug; it has been too long since we last tried.

No Patience.

When we were kids, we never did finish. We never had the patience to piece it all together.
No, but this time 'round patience wasn't the obstacle; it was your

eyes
and
curves.

I let a piece drop; my eyes full of lust met yours, and like dry tinder, yours ignited. Your skin flushed. We both felt a tug below the waist. I cleared the Erector Set and we spilled upon the rug.

Piss and Wine

Churning in convection, the piss and wine, both bitter, and like acid, tear at him. Wine, which is sweeter, sinks, and piss replaces. And so it goes -- the heart furnace cycles piss and wine.

Nothing much satisfies him; but indifference certainly produces less pain. Useless as an assuagement, it only sweetens (but only a little) the wine.

From Slaughterhouse-Five, Kurt Vonnegut

I looked through the Gideon Bible in my motel room for tales of great destruction. The sun was risen upon the Earth when Lot entered into Zo-ar, I read. Then the Lord rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the Lord out of Heaven; and He overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.

So it goes.

Those were vile people in both those cities, as is well known. The world was better off without them.

And Lot's wife, of course, was told not to look back where all those people and their homes had been. But she did look back, and I love her for that, because it was so human.

So she turned to a pillar of salt. So it goes.

The Smell, Los Angeles, California

I swear I have better things to do

del.icio.us
43 things

The river's run dry

I'm leaving the Grand ol' Party.

The blithe and indolence of Orange County, California

From The Fall, Albert Camus

But allow me to call on our friend the primate. Nod your head to thank him and, above all, drink up with me, I need your understanding.

I see that that declaration amazes you. Have you never suddenly needed understanding, help, friendship? Yes, of course. I have learned to be satisfied with understanding. It is found more readily and, besides, it's not binding. "I beg you to believe in my sympathetic understanding" in the inner discourse always precedes immediately "and now, let's turn to other matters." It's a board chairman's emotion; it comes cheap, after catastrophes. Friendship is less simple. It is long and hard to obtain, but when one has it there's no getting rid of it; one simply has to cope with it. Don't think for a minute that your friends will telephone you every evening, as they ought to, in order to find out if this doesn't happen to be the evening when you are deciding to commit suicide, or simply whether you don't need company, whether you are not in a mood to go out. No, don't worry, they'll ring up the evening you are not alone, when life is beautiful. Af for suicide, they would be more likely to push you to it, by virtue of what you owe to yourself, according to them. May heaven protect us, cher monsieur, from being set on a pedestal by our friends!

Oh, Leslie

A small "scene" boy

Not but fifteen. Black disheveled hair under a black hoodie. It had a gloss to it, too; he probably hadn't showered in days. All of them had that gloss and that present, yet unobtrusive body odor. For the life of me, I could never figure out why it smelled fruity. He smoked--his kind did--and a cigarette hung between his pursed lips. On the exhale, he wouldn't do anything sexy, nothing provocative--nothing like rings or a curl, nothing to indicate pleasure--only a cloud of smoke and a sigh. He was counter-culture trash. He was a creature of the night; I'd only see him nights, and I believe he liked that best. The sun hurts him: exposes the immediacy of his world. At night, he can't see more than a couple of houses down, and he can vacillate between his indolence and duty. He doesn't need others--only money and spare time. Both of which, his yuppie parents dish out readily.

Milk

The milk has gone warm, left on the porch for near an hour.
The flies have got to it, too,
And I don't suppose the dog wants it.

I'll bring it in, anyways--perhaps put it in the fridge for later.
Nope.
There's last week's bottle--that too, left on the porch.

I should have the milkman deliver it some other time: later, as the morning carries on.
On habit, I don't get up before nine--late nights at the steel foundry and all.
Oh, but how I do enjoy my milk. Cornelius does too. Gruffy ol' dog. Needs it for his bones.

Wonder if the Times is out on the lawn.

A Weathered Spoon

Two, one in the other, spoon on a blanket on the sand at the beach.

Both wrinkled and weathered by work weary, they spoon as the sun dips beneath the sea's horizon.

It's a Saturday.

The Book Collector

I collect books. Piles of 'em. Most, I'll never read--finger probably, but they're all too long, and I don't have the time. The titles on the spines make me feel erudite. Often, I'll look upon them, all in line, noting each at a glance. They validate my identity as an esteemed lettered elitist. Touch them, yes, they fill my bookshelf out nicely, no? I'm better than you because I have more books--probably more interesting ones, too. Edified? Good. Pictures? Alright. But, please, no flash.

From Up in Michigan, Ernest Hemingway

She was thinking about him hard and then Jim came out. His eyes were shining and his hair was a little rumpled. Liz looked down at her book. Jim came over back of her chair and stood there and she could feel him breathing and then he put his arms around her. Her breasts felt plump and firm and the nipples were erect under his hands. Liz was terribly frightened, no one had ever toucher her, but she thought, "He's come to me finally. He's really come."

From Cenodoxus, Jacob Bidermann

So vast the surge of human souls that rains
Continuously down on us, I marvel
That there are any left here on the earth.

The runaway girl whom the highway men won't catch.

Did you run, run away? Go with the boy; run far. You'll hide away in a forest cabin. He'll hunt and skin, you'll boil water for stew. It'll be a hard life, but you'll make it. And as night falls and you both retire from your duties, give it a good fuck. The fuck the nobleman can't have. He won't catch you. He's too far off; his highway men are too few. Come to the tanner's shop if you should require me; I'll give you what little I can spare.

Oh, day.

All the cute girls are out today in their floral spring skirts.

Excerpt from, The Silent Men, Albert Camus

"The strain also foreshadowed old age. Wherever the muscles are involved, work eventually becomes hateful, it precedes death, and on evenings following great physical effort to sleep itself is like death. The boy wanted to become a school-teacher, he was right; those who indulge in clichés about manual work don't know what they're talking about."

Doctorow Returns for Chancellor’s Series

ACADEMICS: Award-winning author E.L. Doctorow spoke about the connection between religion and writing.

“Writers are conservers who cultivate the human mind,” commented Chancellor’s Distinguished Fellow Edgar Laurence Doctorow, during a lecture given last Thursday to a hall crowded with graduate students, academics and admiring readers. Doctorow returns to UC Irvine after 35 years. Early in his academic career, Doctorow taught in UCI’s then-burgeoning writing program. No doubt he had a hand in its present repute.

Winner of two National Book Critics Circle Awards, the PEN/Faulkner Award, a National Book Award and the National Humanities Medal awarded by President Bill Clinton, Doctorow has firmly established himself as notable among contemporary American novelists. “The Book of Daniel,” written during his stay here at UCI, brought him success and attention from several American literary circles. Recognized as a gifted novelist, Doctorow currently holds the Glucksman Chair in American Letters at New York University and was inducted into the American Academy and National Institute of Arts and Letters in 1984.

“The March,” his latest novel and winner of the 2005 PEN/Faulkner Award, follows William Tecumseh Sherman’s Atlanta Campaign during the finish of the Civil War. Pulitzer Prize-winning critic Richard Eder proclaims in the Los Angeles Times that Doctorow “transforms [historical moments] with a freedom and incandescence that have no more to do with the general run of historical fiction than do ‘War and Peace’ and ‘The Charterhouse of Parma.’” His current project is “Religion and Literature,” on which he gave a lecture last Thursday.

Doctorow likened the writer’s prose to an act of divine creation.

“The source of its genius is knowledge,” Doctorow said. “[It] is a damsel upon whom nothing is lost.” Doctorow contrasted the modern writer and the ancient Biblical writer who authored the “sacred texts.” In both worlds, literature structures a “moral framework for being,” in which the human experience and tradition are founded. The religious authors, however, wrote a more poignant and rapturous moral sermon, than do the novelists of today. But, as Doctorow explained, the nature of modern literature has changed since then, to a more secular humanist approach.

“Language was enchanted [back then], where the act of storytelling held an element of truth,” Doctorow said. The speech of an impassioned prophet carried an unquestioned authority whereas now the prose must “make it on its own.” The modern author must persuade the reader to believe her story upon a sheet of paper. With such a formidable task, the character of the author changed as well.

The dichotomy Doctorow faced as a Jew raised by a pious mother and a secular father, contributed to his creative sensitivity.

“All writers worth a name are unaffiliated with the complete dogma of religion,” where the blend of sedulous devotion and secular humanism is the most admirable trait of an author. Doctorow gave Walt Whitman as an example of such an author.

As the lecture went on, Doctorow’s criticism of religion and its pervasion in American politics became clear. The audience clapped and hollered its approval as Doctorow spoke critically of the Bush administration and its affiliation of the fundamentalist right. With great emotion, he claimed “doubt” to be “the great civilizer on earth”––a compulsion to ethical behavior, he explains, has come as a result of it and blind faith theocracies have only “Satanized and murdered.”

Doctorow has been acclaimed for his eerie ability to create an atmosphere of a familiar past. His intricate and provocative prose makes his narratives – and the messages carried within – some of the best among living American authors.

Photographer Laurencine Lot Discusses ‘Sacred Monsters’

Chancellor’s distinguished lecturer Laurencine Lot visited UCI last Wednesday to lecture on her experiences as photographer of the venerated Comédie-Française, France’s major classical theatre founded in 1680. During her visit, she took the opportunity to photograph several drama students in class, capturing the heart and spirit of acting.

Laurencine Lot’s photographs of French and European theatre have earned worldwide acclaim for their intimate portrayal of stage actors. She has also brought her work to places such as Barcelona, Spain, Luxembourg and Moscow, Russia.

Lot began her freelance photography in 1973 as a young university student in Paris, when she was captivated by John-Michael Tebelak’s “Godspell,” playing at the Théâtre de la Porte Saint-Martin, which she saw over 70 times. Thereafter, equipped with only a small matchbox camera, Lot started photographing the Comédie-Française and other stages around Paris and Europe, gaining reputation and authority as a gifted photographer of theater. For over 30 years, attending thousands of plays, Lot has literally catalogued the history of French theatre, producing remarkably visceral images of France’s “monstres sacrés” (sacred monsters).

Although there exists no English equivalent to this bizarre moniker, Lot describes these “sacred monsters” as those actors who possess “all the qualities of acting required to reach God at some point.”

Lot aims to shoot and arrest the sacred monster in her divine climax, which flees from scene to scene. And in her vivid photographs, rather than ceasing to be when the play ends, the soul of the actor’s character is preserved and kept alive, suspended in its brilliant animation and passion.

Lot has photographed famous sacred monsters such as Jeanne Moreau, Maria Casarès, Carlotta Ikeda and Jean-Claude Drouot. Lot told of a particularly close relationship with Maria Casarès, whom she photographed doing her make-up backstage. By this form of contact, befriending and meeting her subjects backstage, Lot put personality to otherwise anonymous faces. Lot bridges photographer with subject and injects herself into the theatre culture, becoming a part of it, rather than sitting distant in the audience.

Upon being asked of her future projects or plans, Lot reveals the nature of not only her photography, but her attitude towards her profession: a day-by-day, whimsical approach. When I asked her if she had any plans to photograph American Broadway, she said she would not rule it out, and if a whim took her, she possibly may. She also describes her photography in much the same manner, describing her work as rooted in “anticipation and instinct.” Her method is far from conventional, rather, it is like the nuances and vagaries of acting—unpredictable and wanton.

Some of her photographs were showcased in the Cal-IT2 Atrium last week. Her last exhibit was in Moscow, Russia. In this new century, Lot has already published four telling books of the stage: “La Comédie-Française, Trente Ans de Creation Théâtrale” (2003), with photographs from the theater company’s last thirty years; “Monstres Sacrés, Sacrés Comédien” (2004), with photographs of “sacred monsters” from numerous theaters around France; “Carlotta Ikeda: Danse Butô et au-delà” (2005), following Carlotta Ikeda’s 25 year acting career; and the most recent “Catherine Samie, une enfant de Molière” (2007), which follows the long and famous career of Catherine Samie, deemed as one of France’s most successful classical actresses. In 2002, Lot also published Tous les Vélos du monde, in which photographs of bicycles from all over the world appear.

Lot describes her vocation as a “magical job,” and plans to continue photographing theater for the rest of her life. Although photography is her primary occupation, she also translates books from English and German to her native French, including her own renditions of English psychologist Gregory Bateson.

Lot is cherished in the prolific and expansive French theater and she certainly reciprocates its sentiments with love, patronage, and a lifelong devotion to the stage. She lives in Paris with her husband, playwright and novelist Jean Verdun.

Apparently, the guys had broken into one of the rooms at an old, abandoned retirement home, and set themselves up something pretty enviable: a mini-fridge stocked with the "good stuff," a tattered couch, and a mattress in the bedroom. They were having a shindig tonight, and it's supposed to be "chill," or so I've heard. Paul was driving down to chauffeur us. He had the previous night been there, so he knew how to get there, and generally he's the one who catches wind of these sort of gems.

We arrived around dusk at the time when the liquor was in full display on the cheap, worn table. Amongst the bottles of Jack Daniel, Bicardi, Jim Bean, and Captain Morgan, were shot glasses, cluttered in such a way as to suggest little use; after all, the fluorescent lights with which the room had been equipped hadn't needed to be flicked on yet. I think these kind of promiscuous gatherings begged for only two lighting options--either a dusky, lackluster natural light, or a harsh, palpable fluorecent bulb.

A couple of guys put on disgustingly banal hip hop, and started to dance with a couple of nondescript blondes. The carpet on which they danced was a stained ocre color, matted from years of various furniture arrangements and shoes not taken off at the foyer. The whole scene was disgusting; the dicking around just to get laid; the motions one had to deal with when, at this kickback, all the attendants were carnal and intemperate bastards--as I said: the dicking around. Fuck it, cynics always lose, and nothing ever comes out of analyzing the whole damned situation. Embrace the fucking hilarity of it all; use it, manipulate it, so that you can, too, get ass.

On the couch sat two cross-legged girls, not more than sixteen years of age. One had oily black hair and a tawdry white skirt that went down scarcely to her mid thigh; the other, red hair on a talcum white face, wore a sickly halter top that exposed a pierced navel. I could just imagine the redhead, ravaged by so many greasy men, curling smoke about her lips as she sat on a soiled bed in some guy's apartment, whom she had met only the night before--yes she had that air of debauchery about her. Anyone would have wanted to be one of those greasy men.

The girls--the pretty girls--weren't the kind to bat their eyes or--they weren't ladies, suffice to say, and that's enough to be said. They were just as crass and hedonistic as the boys, preferring martinis in wax paper Dixie cups. Though, they knew the game, and would give indignant lip if called a sullied whore, but they took great joy in the sport. Their hand was the goal, taut moisturized skin, gussied to empower them to capture the victor, whomever they chose. Not between the girls and boys, but amongst the girls, did the control exist. The boys--damned silly boys--were objects for their leisure and pleasure; they aped like fools, cavorting in something which they had little part. Pretty girls played with dicks like a symphony. Applying bow to string, they played and played and played played played--with taut moisturized skin, dark pretty freckles and moist glossy lips, they did play their boy marionettes. Lovely, lovely girls.

All ladies (and girls) hold spell over boys--they do. An alluring smile and a ruthless gusto cast it. Easy, easy boys.

From The Lonely Londoners, Sam Selvon

Also, for the old test who singing, it ain't have no thought at all about where this tanner come from, or who throw it, man, woman or child, it ain't make no difference. All he know is that a tanner fall in the road, and he had to watch it else it roll and get lost.

When you come to think of it, everything in life like that. Maybe afterwards if a friend go to that woman and say that the test is a lazy fellar and worthless, she wouldn't throw any more money if he pass up that street. Or if the fried say he is a poor old man having a hard time she will throw a bob the next time he pass.

From Burmese Days, George Orwell

"Is my hair very untidy?" she said.
"It's beautiful."
"But has it got untidy? Smooth it for me, would you, please?"

She fled the tin foil grips of her mother;
from the styrofoam and cellophane dinners.
First sporting couture and stiletto heels,
She took to high fashion and modern culture.
Her walk made the boys on the street anxious;
her urbane speech sweetened her kiss of class.

Sharp in all things aesthestic, she stood there
poised, with fingers straddling a cigarette,
shamelessly waiting for another dance.
All the boys were anxious at their tables;
dirty boys with crass tongues and greasy hair.
Unhanded, the boys left her, all askance.

She fucked selfishly, never heeding another,
but she didn't need to - her grace staggered;
her curves disarmed, and you were hers to use.
She never looked directly at your face,
preferring to keep her chin tilted so.
A match strike preceded a dismount, that bitch.

The allure of her wry smile never quit -
no, she didn't have an answering machine.

Our legs buckled, and like rag dolls, we collapsed upon the grassy slope, tumbling revolution after revolution; our laughter making sound spirals that drifted among the arbor leaves. With the greatest of passionate vigor, our helices caroused with the birds and the fruit, which, precariously swayed from the branches to which they held clung.

Our eyes agape, we rolled to a terminal stop - so bright was the sun above, but we didn't dare squint; every curve, every complexion, and every surface was kept alive by an argus-eyed stare.

I blinked first, and I'm sorry - the clouds then came, and the sun dimmed; the grass became bristly rough, and rent the pores of our skin; the fruit rotted quickly, and the birds asphyxiated under the stifling fumes. All grew dead. All grew quiet. And we both just laid there in tears.

We didn't know how fragile our world had become.

I sang out lyrics to classical music--to Mendelssohn, to Beethoven, to Schubert, to Tchaikovsky, to Vivaldi, to Bach, to Mozart, to Wagner, to Gershwin and to Chopin, and oh how it was so true.