Quicquid amas es

Niente sumero: scherzavo (vd. infra).

 

Questi signori:

 

 

si configurano per ora come la cosa più adatta da ascoltare ‘in the furthest hours of the deep dark night‘ (cit.), soprattutto mentre scrivi. (E quando, a prescindere dalla colonna sonora, scrivi cose che comprendono le parole ‘chirottero’, ‘intercalare’ e ‘Minosse’, capisci – per parafrasare la sentenza di Barbey d’Aurevilly davanti ad À rebours – che ti rimangono solo due opzioni, l’accademia di Svezia o la camicia di forza).

A domani – to the furthest hours of the fresh bright morning – spassionati commenti sul fenotipo dei bravissimi Dirty Three. In accadico, chiaramente.

Dreamtime

I used to have such sweet dreams / now it’s more like an air raid

1. I’m on a boat when a killer whale jumps on board to have a cup of coffee. Then it starts talking to us.

2. I’m looking up the biographical article for Arthur Rimbaud on an updated edition of the Suda. And here it is, in its glorious Byzantine Greek.

3. I’m going to an orgy with Uncle Scrooge… oh, wait, that’s too crazy, I must be dreaming. I wake up and go tell Ernest Hemingway about the dream I just had. – Oh yeah – he replies, not perplexed at all – quite a coincidence. I’ve just written a short story with him as the main character.

And that’s just the kind of dreams I have when I have not been drinking skittles and vodka.

I’m starting this, uhm, bloggy looking thing in the hope that it will give the Reader such a kind of dreams. (No, really. I’m not wishing you nightmares. They’re wonderful dreams. In fact, I wish I had dreams like these more often.)

(By the way, why am I writing this in English? I’ve just told WordPress that I will be blogging in Italian. I must be confused. Watch out, next post might just as well be in Sumerian.)

Odilon Redon, 'Les yeux clos' (1890)