somewhere on the other side of this wide night
and the distance between us, i am thinking of you
the room is turning slowly away from the moon

this is pleasurable. or shall i cross that out and say
it is sad? in one of the tenses i singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear

la la la la. see? i close my eyes and imagine the dark hills i would have to cross
to reach you. for i am in love with you

and this is what it is like or what it is like in words

two, of course there are two
it seems perfectly natural now --
the one who never looks up, whose eyes are lidded
and balled like blake's
who exhibits

the birthmarks that are his trademark --
the scald scar of water
the nude
verdigris of the condor
i am red meat. his beak

claps sidewise: i am not his yet
he tells me how badly i photograph
he tells me how sweet
the babies look in their hospital
icebox, a simple

frill at the neck
then the flutings of their Ionian
death-gowns
then two little feet
he does not smile or smoke

the other does that
his hair long and plausive
bastard
masturbating a glitter
He wants to be loved.

i do not stir
the frost makes a flower
the dew makes a star
the dead bell
the dead bell

somebody's done for

[death & co. - sylvia plath]

what's to be done to forgive, to be forgiven? we need forgiveness. every day. every day we need forgiveness. every day we need to be forgiven and to forgive. we are guilty of all the faults in the world. what's to be done when instead of forgiveness there is, in general, repression or avoidance? i don't know. it seems to me that we'd have to find a forgiveness beyond forgiving. a forgiveness that is neutral, absolute, unexpressed. advance forgiveness. forgiveness afterwards is already much more difficult to express. so, advance forgiveness, yes. (cixous, 39, "in october 1991...")

helene cixous is truly my inspiration.

stigmata is the lovely collections of her essays. i can't stop reading her sharp opinions about joyce, derrida, lispector, dostoevsky, pushkin, tsvetaeva (the most amazing poet from russia), rembrandt and da vinci.

her writings really opened my mind. how important to write my body as a woman. my body is mine. to dare what i don't dare. to refuse the censorship of the body because you censor breath and speech at the same time. unfortunately, it already happened to our local female writers. people used to hate them because they wrote about women's sexuality openly. people used to hate them because they brought domestic stuffs to writing. people used to hate them because they put themselves (womanhood/sexuality/the discourse of sexuality) into the text.

there's also a quote that makes me love her even more: "writing is for you, you are for you; your body is yours, take it" very true, right? writings are more on words from heart than the brain. there is sensitivity. there are more personal experiences. and it is called l'ecriture feminine.

cixous writes any writings to herself. she doesn't think much about the readers. writing is all about her words, her sentences, her passion. i wanna be like cixous. she used her own experience as a woman in her writings. she listened to her own body. she rethought old truths. she made love to her texts. she gave a name to 'writing'.

cixous also changed my thoughts about motherhood (motherhood is hard, admit it!) and nudity in rembrandt's powerful painting, batsheba bathing. i must say, she's definitely one of the greatest intellectuals i have ever known.

read it. it is really inspiring. in short: a treasure!

Уже второй. Должно быть, ты легла
В ночи Млечпуть серебряной Окою
Я не спешу, и молниями телеграмм
мне незачем тебя будить и беспокоить
Как говорят, инцидент исперчен
Любовная лодка разбилась о быт
С тобой мы в расчете. И не к чему перечень
взаимных болей, бед и обид
Ты посмотри, какая в мире тишь
Ночь обложила небо звездной данью
В такие вот часы встаешь и говоришь
векам, истории и мирозданью

.

past one o’clock. you’re probably in bed
the milky way streams like the silver oka
i won’t send wild telegrams. i don’t intend
to trouble you and vex you any longer
and now, as people say, our case is closed
the boat of love could not endure the grind
we’re even now. and there is no remorse
let’s not bring up the sorrows left behind
behold what hush has fallen on the ground
the starry night is grandiose and spacious
at times as these, you rise and speak aloud
to ages, histories and all creation

vladimir mayakovsky 1930
translation from russian © andrey kneller

[image taken from masters-of-photography.com]

Не думаю, не жалуюсь, не спорю.
Не сплю.
Не рвусь
ни к солнцу, ни к луне, ни к морю,
Ни к кораблю.

Не чувствую, как в этих стенах жарко,
Как зелено в саду.
Давно желанного и жданного подарка
Не жду.

Не радует ни утро, ни трамвая
Звенящий бег.
Живу, не видя дня, позабывая
Число и век.

На, кажется, надрезанном канате
Я - маленький плясун.
Я - тень от чьей-то тени. Я - лунатик
Двух темных лун

1914

***

I do not think, or argue, or complain.
Or sleep.
I long for neither sun, nor moon, nor sea.
Nor ship.

I do not feel the heat amidst these walls,
Nor garden’s green,
Nor do I long for your desired gift,
Foreseen.

Neither the morning gladdens nor the trolley’s
Ring-singing run.
I live, forgetting date and age
And daylight sun.

I am – a dancer on a tightrope slashed
And hewn.
I am – a shadow’s shadow: lunatic
Of two dark moons.

***

Летят они, - написанные наспех,
Горячие от горечи и нег.
Между любовью и любовью рaспят
Мой миг, мой час, мой день, мой год, мой век.
И слышу я, что где-то в мире - грозы,
Что амазонок копья блещут вновь…
А я - пера не удержу! Две розы
Сердечную мне высосали кровь.

1916

***

They fly – quick-wrought and quickly written,
Still hot from all the bitterness and bliss.
My moment, hour, day, year, lifetime – smitten,
Twixt love and love lie on the crucifix.

And I hear word of thunderstorms a-rising;
Spears, Amazonian, again flash through the sky…
Yet cannot hold my pen back! These two roses
Have sucked my heart’s blood dry.


Translation from Russian © Ekaterina Rogalsky

i always love dostoevsky and his incredible thoughts. dostoevsky's novels often feature characters living in poor conditions with disparate and extreme states of mind, and explore human psychology. i love that kind of topic.

the novel, written in 1864, reflects the changes in dostoevsky's thought that had occurred as a result of recent events in his life. as a result of his liberal political leanings, dostoevsky was sentenced to death along with a group of liberals in 1849.

part one: the first part presents us with the psychology and the ideas of the novel's protagonist. the narrator of the novel (the underground man) introduces himself to us. he says that he is a sick man and a spiteful man. he was a civil servant and tortured petitioners who came to see him. almost instantly, however, he reverses his position, claiming instead that he is not at all spiteful but merely wanted to be. he could never become spiteful or anything else because his nature did not allow him to have any character. only men of action who are not intelligent can have any kind of character.

part two: the underground man spent a lot of time fantasizing and dreamed of embracing all of humanity. when his fantasies got too intense, he needed to go out and visit someone. his one lasting acquaintance only saw visitors on tuesday, so the underground man decided to visit an old schoolmate, simonov. when he arrived, simonov and two other old schoolmates were planning a dinner party for another schoolmate, zverkov. though he did not like any of his former schoolmates and he did not like them, the underground man invited himself to the dinner party. the underground man then went home and recalled his years at school. he hated his peers and they hated him, so he earned good grades in order to dominate them. he only had one friend, whom he dominated and then despised.

aku akan tidur di remang matamu
sampai kau lelap dalam ombak dan deru
saat ombak surut dan waktu terbungkus kabut,
mimpi baru setengah jadi. "ayo melaut lagi!"
melautlah lagi. aku sedang mati

(aku tidur di remang tubuhmu, 2004)

roald dahl & matilda = fascinating!

budi darma, yes, i have to admit i had a huge crush on him. the dark humor, the sadness, the subtlety. i can't help it.