tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61103117414476787022012-02-01T09:26:58.706+01:00Madeleine in the ShadeMinding the EyesMadeleinenoreply@blogger.comBlogger401100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-62189365952076206042010-09-03T05:14:00.001+02:002010-09-03T05:15:40.206+02:00On the StreetThere's a man with an hourglass figure
His sway natural, unaware of itself.
He's old and he wears old man's clothes.
Beige and brown, cinched with a belt.
He has a hat on. He brings his hand to it,
matting it down. On account of the wind,
that whistling wind - incessant.
He walks with his hand on his hatted head.
And he sways with the rays that light him.
He travels in a straight line.
ThatMadeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-24625277598632587982010-09-03T05:03:00.000+02:002010-09-03T05:03:03.824+02:00The CurveSo I try to remember that he does not exist any more.
With me.
So I try to recall that the feeling, the choking weight,
will always bear witness to the afterglow.
So I stand still and watch it all collide.
So I go insane and bite my own hand. But I still smile
that smile that means nothing and nothing smirks back.
There's a tear somewhere, ashamed of itself.Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-85553029631289110522009-07-14T08:08:00.004+02:002009-07-23T13:54:45.527+02:00RoadtripsI wish to tell you about road trips down country lanes, narrow ones, populated with sprinkling of flowers and people, over a lot, and I mean a lot, of greenery. Green hills rolling into one another, tightly clenched trees bristling, presiding over green fur. Crumbling cottages there are, seven-hundred-year-old structures some of them, and then a little up a ways, some new developments; lots with Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-29929474141229461622009-06-01T17:35:00.005+02:002009-06-06T23:44:42.244+02:00Ratty RantOn the walk back, he berates me for the star’s alignment. We open the door to an office that is untouched by time, straight into a time capsule of Soviet-era sameness with large shelves brimming with knickknacks, dusty manuals, frayed hardcover books of unknown content, potted plants on the sill, instant coffee accoutrement's accompanied by a dozen old-fashioned cups and saucers, the type you Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-30172093385424313732009-05-12T15:59:00.002+02:002009-05-12T16:03:06.921+02:00Some Time Ago - Now Here Again<!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]> <![endif]--> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-54802000688025549212009-02-10T17:07:00.002+01:002009-02-10T19:15:34.191+01:00Smudge<!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]> <![endif]--> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-8830157367754542182009-02-10T17:01:00.000+01:002009-02-10T17:02:50.562+01:00From Finger tips of Night Runs<!--[if gte mso 9]> Normal 0 false false false MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]> <![endif]--> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-73521931082575675292008-05-31T03:47:00.005+02:002008-06-04T13:23:24.065+02:00Moving Back InI've changed my mind, I'm allowed to do that, aren't I! I just can't part with Madeleine.Plus here is my chance to babble on...too appealing to pass up.I need a journal now. Fat dollops of change landing my way. Aways.Stay tuned, my fellow two readers or so. (Not that I'm counting.)Recently realised I was also keeping it off limits to everyone A late night mistake.Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-814358493147332762008-03-26T14:58:00.008+01:002008-05-31T03:57:26.415+02:00FoldsDreams lay in folds of my mother’s dress.She wore it day and night that summer.Stitched into her fabric, her fiber, I thought, confusing the two.Flowers bloomed on it while my dreams rested.Waiting to pounce at chances now come and gone.In that summer they remained burrowed, sleepy-eyed,safe-keeping all promise of the possibles.The horizon. My mother, she walked along that fur-linedpath going Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-24230256347300323022008-03-26T14:13:00.013+01:002008-05-31T03:57:52.834+02:00HouseworkThe house leaned to the side – a gothic, miniature version of itspopular cousin in Pisa. Concrete stairways flanked it on both sides,leading up and down dark pathways one could take withlegs on. The house was trying to grow those –feverishly aiming to escape its planted, boorish fate.It wiggled and twitched, contorting every which wayin its aspiration. It was getting there,thanks to the middle Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-63821485658911549532008-03-17T13:39:00.002+01:002008-03-27T14:04:45.598+01:00Jimmy WhiteAqueduct still wound up flanking bedroom,steaming soup down to his last rabbit suit.After dinner, creamed and sealedsunning in the Urals again.Resonant wind set him freetill knuckles called it in.Hijinks fossilized with a dot on the balcony,pathologyand credit cards forbronzed bonzos lucidly cooled.Thighs in the universal art unable to sputter,so stumble on floridnocturnal radio programset to Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-71304420063314547122008-03-05T17:57:00.008+01:002008-05-31T03:58:20.125+02:00CasualtiesA nippy, grey autumn day. Leaves fall and swirl off trees, dew dripping off the surface of some of them. Few people are scattered throughout the park. A grandmotherly type shuffles along a pathway tugging a small dog on a leash.She approaches and moves past a man sitting on a rusty park bench. As she passes, the man turns to regard the dog with an amused, kindly expression.He is Mikhael, in his Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-12934737480600174712008-03-03T10:46:00.008+01:002008-05-31T03:58:45.109+02:00Waking HoursSeeking rest from bony cobblestones we sit on a bench, taking note of the clumped clouds in front of us. He says, “It’s going to rain.”“Uh-huh,” I respond, on automatic. We both look at the passersby armed with umbrellas, not the type to throw caution to the wind.“I talk to myself too,” he says suddenly, in a leap from nowhere, “maybe not so freely, but I do.”Mmm…two people who talk to themselvesMadeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-3932908923341802682008-02-21T18:08:00.007+01:002008-05-31T03:59:59.348+02:00What Would Woody Do? (A Scene)A hotel Room. Night.A young couple, Daniel and Bianca let’s call them, lie naked in bed with a thin sheet over them. Sweaty and disheveled, they stare into space. Suddenly, he chuckles.BIANCA: What?DANIEL: Ah, y’know, like Woody says to Annie “this is the most fun I’ve had without laughing.”BIANCA: Or, “here goes another novel,” right?DANIEL (impressed): Hey, you remember! But actually the whole Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-78093500476009101142008-02-21T00:41:00.003+01:002008-05-31T03:59:09.558+02:00Foggy GlassesAs I skitter down my street, I wonder if he’ll come by tonight, that quasi-boyfriend of mine. Since this is Thursday, half a week since we last saw each other, and I now can clearly discern its half a week here, half a week off pattern – easy enough – I wonder if he’ll keep to it.I don’t know exactly how it got to being so, but he’s the only one who can call me, it being unthinkable that I shouldMadeleinenoreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-76622103253391920552008-02-14T10:31:00.009+01:002008-05-31T04:00:37.014+02:00MilkI love grazing against a cat on a mat.To hear the motor running,it starts my own.I love to be kissed awake by a buttery sun,to lie still in the wait as it melts me.I love the groove of my feet on the rocks,caved in sand, and splashed awake.I love to drink milk straight from the carton,head tipped all the way back for the trickles.I love to light candles at noon and shut offthe blinds, play Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-86366877220299100452008-02-10T11:49:00.006+01:002008-08-15T21:01:34.831+02:00Visiting HoursThe room was filled with the stench of poses. Curry and smoke outlined them in my studio apartment. Sitting on a sofa, looking out the window, was I. Through the closed window, a far from muffled thunder-struck Prague street vented its fury. Inside the studio the lights blinked, igniting the gazes of those within. In the middle of the room, corner left, hung what was supposedly an intriguing Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-13886506800971830162008-01-23T16:26:00.003+01:002008-05-31T04:05:52.220+02:00MatingThey meet at the metro platform. He looks good, light on his toes, a zany smile in his eyes. They kiss. Smack! like pre-teens in training for the real stuff. Hardly a Doisneau kiss, you know, the French kiss template of all French kisses: Oceanic. On the street, against indifferent human traffic, two lovers in a movement of passion, freeze in oblivion to everything else but the pressing heat Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-13105511746488563142008-01-23T15:24:00.003+01:002009-05-12T15:43:49.342+02:00ParadupeSomething happens along the way. It seeps into you and there you go, you become unctuous. Sticking to your toes, your stride, once bouncy, turns wobbly. You become aware of the pendulum mayhem of your arms; why can’t they stand still?; must they sway so much from side to side? You park them in your pockets but why bother, it only adds to the sketchy effect.It pervades the you that makes Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-87782902073302948872008-01-18T16:41:00.002+01:002008-05-31T04:06:43.134+02:00RAIN STINGWalking down the block, drizzle grazing against skin; in my cheeks most of all, it felt flushed but in a good way. Innocent play for rain. Ordinarily it would’ve irritated me, or at least remind me of what was to come. Irish rain is temperamental, predictably unpredictable. It can, in a matter of minutes, go from dewy caresses, all nice and coy, like it was then, to whipping fury, like Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-2424993913568570132008-01-04T17:25:00.002+01:002008-05-31T04:07:24.160+02:00Strung Irish She went to sleep. Euphemism it isn't, she just didn't wake up. She wasn't old or sick in the classic sense. He didn't like the blood marinade on the cucumber though it was tasteless, and she had done such a good job with the salad. People made him nervous when he wasn't drunk but by then they were farcical. BMWs and Mercedes had become the standard, spotted everywhere, to go with Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-87523430597529220752007-11-22T14:46:00.001+01:002008-05-31T04:08:32.971+02:00Slicing whole, bent arms, mouthing wordsTry at that knot.Unbending soul.So easy to hurt.Muffle self to dislodge self.I'm beginning to wonder, to really ask myself what is so wrong with just being me. In order to not offend, I must stifle self, more than I already do, diluted form that I already am. Foreigners are not supposed to speak for themselves. They're to stay mum and smiling, obsequious Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-55342068444026335002007-11-19T17:12:00.002+01:002008-05-31T04:09:06.918+02:00A Presence of AbsenceHe died. No longer here, he is. Gone, passed on. Passed on to where and how - with salt? Strange how he is more here than he was before. In my thoughts, he is here. I can see him, off to the side, every detail of him, no effort there. Last week, when he was here, he was not. Not with me. With me, he is here now, but only since not being here. Reminding me of those times when Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-46929741616997547902007-11-13T09:36:00.002+01:002008-05-31T04:10:42.679+02:00Dublin Days in ShadesWindows shut, chewed air musty by now as I seek extractions within these walls. A rectangle this room, sized three of me horizontally and just me and my double vertically. Pea green walls, brown suede-fake sheen cover on bed that takes up 3/4 of my would-be double and I, enjoined wooden wardrobe-desk combo on left standing tall, all the way up to the ceiling, and I remember IMadeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-542221620361598652007-11-09T11:34:00.001+01:002008-05-31T04:15:07.342+02:0019th Century FlirtThe indelibly intense man with the overactive saliva flashed me. He lives accross the street. I didn't hold it against him. Surely, he's stuck on the rosier stage of the pleasure principle. Don't want to remind him of what else is in store for him. So I waved. Not sure whether he liked that. He snuck back inside. Turning shy all of a sudden, are we?I found out his name. Then I Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-18828801022861291732007-09-27T08:59:00.001+02:002008-05-31T04:12:27.990+02:00Man is a useless passion, went Sartre.Buddhism amounts to much of the same.Desire as a thing-in-itself, no end,just a constant pushing towards.Striving, pulling, tugging, yanking- an essentially insatiable goading trickster.All this yearning for what?The something elses out there,foraging tantalizing ITs.Like a good salesman.How much for snow this year, I'd like to ask.No slush. Just the white Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-12466947721947103072007-09-26T16:55:00.001+02:002008-05-31T04:11:38.046+02:00The alternative lies in the humbling notion ofstanding still - contently, appreciatively, quietly;consolation in the fact that it could be worse.It could be worse.That saying always bristles my spine without fail.Of late, I often loathe writing. Walking along thatmuch-treaded road, battered with cliches,lugging along only to find walls upon walls within ready-made spillages spraying me stupid,Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-26103053596855952902007-09-19T02:44:00.002+02:002008-05-31T04:13:15.626+02:00Nightly Wrap on the Pillow EdgeStill night, dark, rumbles at intervals -the very guts of the house,its pit swooshing if she stays upthinking of falling asleep but all those clearingsthat open up won't let it while her pillowsturn into sandbags.So instead she concentrates, as an exercise,on that plump white duck shiny enough tohave a ballet named after it,but not too perfect - its rubbery work Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-60006784783814658602007-09-13T09:18:00.002+02:002008-05-31T04:19:11.057+02:00OLD AIRThey walked into the room. It was a room like any other only it wasn't any other room. An office with scattered papers, notes on clipboards in that harried way living, breathing offices have – only this one had been inhaling decades-old air. A mausoleum of a production office, suspended in time.Call sheets, actresses’ headshots, production stills, loads of paperwork – the unglamorous back Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-55449375208808504242007-09-10T14:18:00.002+02:002008-05-31T04:15:51.380+02:00An unruly head wishing for nothing else other than grasping at it uttered, again and again "Leave me alone, you blockheads."Mrs. Rawcab, his wife, with whom he'd spend the day, said she felt odd all of a sudden. The daily spin has come, she mused, tossing spider veins into air. She'd spent all that day pondering the past, a past that wasn't hers, that she'd dreamt up, but still she couldn't get Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-91761384733582608432007-08-13T16:22:00.003+02:002008-05-31T04:17:19.283+02:00After some time she spokeNot of what I wanted to hear but what she could no longer suppress. When reality intrudes on sailing off of stone, she falls back on her chair, without the crash but the whimper lingers longer anyway. And never quite goes away. But comes back at intervals when she’s playing songs that remind her of a home which has never quite been, though the illusion has still lodged Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-50685837150902096312007-08-13T13:13:00.002+02:002008-05-31T04:22:59.344+02:00The Song of SamHe who was named Sam said sorry.She looked astray, inviting naughty.He sat down; she sat up."Why are you here, Sam?"Because I knew not what to do.So it seemed like a good idea - butmaybe not from the look of you.Still, here I am.With you.Now.Smile.Not too much, just a smudge.Bite your lip, but don't bleed.Chew the tip off that straw...just the way I like it.Look like you want to, Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-48317252693807870512007-08-07T09:06:00.002+02:002008-05-31T04:20:31.989+02:00Balalaika Balalaika Itch, his real name too obtuse for mention, although it was really of Russian extraction, quickly caught on to their ruse. He preempted the onslaught, or 'deluge of Aphrodite' as she would call it, before they'd sat down next to him, just like that, with a smile and a tray of goodies, three beers having joined the shots.He decided he'd be a certain way. As neither of them Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-76641321465969788182007-08-02T11:57:00.002+02:002008-05-31T04:23:52.128+02:00Interlude SoupIf all out kitsch is your nicheBlink to me and we'll switchSing to me, beeLeave the owl aloneA gipsy's tear is all you needJust don't be angry it's not to be for youChew your hips, vermilionSpeak in tongues tangled in oneLet me climb your tresses, MedusaLeave Rapunzel aloneMind your fury, curryDent my midnight soupGnarl my curl, surrenderJust don't spout me at two. Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-85606960622272031572007-07-12T10:51:00.007+02:002008-05-31T04:18:33.551+02:00Czech WindowsIn the summer, workers dug the road - vrrrrrrrrr - early in the morning, stopping for a bit at noon. They’d crater the whole street in a week, including the sidewalk. Improvements, we were told. By the end of the week, you’d be making your way in the hole, the large coffin of your street hole, if one was so inclined to see it that way. And I was.The men, in their green/blue cotton scrubs, similarMadeleinenoreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-44031265461564874982007-07-12T10:35:00.002+02:002009-06-20T12:13:59.999+02:00What the Rhizome Calls Home - Part I (Rubens Maia illustration)When strangers ask me where I’m from, I tend to cringe. In that split-second, my tongue turns into a spring mattress in bad need of oiling, creaking out with the strain of a lie in the ready for the answer. In revolt, even my voice cracks along at the summons. It reverberates like a lie through my senses even though I’m not, in what Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-75624514943280537912007-07-10T17:14:00.001+02:002008-05-31T04:21:32.735+02:00Laura has had it. She can no longer withstand her own shadow. Variegated selves to hide self from herself. She buys a hat. The hat shuns her. It would rather stand alone - it feels sullied by sheer association. She says she is autistic, but autistics want nothing to do with her. They tell her to contact the schizophrenics. But they're not interested. Besides, they have more illustrious members toMadeleinenoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-32454946358136439662007-06-15T21:52:00.001+02:002008-05-31T04:22:18.809+02:00What the Rhizome Calls Home - Part IWhen strangers ask me where I’m from, I tend to cringe. In that split-second, my tongue turns into a spring mattress in bad need of oiling, creaking out with the strain of a lie in the ready for the answer. In revolt, even my voice cracks along at the summons. It reverberates like a lie through my senses even though I’m not, in what constitutes a genuine lie, lying at all. Still, despite of my Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-9168430325054161112007-06-04T15:53:00.002+02:002008-05-31T04:26:00.278+02:00DoorsThe doors were open, front and back.So I walked in, finding it full with no one in sight.With both kinds of life – the alive and otherwise.Should I be here? Will I be caught? I asked myself.An old man lived there; I just knew it, I did.It smelled of him, in that way of old skin.In a red silk robe over pajamas.Lots of brass and class - grown-into .I could see him if I didn’t look –off to the Madeleinenoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6110311741447678702.post-34939204436230912952007-02-07T08:42:00.002+01:002008-05-31T04:24:40.056+02:00Three GirlsThree girls, and a goldfishThree girls, and a brotherThree girls, and a man came into viewThree girls, and a zitThree girls, and a titThree girls in perilThree girls jealousThree girls running,and saving the fellowThree girls, in a vintage bowlThree girls, in the bewitching knowThree girls disappearingThree girls swimmingThree girls squeaking and squealingThree girls spillingThree Madeleinenoreply@blogger.com2