A Mirror To Confess IX Tempi

TEMPI

- Sure, they tell me that I behave differently with each new meeting and new multilogue.  I don't really acknowledge it myself.  It's hot, and I woke up to a new day.  One of my blue-eyed friends tells me that I am as if newly born every time.  Actually, I don't feel that way.  It seems to me that there are only five or six stable and controlled variations.  I myself call it tempi.

 Heatwaves hit the ground today, spraying rain from the edge of the field to the tired snail body of thatched hill.  My niche metamorphoseon today prognostically points with its rosewood finger-point to a recession.  And I'm not distracted by bursts of speech.  I see a moment in the way a nonchalant cook sees an awkward collapse, followed by whitely scatterings of flour.

 Today the sun is slow.  And so is my tempo. Today the sun is a balloon, and you are tied to it with thin bronzed threads. So, today it's French: its duration will be  long. It moves slowly with its inflated emptiness and pretends (not quite diligently) to gaze upon roundish gazebo of its cosmic backyard.

 Almost the entire current of contemporary literature is confessional in nature;  and this is almost a truism.  We write to nowhere; to the postal service of Erewhon - long ago defuncted; enter into a conversation with Nothing that allegedly understands everything.  Reflecting ourselves, being both the frame and the changing image itself.

 I do not answer correspondence, I don't embellish my translations. Slowness in my case coincides with a mode of perennialism, so I misquote over the late morning salad the revealing remarks of Callicles and the accusatory exclamations of Timon of Athens. These are essentially irate remarks, but I get it in a detached way - it almost lull me; its furor is really brief in my instance. Cool: as unstirred cocoa cools down: clumpy microcosms.  Have I also reached the state of non-digestibility?

 Something is still happening in the jealous nature outside: the manic rain has made its way back, the hail of sublime anger can not be restrained, failing to rattle the necklace of fences under the porch canopy, while the transient marble elephant crushes and breaks bushes; regrets and sits and cries; and wooden wings are hidden by a lacquered bee. The fake golden bee over my silently locked and serene door.

by Ed. Labintzeff