75 lines
4.5 KiB
Plaintext
75 lines
4.5 KiB
Plaintext
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ooooo ooooo .oooooo. oooooooooooo HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #777
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`888' `888' d8P' `Y8b `888' `8
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888 888 888 888 888 "May and the Past"
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888ooooo888 888 888 888oooo8
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888 888 888 888 888 " by Viledandy
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888 888 `88b d88' 888 o 8/2/99
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o888o o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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After she had gone, I pondered all she was evidently keeping from me.
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The information I had received from her was insufficient for me to do more
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than subject it to the broadest and most superficial analysis. The
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information I had received from her, meagre, banal, threadbare, misleading
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or, where precise, outlandish, did me in fact precious little damn bloody
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good. She was on a train, she said, leaving the Gare de Lyon; dozens of
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lines crossed; an exquisite arrangement of train upon train, undoubtedly
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bound for the Cote d'Azur, cheek to cheek with her own, and in the azure
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window (sunset, or dawn, scattered upon the pane) the darkhaired, darkeyed
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boy she had known, and loved, when a girl, long gone, long last seen,
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dancing so lightly in her young arms, amid flowering plants. It was love at
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second sight, confirmed, tattoed between them on golden windows (a moment
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when dawn and sunset glided together in summer) his eyes his hair so lost in
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shocking seconds graze of light on departing Paris gone. But that cannot be
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all. She has left me to ponder all she has kept from me.
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Saw May again. What rubbish. Why do I go there? Up her old stairs,
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the long wait for the door to open, the door opens, always the hesitation,
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oh hello, door kept ajar, oh hello, oh it's you, what a surprise, thought it
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was Matthew, come in. We go in, we stand, thought it might be Matthew, you
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can never tell when he might drop by, sit down, sit, sit, tell me, for God's
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sake, all that is momentous in your life.
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I tell her this: I am very happy in my house in the city and my life
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as an artist. I enjoy taking long walks by the side of the river, on either
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side, north or south, depending on my mood, the conditions, the time of day.
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It is autumn. The life of the city delights me, the life that bleeds
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through the smog. In the park I see boys fishing. They often fish with
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their fathers. There is no end to the cars. They disappear across Waterloo
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upstream in a long wake. So easeful their progress, wide their wake of
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light and noise. There is no scar on my landscape. I gain no pleasure
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whatsoever from my journeys elsewhere, apart from seeing my oldest friend,
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you. I remain so closely interested in you. I think of you late at night.
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I imagine you sitting amid your candles and lilies, keeping your solitary
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wake. No candle I know holds a candle to your candles.
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I think that I might write of you, make you the central figure of a
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modest novella; modest since I doubt I could ever fully capture the heart of
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your character, never precisely catch you within my noose, so to speak. I
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see you only in the shuddering of candles, an old woman, one who had never
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known girlhood, or other distinctions of light. My respect for you rests in
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the fact that you do not waver, that your patience does not waver, since,
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your life rapidly failing, you sit in your room paying unwavering attention
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to the Matthew of your wavering candles. My contempt for you follows from
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this. My contempt for you rests in the fact that you wait only for Matthew
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to enter, wait only for the collision of you with his bouncing flamboyant
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bellbottomed bottom, the collision that will be the end of you.
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She responds: Tell me more about the train incident.
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What train incident?
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The incident which contained a darkhaired darkeyed boy, in a train
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leaving Paris, in a window, passing. A dawning sunset. You both had loved,
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years before. He looked at you, through grazing light. You saw. He had
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not forgotten you. When you had last seen him he cried, you touched his
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wrist, he buried his head, you withdrew your hand. All this took place
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miles away, long before you embarked on your trip to this room.
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Can I for much longer tolerate the insults to which she subjects me?
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[ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS! HOE #777 - WRITTEN BY: VILEDANDY - 8/2/99 ]
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