Saturday evening (April 23rd). I'm listening to Medúlla on my radio. I hadn't listened to Björk for weeks... I'm feeling somehow, I don't know why, a little "dark". I leave home at about 8 p.m. I decide to go and buy some caprice: some pu-erh and soy sauce (artificial substitute of bygone emotional memories).
I get into the poshest department store in the city. It's always crowded of posh and pretenders. Money, money, money...
I pass across the books section. Pretty shitty and commercial (of course...). There's a lot of people there, it's The Book Day, and they pretend they're interested in reading and literature, but where are they normally? I go downstairs to the supermarket and buy my worshipped posh things.
Then I leave the building. There's even a stand with books outside. It's funny, because if you wanted to, you could easily get a book for free. LOL!
I go to the wood. I get into the thick wood. There's no one over there. The skies are gray and blue, charged with menacing clouds.
Little by little, the realm of darkness falls on me as the night comes and light starts fading. It's so beautiful; darkness, shades, and still.
Monday 25. I submerge once more in the realm of darkness. We're analysing Edgar Allan Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher.
"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door."
'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door;
Only this, and nothing more."
Bernie Wrightson, 1948-2017
1 week ago