I hate opening the gate myself to park the car. I want an automatic one. What I hate more is having to go back and forth a couple of times before entering my gate because one neighbor parks his truck on the other side of the street and the other one parks his car in front of my house and the garage entrance is very narrow. I really hate it. I curse them in my head over and over again during the entire process. At least, they are silent now.

She is home late again. She takes the basil she stole from her aunt’s backyard and goes for the dead flower pot she put in the laundry. It is all withered from the few hours in the car’s cupholder. She tries to take the dead plant out, but the roots are all tangled with the dirt and, to save some time and some cleaning up afterwards, she only cuts the stems, opens a hole in the dirt and puts the basil with a too small root in there, like a person would do when he or she has to tell off a kid without actually wanting to. “There, it’s done. Hope this damn thing grows. How can I treat it so badly and expect it to grow?” The strange certainty that the plant has to have its head up passes through her mind, and, for lack of better object, an empty plastic bottle is used to put it in the correct position.

I stop the car at the gas station to fill the tank. There’s almost half a tank yet, but I want to. The guy in the red car parallel to mine stares at me for a second. He is middle aged, going bald. Easy target. Very easy target. I don’t even have to dress up for this. I look down and check myself: a simple top and jeans would do the trick, amazing. I pretend I don’t know I am attractive, or do I really only know it in such moments? I was turned sideways to check the pump, but with the corner of my eye, I see a man checking his motorcycle tires. He is partly hidden by a car parked right in front of me, he is a few meters ahead. For one entire minute, I watch his moves, I try to see his face, like a peekaboo game, where the excitement of me being wrong was mixed with the disquieting perception that this hair, this neck were all too familiar. I pay the gas and look again, this time, without obstructions. I have never seen this man in my life. I sigh in relief – even the attendant notices – enter the car, roll down the windows, start the engine and ride away. There isn’t much traffic, it is late at night on a holiday, why would he even be here in this city anyway? As the car turns right on the last curve before exiting the avenue, comes a deeper, longer sigh.

 

Roughly translating: “Suddenly, a little window opens unexpectedly in a soul, we peek into it, even without wanting to, and what we see surprises us, giving us a different view of this being. How can one “judge” (paranoid verb which should be replaced by “understand”, more Christian) a man by the façade of the “house of his being”, or by words that he pronounces in the everyday imperfect language of men? I remembered when an old horseman told me one day: “Look, young man, nobody is what they seem. Not even God”.

Cold                    Fear

Relief                  Lost

Fair                      Agony

As I wait for you to come

I think of all the faces I have given you

All the names I have called you

Come or not

Death                Wishes

Warm                Lonesome

Erase                  Sex

Biblioklept

There is nothing sacred about literature, it is damned from one end to the other. There is nothing in literature but change and change is mockery. I’ll write whatever I damn please, whenever I damn please and as I damn please and it’ll be good if the authentic spirit of change is on it.

From Kora in Hell: Improvisations by William Carlos Williams.

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Biblioklept

“The Storm”

by

Kate Chopin

I

The leaves were so still that even Bibi thought it was going to rain. Bobint, who was accustomed to converse on terms of perfect equality with his little son, called the child’s attention to certain sombre clouds that were rolling with sinister intention from the west, accompanied by a sullen, threatening roar. They were at Friedheimer’s store and decided to remain there till the storm had passed. They sat within the door on two empty kegs. Bibi was four years old and looked very wise.

“Mama’ll be ‘fraid, yes, he suggested with blinking eyes.

“She’ll shut the house. Maybe she got Sylvie helpin’ her this evenin’,” Bobint responded reassuringly.

“No; she ent got Sylvie. Sylvie was helpin’ her yistiday,’ piped Bibi.

Bobint arose and going across to the counter purchased a can of shrimps, of which Calixta was very fond. Then he retumed to…

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Biblioklept

Literature is a point outside of our hodiernal circle through which a new one may be described. The use of literature is to afford us a platform whence we may command a view of our present life, a purchase by which we may move it. We fill ourselves with ancient learning, install ourselves the best we can in Greek, in Punic, in Roman houses, only that we may wiselier see French, English and American houses and modes of living. In like manner we see literature best from the midst of wild nature, or from the din of affairs, or from a high religion. The field cannot be well seen from within the field. The astronomer must have his diameter of the earth’s orbit as a base to find the parallax of any star.

Therefore we value the poet. All the argument and all the wisdom is not in the encyclopaedia…

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