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mercoledì 18 giugno 2014

Les yeux de Heidegger (hommage à Jacques Derrida)

Martin Heidegger eyes/ Bette Davis eyes

"To women, Heidegger was mesmerizing. He 
had the looks of the era, a sort of combination
of Leslie Howard and James Mason. His allure
was partly sinister, perhaps the erotic draw 
of a tyrant. In contrast, his philosophy was 
romantic, enchanting, and this combination 
of mystery and power made him irresistible 
to both male and female students alike. In an
echo of the Renaissance painter from his 
childhood home, ‘the Master of Messkirch’, 
Heidegger became knownas ‘the magician 
of Messkirch’, and one female student was 
possibly so enthralled by his enigmatic charisma
that she took her own life." (Y.Sherratt)

Bette Davis Eyes, Kim Carnes, 1981

Her hair is Harlow gold
Her lips sweet surprise
Her hands are never cold
She's got Bette Davis eyes

She'll turn the music on you
You won't have to think twice
She's pure as New York snow
She's got Bette Davis eyes

And she'll tease you
She'll unease you
All the better just to please you
She's precocious and she knows just what it takes to make a pro blush
She's got Greta Garbo stand-off sighs
She's got Bette Davis eyes

She'll let you take her home (it whets her appetite)
She'll lay you on the throne
She's got Bette Davis eyes

She'll take a tumble on you
Roll you like you were dice until you come up blue
She's got Bette Davis eyes

She'll expose you when she snows you off your feet with the crumbs she throws you
She's ferocious and she knows just what it takes to make a pro blush
All the boys think she's a spy
She's got Bette Davis eyes

And she'll tease you
She'll unease you
All the better just to please you
She's precocious and she knows just what it takes to make a pro blush
All the boys think she's a spy
She's got Bette Davis eyes

She'll tease you
She'll unease you
Just to please you
She's got Bette Davis eyes

She'll expose you
When she snows you
She knows you
She's got Bette Davis eyes

martedì 10 giugno 2014

“Tell frank u gave him the wrong no. ill text back like im in a gang bruv” she wrote- [Will Miller, 'Escaping the Heat', 2013]

Chapter 2: Vukovar

“hi, how r u? frank”

Repositioning her phone on the kitchen table, Lorelei read the words from an unknown number, but she knew who it was. A probable fourth-hand Nokia her mother gave her, the text was blockish. It was dated technology, when everyone else, even the new refugees at her school, messaged through Facebook and Twitter using touchscreens. Old school.

“who gave frank my no?” she typed, sending it to a group called “ptsd,” then dunked a spoon once more into her cereal. It would be dangerous to be associated with Frank. She didn’t want him sniffing around. Not that Frank “sniffed”, technically speaking. He just tried too hard. Much too hard by Lyme Road standards.

";-) minus 3 minus 3 minus 3" replied Patasa, one of the girls from her post traumatic stress disorder group.

Frank sometimes helped out in the science laboratory where he looked after the pet rabbits, cleaning out their cages and sorting out the mothers and their endless litters. He knew everything about rabbits. That was only partly why he was called “Bunny.” It was also because he was white, and because he helped the teachers. A gem: easily fooled.

A new text message from Frank tinkled on her phone. “im an astronomer with a big telescope and i see an angel” 


“r u mad?” she replied to Patasa’s text. “why?”

“hes lovely”

“u have him” Patasa was having her on, right?

Lorelei stopped reading when her mother appeared in the doorway, a black silk dressing gown wrapped round her slim figure. She brushed a hank of brunette hair from her wan, sleepy face and gazed at her daughter as though uncertain of what to say. There were days when she never saw her mother, or only as a sleeping form in a bed in the main room opposite the kitchen. The sleep of the dead. Lorelei saw the tremor in her mother’s hand.

“What are you doing up?” Lorelei slouched over the kitchen table, a spoonful of cereal held in mid-air, droplets of milk falling into a bowl. Her straight blonde hair was held back in a ponytail that reached halfway down a navy blue tracksuit top, her preferred school attire. The white ear-bud wires drooped over her shoulders were plugged into the Nokia on the table. She had skin that always looked slightly tanned, even in the London autumn, and the contrast with her almost white hair gave her the look of a human palomino.

Under thick, dark hair, her mother’s pale blue eyes narrowed.

“Good morning to you, too.” Her voice had an Eastern European accent even after fifteen years in London. She told people she came from Bosnia, but Lorelei was no longer sure that was true. Who knew what was true about her?

Lorelei had inherited her aquamarine eyes, but not her thick hair, which almost floated about her shoulders. And Lorelei didn’t quite have her mother’s wide smile, so rarely seen anymore, or that pale, porcelain skin. Too perfect skin. She was a cocktail waitress at one of the London gentlemen’s clubs, the social venues for the rich, famous or powerful. So she claimed. Yet she didn’t have a uniform, and what waitress was driven to and from work by a minder who whispered Albanian expletives as he plodded down the stairwell? Lorelei sometimes heard him if she left her window open at night. And how is it such a beautiful waitress never had a boyfriend? At least, not since Lorelei’s father. But these were not questions she could ask. She couldn’t ask her mother anything.

“tell frank u gave him the wrong no. ill text back like im in a gang bruv” she wrote.


he is a very good friend of mine (be this important or not)

martedì 3 giugno 2014

Emily Dickinson: "Ourselves were wed one summer—dear—"

Ourselves were wed one summer—dear—
Your Vision—was in June—
And when Your little Lifetime failed,
I wearied—too—of mine—

And overtaken in the Dark—
Where You had put me down—
By Some one carrying a Light—
I—too—received the Sign.

'Tis true—Our Futures different lay—
Your Cottage—faced the sun—
While Oceans—and the North must be—
On every side of mine

'Tis true, Your Garden led the Bloom,
For mine—in Frosts—was sown—
And yet, one Summer, we were Queens—
But You—were crowned in June—

Emily Dickinson.