Apparatus apparatus stories

_luna_ ˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙˙ǝɯıʇ ʞɔɐq uɹnʇ plnoɔ ǝʍ ɥsıʍ
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From where I sit, I can see other things: a silver porcupine, pins


From where I sit, I can see other

things: a silver porcupine, pins

standing upright. It is a vanished tale of a

vanished forest at the shore of a vanished ocean.

I call the dead as often as I can. In the

vaults, among mummies—this is pure

memorial. I am the girl in whose

eyes the name is written.

I feel as if veiled, as if soon I

shall get to know something. These are people

with encephalitis who cannot go

forward, but can go backward, and can dance.

In this rough draft of my memoirs, my brother

comes toward me—frightened, skeletal—longing

for marvels. I cannot describe it better than by

comparing it to other figures, intoxication.

Mere reflexes, as for instance breathing, can become

conscious. One of two rivals has his

ornamental tail bit off. In dying sounds, barely

reaching our ears, a melody continues.

No end to it—an infinite progression. All this

love of a bygone age. Watch the track

of a concentrated sunbeam through our lake ice:

part of the beam is stopped, part goes through.

Now the upper surface buckles, phantasmagoria of

unchained passion—under which the land

quakes, the ocean swells, and a myriad-years-

old forest snaps and cracks.

Surpassing all forms of experience, the wide, deep,

freshwater lake—on which the city

is built—rises before us. Here a modern idea

interposes, a new body made from the elements.

Then everything is forgotten. Sometimes thoughts

are cut off and sometimes they are the

blade which cuts. At the present gravel pit, electric

lights in the evening cast their magic blue sheen.

There's the sun, a crack above those

hills, breaking the day. If the door open, who

comes in? If it close, what will interrupt

my train?

The staircase effect supplies strong evidence

for a subjective map. Downhill, the sun

trickles, unperturbed. Here trots a mammoth with

red wool, through the black yew forest.

The tendency of elements to linger on: You say

I dream of what I want, but what I

want now is to dream. The cold rind

broken, the same wind blows.

Through a lens of ice, the dark

heat of the sun burns wood, fires gunpowder, melts

lead. Perhaps a cloud of musk rises, such as

issues from a crocodile in passion.

Unless light falls properly upon these

flowers, you cannot see them. All associations at

this level rain down from above. We

talk of word-pictures.

We observe vertigo. We reach the cleft

by a steep gully or couloir—very dangerous, the

path from the heights, the glory of

the prospect, the insight gained.

What I mean is a disturbance in

all the senses at once. You will not find

the flower confused. Facing a certain

wind, there is always danger.

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