why I must keep these pictures

There was a poem written for me on my comb; written very small with the nib of a pen used for mapping. And when we drifted in the punt, late, in the backwater, I combed my hair, and I was Orlando, I was not man nor girl, and I was Ariel, drifting between the worlds, and a poem in my hair.

I do not know why I must keep these pictures

small eyes, mad eyes that should have been starry               the lovely danger waiting beneath the lime tree             or faces cheating as they pass by, frozen for ever in their fraudulent smiles with the clocks striking an uncounted hour         masks

Why this one  ?  Or that  ?   How chosen   ?

Inexorable self, carried like the superfluous and tiresome piece of luggage, which it is impossible to lose ; franked with the customs’ stamp of every frontier, retrieved exasperatingly from the disaster where everything else is lost, companion of the dislocation of canceled sailings and missed connections, witness of every catastrophe, survivor of all voyages and situations . . . I

-Anna Kavan, Sleep has his house


~ by ironcupshrug on 02/23/2011.

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