benzy: May 2014

31.5.14

On Youth

"Fucking youth, he said. Goddamn fucking youth."

— Roberto Bolaño | 2666, The Part About Archimboldi

Literature, Masterpieces & Minor Work.

"I was a writer, I was a writer, but my indolent, voracious brain gnawed at my own entrails. Vulture of my Prometheus self or Prometheus of my vulture self, one day I understood that I might go so far as to publish excellent articles in magazines and newspapers, and even books that weren’t unworthy of the paper on which they were printed. But I also understood that I would never manage to create anything like a masterpiece. You may say that literature doesn’t consist solely of masterpieces, but rather is populated by so-called minor works. I believed that, too. Literature is a vast forest and the masterpieces are the lakes, the towering trees or strange trees, the lovely, eloquent flowers, the hidden caves, but a forest is also made up of ordinary trees, patches of grass, puddles, clinging vines, mushrooms, and little wild-flowers. I was wrong. There’s actually no such thing as a minor work."

— Roberto Bolaño | 2666, The Part About Archimboldi

Good Evening, Sputnik Sweetheart

And so I held up Sputnik Sweetheart up against the sunset just before the thunderstorm.

I guess this is what nostalgia looks like.

Rhinoceros

A doodle I made during one of my french drama classes.

An interpretation of Eugene Ionesco's Rhinoceros.

30.5.14

I Will. I Must.

One day I shall write a great book so high and wild
I will never have to write another word ever again.
It will be elegant in prose and sheer in magnitude.
It will start with nothing and end with nothing.

28.5.14

Everything Ends (Painfully)

In time my clothes will turn to rags and I will be naked.
One day I will drown and I will be free.

25.5.14

A (Faux) Letter To An Old Friend

"Oh, you are really such a pretty one.

I see you've gone and changed your name again."

— Leonard Cohen

My nights have been restless. It is not your fault. It is half the weather and half my memory. I don't know if my last letter ever reached you. I included a couple of postcards as well. On the back of one of them I wrote "have a beautiful summer." That was two months ago. Between then and now I've been to a few places, read a few books and wrote a few articles and met a few people, just to fill up my time. Oftentimes I've sat down and pondered if I should write you another letter and each time I've forced myself not to because who knows these are delicate times. But the words keep bubbling inside and here I am writing you this pseudo-letter which you’ll probably never read. This is not an exercise in catharsis. This is love. I'll suspend my disbelief, fool myself and call it that. The days are long but this is not such a bad ending.

Happy birthday, C. I hope you didn't miss the meteor shower.

Sincerely,
B.

16.5.14

With A Frightful Heart

I'm

trembling

because

I'm

in

love

with

you.

6.5.14

OVLE

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vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvvvvvv

vvvvvvv

vvv

eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

5.5.14

Synaptic Dislocation

I'm taking a break from society. I'm taking a break from society.