BUSTED
With Nivene’s arm looped through mine, we walk into the snowy forest.
I’m wearing a cloak over my shoulders, and the sun has started to break
through the winter clouds. Still, the cold bites my skin.
Griflet stands by an oak tree and waves to us as we approach. We reach
him, and he leads us beneath a canopy of gnarled branches. Sunlight pierces
the twisted boughs, and icicles hang from the hawthorn trees like jewels.
As I walk, the ferns curling from the snow brush against my gown.
Talan stands by a wooden altar carved from an enormous oak trunk with
intricate swirls and twisting vines. It must have been here for ages because
it is clearly worn by time.
He looks perfect, as always. He’s wearing a perfectly fitted black suit
and a silver collar of order draped over his broad chest. In the center of the
collar is his ouroboros sigil. The midnight blue fabric of his garments looks
soft and seems to absorb the light.
His dark eyes find mine, and as they do, the air feels warmer, heavier.
Sometimes, when I look at him, it’s hard to remember that I’ve seen him
slit a man’s throat during dinner.
Branches arch overhead, forming a living cathedral that shielded the
ground from the snowfall. A carpet of moss leads to the altar. Glowing blue
butterflies perch on the boughs around us, and crimson berries dapple the
grove, vivid against the snowy branches.
As I step closer to Talan, he reaches for my hands. I slide mine into his.
I can’t quite read the expression in his eyes beneath those dark
eyelashes, just the faintest curve of his lips. Almost playful. I wonder how
much of this is simple rebellion, marrying a penniless peasant to piss off the
father he hates.
Griflet stands before the altar with a large book in his hands. He flips
through it, clearing his throat. “We are
işte o an söküp atıyorum
şu kendi aptal kalbimi . . .
tam orada
Efendi-Doktor’un
başka bir yere giderken
su içmek için uğrayan
bir köle tüccarına
hâlâ birkaç mili kalmış
bir katır olduğumu söylediği
tam o anda,
tam orada
tam orada
Efendi-Doktor
nasıl canımın yandığını
hiç görmeyip
şöyle dediğinde:
dayanıklı, yaşlı bir kızdır o,
sağlam bir darbeyi/kırbacı kaldırabilir
tam orada
tam orada
kadınlığımdan kalan o küçücük
parçayı da kazıyıp çıkarıyorum ve
hayaletleşmiş kemiklerinin
dere yatağına saçılmasına izin veriyorum
hatırlanmaya yetecek kadar bile
bir şey kalmadı ondan
böylesi en iyisi.
bebek yok.
parçalanmış rahim.
kan ve ... ve
Jim not that way Jim. That's no way to treat a garage door, bending stiffly down at the waist and yanking at the handle so the door jerks up and out jerky and hard and you crack your shins and my ruined knees, son. Let's see you bend at the healthy knees. Let's see you hook a soft hand lightly over the handle feeling its subtle grain and pull just as exactly gently as will make it come to you. Experiment, Jim. See just how much force you need to start the door easy, let it roll up out open on its hidden greasy rollers and pulleys in the ceiling's set of spiderwebbed beams. Think of all garage doors as the well-oiled open-out door of a broiler with hot meat in, heat roiling out, hot. Needless and dangerous ever to yank, pull, shove, thrust. Your mother is a shover and a thruster, son. She treats bodies outside herself without respect or due care. She's never learned that treating things in the gentlest most relaxed way is also treating them and your own body in the most efficient way. It's Marlon Brando's fault, Jim. Your mother back in California before you were born, before she became a devoted mother and long-suffering wife and breadwinner, son, your mother had a bit part in a Marlon Brando movie. Her big moment. Had to stand there in saddle shoes and bobby sox and ponytail and put her hands over her ears as really loud motorbikes roared by. A major thespian moment, believe you me. She was in love from afar with this fellow Marlon Brando, son. Who? Who. Jim, Marlon Brando was the archetypal new-type actor who ruined it looks like two whole generations' relations with their own bodies and the everyday objects and bodies around them. No? Well it was because of Brando you were opening that garage door like that, Jimbo. The disrespect gets learned and passed on. Passed
BUSTED
alkolizmle sonuçlanan iki duygusal eğilim vardır. Biri, çocukluğunda çok gergin ve kaygılı olan, ergenlikte alkolün kaygısını yatıştırdığını keşfedenlerin eğilimidir. Bunlar, çoğu zaman sinirlerini yatıştırmak için içkiye başvuran alkoliklerin çocukları –genellikle de oğullarıdır. Bu eğilimin biyolojik işareti, kaygıyı düzenleyen bir sinirsel aktarıcı olan GABA’nın az salgılanmasıdır. GABA’nın yetersiz oluşu, yüksek düzeyde bir gerilim hali olarak yaşanır. Bir araştırmada, alkolik babaların oğullarında düşük düzeyde GABA bulunduğu ve bu çocukların çok kaygılı oldukları bulgulanmıştır; alkol aldıklarında ise GABA düzeyi yükselmekte ve kaygıları azalmaktadır. Alkolik babaların oğulları, gerilimlerini azaltmak için içki içer, alkolde başka türlü elde edemedikleri anlaşılan bir rahatlama bulurlar.
Howl: I
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,
angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,
who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,
who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tenement roofs illuminated,
who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the scholars of war,
who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,
who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burning their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror through the wall,
who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,
who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night
with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, alcohol and cock and endless balls,
incomparable blind streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the motionless world of Time between,
Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brooklyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,
who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until
"The guy busted face was lurking in the shadows again behind the register."
