Sara Marie Ortiz's blog

. . .c'est la partie du film où vous rêvez d'un rêve dans un rêve où chaque ciel est sanglante, les personnes non-awesome me coupe, le feu est la nourriture, les bébés autochtones sont jamais faim, de froid, de maladie, ou de peur, et la fuite est la seule option. . .

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“Anaïs, I don't know how to tell you what I feel. I live in perpetual expectancy. You come and the time slips away in a dream. It is only when you go that I realize completely your presence. And then it is too late. You numb me. [...] This is a little drunken, Anaïs. I am saying to myself "here is the first woman with whom I can be absolutely sincere." I remember your saying - "you could fool me, I wouldn't know it." When I walk along the boulevards and think of that. I can't fool you - and yet I would like to. I mean that I can never be absolutely loyal - it's not in me. I love women, or life, too much - which it is, I don't know. But laugh, Anaïs, I love to hear you laugh. You are the only woman who has a sense of gaiety, a wise tolerance - no more, you seem to urge me to betray you. I love you for that. [...]
I don't know what to expect of you, but it is something in the way of a miracle. I am going to demand everything of you - even the impossible, because you encourage it. You are really strong. I even like your deceit, your treachery. It seems aristocratic to me.”

― Henry Miller, A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller, 1932-1953

. . .yes. . .

"A glance at that dark, unstitched wound and a deep fissure in my brain opens up: all the images and memories that had been laboriously or absent-mindedly assorted, labelled, documented, files, sealed and stamped break forth pellmell like ants pouring out of a crack in the sidewalk; the world ceases to revolve, time stops, the very nexus of my dreams is broken and dissolved and my guts spill out in a grand schizophrenic rush, an evacuation that leaves me face to face with the Absolute." Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer (1934)

"The Tiger"
By Pablo Neruda

I am the tiger.
I lie in wait for you among leaves
broad as ingots
of wet mineral.

The white river grows
beneath the fog. You come.

Naked you submerge.
I wait.

Then in a leap
of fire, blood, teeth,
with a claw slash I tear away
your bosom, your hips.

I drink your blood, I break
your limbs one by one.

And I remain watching
for years in the forest
over your bones, your ashes,
motionless, far
from hatred and anger,
disarmed in your death,
crossed by lianas,
motionless in the rain,
relentless sentinel
of my murderous love.

"The Condor"
By Pablo Neruda

I am the condor, I fly
over you who walk
and suddenly in a wheeling
of wind, feather, claws,
I assault you and I lift you
in a whistling cyclone
of hurricaned cold.

And to my tower of snow,
to my dark eyrie
I take you and you live alone,
and you cover yourself with feathers
and you fly above the world,
motionless on the heights.

Female condor, let us pounce
upon this red prey,
let us tear life
that passes throbbing
and lift together
our wild flight.

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