26.11.09

Locality 54 (Ontario, Canada) Rememberance of Things Past

Reduced to a stump
I feel that there is much to be said for the Celtic belief that the souls of those whom we have lost are held captive in some inferior being, in an animal, in a plant, in some inanimate object, and so effectively lost to us until the day (which to many never comes) when we happen to pass by the tree or to obtain possession of the object which forms their prison. Then they start and tremble, they call us by our name, and as soon as we have recognised their voice the spell is broken. We have delivered them: they have overcome death and return to share our life.

And so it is with our own past. It is a labour in vain to attempt to recapture it: all the efforts of our intellect must prove futile. The past is hidden somewhere outside the realm, beyond the reach of intellect, in some material object (in the sensation which that material object will give us) which we do not suspect. And as for that object, it depends on chance whether we come upon it or not before we ourselves must die.

Marcel Proust, Rememberance of Things Past, 1913.
Photo: Kronix

16.11.09

Locality 53 (Christiania, Copenhagen) Free Town

The Treehouse Song

When I woke
I took the backdoor to my mind
and then I spoke
I counted all of the good things you are

and that list of charms was
longer than my chain of broken hearts
and when the day was done
I figured I had already lost
from the start – from the start

I was gonna love you till the end of all daytime
and I was gonna keep all our secret signs and our lullabies
I was made to believe that our love would grow old
we were gonna live in a treehouse and make babies
and we were gonna bury our ex-lovers and their ghosts
baby we were made of gold

Ane Brun, The Treehouse Song, 2008.
Photo: Jaafar Mestari