Fata Morgana Empathica

Leonid Afremov


My original intention was to begin with a spark of profundity--unfounded insight in its simplicity, like:

The love that exists now, is naught but short-lived or mirage.

--serving as my title's explanation, (not that these types need those types)--Fata Morgana, but I do not wish to bore you with such nonsense.

This will serve as the account of life--perchance not mine, but of the world's migrating wisdom sifting from one hourglass of life to the next. Word like this has always existed. This is only a continuation of such dynamite.

If I could write you a letter I would. Such a preservation would be ideal, as would the idyllic nature of preservation itself, as bound as these sites may be to perish at any server downtime second--what whim, like death itself, no?

Should the rough be ugly? Like this, I hope, will not serve as chief example, especially the godawful syntax that has been fun with which to play.

Lighght. mwahaha. Profundity at its best. Think what you will.

Someday we will meet again, and our tendrils will tangle tentatively.

-------

Now. To matters of importance:

I am of
impressionism, anthropology, melody,
& empathy. This lie(')s closest to my heart.

Read;

There are Paris Review interviews;
Gaze at Monet's Water Lilies Triptych for a day;



















Wear Kenzo's Spring-Summer 09 collection. Gorgeous captured into fabric.
http://www.ftv.com/fashion/page.php?P=3391&id=105356
Or find somewhere that air can drown you in its frescacity. Either will do.

I love Tom Sleigh's poetry, Waking.
He talks about how life perfects when you realize you will lose it. Except he is lots more eloquent than me, and less naive/foolish/silly/stupid.

Love--of the scent of laundry,
vanilla turns to musk on my skin,
the shy smoke of sparklers, that unfurls in darkness.

What possessed these beings to create such beauty?
Come, muse, to sleep. Let the world just fall away.