Hollows

.
Shall I wind my sorrow 'round the stems of letters, wash it in ink and hang it on a page ?
Shall I leave it by the door for the rain to carry away ?
The days are round and grey, and smoothly do they go by, but their flow's not strong enough to pull along the mill in my chest.
I fret, I claw at my cheeks, but to no avail.
Fear runs strongest when apathy wins.

What is it, I wondered, that you seek in the see ? What else, if not the path to oblivion ?

Spurningar

I keep dreaming of the sea and of your lips turning green. Why are so willing to drown ? What's hidden in the water that you seek ? Little rag, is there a necklace waiting for you around algae's wreath?
Let the sea take care of you. I can't work on your Word form. That's above me. And will always be. I'll still try, but later.

Ah, spurningar are everywhere Human is. Questions.
What to do when you stand in front of a person who's raw with grief? How can you smile and go on about how the world is wonderful ? How can you love the world when they suffer loss, pain and doubts ?
"That's the way of it. Be strong and accept". Is that an answer?
Both damn and bless the human heart that still beats in our breasts.

Concerning many things, we are powerless. Oh yes.
I want to try something.

Saviour

Rag-no-word

Again. Again and again.

I have so clear an image of you. But it's not images or sounds I need, but words !

I've given up on the Rag for now.
I'll attempt to write a novel with a plot, for a change, even if it's a basic and classic one. It all came to me in the middle of the night : Poetical warriors.
I'm writing it in French. French is the perfect language for that piece.

Sous l’eau claire qui bouillonnait, le fond de la vieille casserole scintillait. Un mince filet de vapeur s’élevait et tourbillonnait avant de se répandre dans l’air encore silencieux. Surgie du matin une main lança dans l’eau une poignée de sel, d’herbes et de grains pâles, et mélangea la soupe, remuant la mixture avec une longue cuillère de bois. L’autre main se leva et frotta doucement un front plissé, sous lequel sages et gris, deux yeux brillaient.
Mudrec, assis sur un roc gelé, regardait la montée du Soleil.

[ap. tr.] Under the clear boiling water, the bottom of the old pan twinkled. A thin thread of steam rose and whirled before it scattered in the ever silent air. Popping up from the morning a hand threw a fistful of salt, herbs and pale corns in the water, and stirred the soup with a long wooden spoon. The other hand rose and gently rubbed a wrinkled brow, under which, wise and grey, two eyes were shining.
Mudrec, sitting on a frozen rock, was watching the sun scrambling up.

Carve, carve!

Art.
Tricksy rag, you have to be a piece of art, it cannot be otherwise. Only an artist could fit you in the spaces between words.
An artist! A being whose eyes are the most powerful in the whole universe! Whose heart beats faster than all the tempests above the Ocean! Whose fingers are so skilled they can draw a pattern like a mathematician juggling with numbers! An artist!

(Ragged) Answers?

«
He rose from the depths of his fevered life, rose like snow flakes rebounding up to the sky.
His eyes were bright and wide and red, crusted yellow and shining white. He unfurled like a black serpent,.
He sat up, slowly, tugging weakly at the welter of blankets that swathed him. Cold sweat misted his pale brow, tangled with strands of dark hair. He lifted his hand, feeling the icy weight of his star necklace against his chest. He shivered, opened his mouth, and found out his voice had fled, leaving him alone with the soft blankets and writhing fever.
He fell back on the bed, clutching the necklace ; waiting.
He next awoke to the Moon, its wide silver face speckled with grey seas and dust. It was unerringly starring at him, whispering its fickle light against his senses, endlessly running on the blue field that was the sky. Then the Moon turned yellow, suddenly exhausted and panting. He blinked the Moon away and saw a face starring into his eyes. He startled and burrowed deeper inside his cloak. The face smiled as it slowly swam into focus.
« How do you feel today, butterfly ? »
He knew that voice. It was Lo’s. Old Lo’s voice. A hand settled on his forehead, and he bit his lips, enduring the touch. Then it was mercifully gone and he drew a deeper breath. He tried to say ‘‘Don’t touch me again’’ but his voice was still wandering he knew no where.
"The fever is still as bad » Lo said thoughtfully. He starred again into his eyes, looking for something…an answer ? He did not have answers. He closed his eyes, slamming his lids purposefully. He wished the fever would leave him alone, instead of eating his flesh and chewing his thoughts. "

A rag's fever. I like this piece. It's not marvelous art, but I can almost feel the rags through those words. But they're in English, and if they're translated into French, they won't be the same.
One cannot write a rag in two langages at the same time. But i think i'll make a French version and an English one. Both will be quite different, but ! English is wonderful language, and French too. And every language, because words are wonderful.

An English version....That could be interesting. One of the 'characters' is called "Taille-Crayon", which could be translated by : Pencil-Sharpener. Sharp. Pencil'pener. Pencil'pener, or just Pencil. Nice.
I quite like Taille-Crayon. He can be so provocative. He thinks poetry is butchery. The rascal!

vessels!

I dreamt of a little rag. A huge green dream. There was no other sound than the soft whispering of a cold wind. I can't remenber anything else.
I woke with a feeling of vertigo, with a vision of snow, black and green patches in my head.
Vertigo.
You should have been named Vertigo. "Vertige" in French. ver (sounds like vert which means green) + tige (stem).
Vertigo, the green-stem.

Vertigo! Oh les grands délices du vertige enneigé, de ton être insipide comme une lune transformée en pastille de Doliprane !

Now, another thing to ponder : do rags have a soul, half a soul, or are they just broken trees and frozen dolls?

Feeling the shape

As days go by, the little rag is slowly taking on a shape. Or rather I feel the shape the book is going to become.
It is so wonderful.

I've understood that this book may never be finished. It will probably take mOst of my life to complete it. And my little life isn't enough. I'm too young to see clearly the implications of what you say, what you do, Beloved Little Rag. I don't have a writer's skill. With time and work and thought, maybe my writing abilities will improve ; perhaps not.

A book's title is hard to find. Of course it could be anything, because a title isn't the most important thing for a novel. Why not call the rag : "Chickens and the eulogy of toothpastes" ?
No...That can't do. The rag's title must say the essential about the book.
At first, I called it : "Regis Pugna".
Then "L'enfant de l'eau" (child of water). Then : "L'enfant des bulles" (child of bubbles). For now it's something like : the little rag.
Will it take one, two or three books? Who cares.

I know that snow and music are the keys to your heart, Llu. Snow, especially snow. I still don't know why. Snow's the key. And so the book will prepare the Meeting : rag and snow reunited.
A grand novel, about my favorite themes : toothpaste, trees, music, pigeons, skies, windows....and yours : snow, the Moon, ice, candies, music, tales, ...
What it will look like in the end, I wonder.

A baby in the cradle.