Beautiful sounds of words. Meaning? Who wants it? It goes with the sound.

The thing that fascinates me about embers is that you never know if it’s the end of a fire or the still surviving part of it. Its inner core or its last breath.

It depends on your point of view. The point of you. Nice pun.

Anyway, my embers are the unexhausted hub of an ancient bonfire. It’s time to turn them into life, and September will help me in doing this. It’s a rite of passage that turns debris into bricks.

I am starting to work on my dissertation. It will be about electronic literature. I am adventuring in a completely unknown land, even for me. This is what attracts me most, especially because I feel free to move everywhere and explore everything about it without fearing of doing or saying something wrong. First of all, because we are talking about something which is still in progress, it has no fixed form yet. Secondly, because we are talking about literature, that is words, interpretations, thoughts, sensations, sounds. Malleable matter that changes its shape while you touch it and warm it with your hands.

In bocca al lupo, Beniamina!

PS:  “shout and celebrate before the shade conceals the window: blue bloods, balls and bonnets, beards, coast, collars, chips and cheese…while there is time and you are able, because when blue has left the edges of its objects as if the world were bleached of it, when there’s nothing left but language…watered twilight, sour sea…don’t find yourself clergy’d out of choir and chorus…sing and say…despite the belly ache and loneliness, drunkennes and helpless rage, despite dumps, mopes, Mondays, sheets like dirty plates, tomorrow falling toward you like a tower, lie in wait for that miraculous moment when in your mouth teeth turn into dragons: shape pebbles into syllables and make stones sound; thus cautioned and encouraged, commanded, warned, persist…even though the mattress where you mourn’s been tipped and those corners where the nickels roll slide open like a slot to swallow them, clocks slow, and there’s been perhaps a pouring rain, or factory smoke, an aging wind and winter air, and everything is gray” (W. Gass, On Being Blue, Nonpareil Book, Jaffrey, NH, 1991)