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{Saturday, March 20, 2004}

Lot's wife turned into a pillar of salt because she continued weeping where there were no more tears.

Lot's wife had no name.

Orpheus looked over his shoulder.

He saw, for the second time, the absence of Eurydice.

What did Lot's wife see? Her own absence?

Lot's wife had no name.
Was it, lost, inscribed, in the fire of Sodom?

Both Lot and Orpheus bargained with fate. Lot was allowed to take refuge in a small town that, at his pleading, would be spared.

Lot's wife chose to look back.
The passivity of Eurydice's disappearance.

The lot unshared.

Eurydice inhabited the obscurity that Orpheus could penetrate only crudely and without knowing it. Death was the name given to what remained without the poem's reach. Eurydice composed her poems out of silence.

Lot's wife desired fire more than she desired life. She despised her husband's petty economies.

Lot convinced himself that his wife gazed back at the city because she forgot to pack her favorite piece of porcelain, the tapestry woven by her sisters, and the letter she kept locked in a box long after the key was thrown into a well.

Lot's wife had a name she kept secret.

Orpheus, perhaps, could never mourn Eurydice because she would always escape his attempts at describing her.

His love was a measure of his ignorance.

Lot's wife saw the violence of angels.

In his dismemberement, Orpheus became the memory of Eurydice.

It wasn't the gaze itself but rather the question of non-recognition.

Only dead could Orpheus acknowledge Eurydice.

Des cendres d'eaux vides.

plumed @ 8:51 PM | 0 comments



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est. feb. 5, 2004 A.D.

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