[Most Recent Entries]
Below are the 19 most recent journal entries recorded in
Dead Revolutionaries' LiveJournal:
|Sunday, January 23rd, 2011|
I have had Many More Ideas for the Betterment of the Republic it has Been Borne upon me That I should publish them In a Little Chapbook with, perhaps, gold Lettering. Then All who Contemplate the fate of nations Shall Read for their enlightening how, I Envision the Classical Future and the perfect Practice of Liberty.
For Instance there shall Be a great number of Ceremonial Marriages and the Keeping of doves shall be a Action much Encouraged and, men Shall spend 1/3 of their Lives by the Sea catching Small Fish and embroidering sailcloths. And Too there will be many other Activities.
|Wednesday, January 19th, 2011|
morning I went for a walk along the banks of the Seine. As the river is somewhat cleaner than it once was, though it remains unsuitable for any sort of baptismal festivities, of course, I had expected the walk to be restful. Instead I was pursued by a flock of geese. They couldn't do me any real damage but it is not restful to be savaged by birds. If I had ectoplasm, it would be all a-shiver still.
|Saturday, January 15th, 2011|
How nostalgic one gets for summer. White wine breathing in glasses, and green leaves on the chestnut trees.
Speaking of my own inestimable contributions to Liberty, Fraternity, and, you know, other things: I came across a straw-bottomed chair in a café recently. The urge struck me-- a speech was starting, at the very tips of my fingers. I could feel it forming, gloriously. The trouble isn't, of course, at the tips of my fingers...
The darkest point of winter has gone; the knife's edge lies behind us. Still it is cold, so cold that one's phantom flesh seems to shape itself still and gelid as a sheet of ice about one's thoughts. Frost clouds the window panes. I patient myself, waiting for the sun. But for now there is this mist, this haze; I would that I could see clearly.
|Thursday, January 13th, 2011|
The one great advantage of this new era in which one finds oneself is, unquestionably, the riot of fruit that comes packed in truckloads-- shipped, one imagines, from Africa and the Indies. All winter long, the glow of pebbled oranges. The papery rind, and then the pulp: sweet, if one could eat it. Though I can't, of course. Eat it, I mean. In the yellow light of all these supermarché sections I go wandering, almost, at times, hungry...
|Monday, February 19th, 2007|
Really, citizens. All this silence is most unbecoming.
For my part, I have no excuse, save that I have no especial wish to hasten certain reunions. And that I find quite enough by way of diversion without resorting to an excess of silly words
; that's what I keep Camille for
. However, it is an unusually tedious Sunday morning, and I am not nearly so drunk as I might have hoped. What is
In a few weeks, it will be Camille's birthday. I suggest that we dunk him in the Seine once for every year he has spent in suspended existence. Perhaps David -- whom, I must say, it has been wonderful to see up and about after all this time -- would like to charge himself with whatever preparations he finds most suitable to the grand occasion.
|Thursday, September 21st, 2006|
Citizen Robespierre, if you should find your way back Home from the recesses of this peculiar Metaphysical world, I shall be waiting where there used to Be a yard, with little white Flowers and the Smell of cut wood. I will wait Where they used to open the doorway and Where you would come, when You were well, descending the staircase with Hat in hand and walk out into the wide expanse of Light. Now Though the world is Awash in that same Light I Cannot see the streets of the Republic so I shall wait Here on the floorboards covering the Concrete covering the Stones covering the ground, the earth that Was.
|Wednesday, September 20th, 2006|
I certainly feel I've been missing out!
Some kindly patriot should help to bring me up to date!
Well, well, well. Like any good patriot, I have been celebrating our sadly defunct sans-culottides
as fully as possible, by which I mean, of course, by drinking as much wine as possible. I must say, it tasted better when they still used lead barrels.
Such is the price one must pay for safer, more hygienic modernity.
|Monday, September 18th, 2006|
It is now -- barely -- la Fête du Génie, which makes me think of Fabre. I feel that I have given sufficient voice to my opinions in the past that I needn't call the aforementioned talent into question just presently. Indeed, it would be strange to find myself thinking of him at all if I had happened to have seen him more recently; one's memory, as ever, turns most naturally to the absent. This reassures me that he must still be himself.
I remark the date simply because yesterday was a different Fête
entirely, although I doubt that anyone performed any particularly virtuous acts in its name. I hope, of course, that everyone is nevertheless enjoying our little holiday stretch. It is almost Opinion Day, so I shall have to see if I still possess any.
|Monday, September 11th, 2006|
Another autumn sags bleakly across the face of France, its arrival heralded by the flock of fat geese I saw crossing the sky this evening just south of the Seine. The braying and squawking they produced reminded me ineluctably of the National Convention; for a moment I was quite homesick. Fortunately the sensation was fleeting. I went searching almost immediately for a musket to shoot them down, but there you are: never a violent weapon around when you need one.
Oh, the times when I have longed for weaponry and had none at hand. Any afterlife suitably paradisiacal considering my earthly sacrifices would have been stocked fence-to-field as a full armory. Perhaps occasionally Gilbert Mottie, Jacques Brissot, and a complement of faceless aristocrats could have been summoned up from the black depths of hell in which they currently reside and permitted to run, screaming, round in little circles while I took potshots at them with a variety of exquisite pistols. Such were the dreams I dreamed of death, and never could I have imagined the true horror of my post-mortem state: still gazing out the dreary warped-glass window of my subterranean domain, casting a considering eye on the ever-changing generations of spiders.
I am considering organizing an arachnoid colony, and testing my political theories upon it. It seems potentially instructive in all ways.
|Sunday, September 10th, 2006|
SECRET, PLEASE DO NOT READ
September is so full of memories. Not, I am obliged to say, very pleasant ones.
You know, a woman once left flowers in my passageway. I remember the color of them, though of course the only scent was the burnt oak and ice water smell that everything takes on, here. Nowadays there aren't even leaves falling. Just people-- in waves-- faceless, unfamiliar. Are we here under Providence?
I've been waiting for an answer for years.
|Thursday, September 15th, 2005|
The days are turning darker now. I can hear the doves calling from their autumn nests in the eaves. What do they do, what do doves do when winter comes? They can't very well stop being doves. They settle down with their strange little birdish memories of summer and weather the season out. I wonder if they even know it's cold. They're all nerve endings, doves. Quick and animal. Not like us. Antoine would have said--
|Saturday, September 10th, 2005|
|Sunday, August 14th, 2005|
I was fiddling with the old dates today, you know, for a bit of a lark. Completely useless, I'm prepared to admit it. But there's not much else to do in this heat, unless you're in the habit of taking a siesta. And while there's no shame in a well-earned catnap, I can't be settling down and throwing two or three hours out the window every day like just so much piss. Unlike some people, of course.
, speaking of whom
. . . it's nearly your day, Camille. 30 Thermidor.
|Thursday, August 4th, 2005|
In Rome it's always very hot, much hotter than Paris, much more humid. I think I would like to go to Venice, I would like to see the canals: the ocean come to man. It would be wide and bright under the sky, but once you were between the houses there would be scum, it would be dark and mysteriously green; it's always like that where people live. Not a place for swimming, not the sort of water you can touch . . . it would not be friendly any more, not so much in the shade. You might drown, or Max . . .
I want to breathe again, I want to breathe deeply in and feel all young and new. The air here sticks in your lungs; it's much too old; too many people have breathed this air. It's quite used up, exhausted, dead and buried. Yet we go on dragging it into ourselves, like the fishermen's children who don't go to school and their thick rope nets, their identical futures. They, too, are in Venice of course, not here. Still I don't want to leave; I am looking for something, or maybe someone.
|Sunday, July 31st, 2005|
Yes, I'm in Rome. It's monstrously hot, and I'm forever pulling you-know-whom out of holes in the ground, the great sod. Apart from that . . . well, that's about it, in fact.
Except for my secret connections.
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN
Rome is lovely, dark and de -- no, that's not right, although it does describe the catacombs. There's something queer about them which is both peculiar and fascinating, and of course very powerful. I'm drawn particularly to the moment of descent, to the down-going into the dust and the gloom. At first you can't see because your eyes are accustomed to the sun, and the cool air strikes you physically, like a blow to the gut. On s'habitue à tout,
however. People lived there once. Their graves, too, attract me; they are smaller than ours, meant for an older race. Ages and ages ago somebody carefully scooped them out of the walls; they made neat little curved spaces, perhaps (certainly) with their hands. But if you put your own hand inside now they are empty. When it comes out there is dirt on it. It's like that for everyone someday.
The angry month of July draws once again to a close. Once, I admit, I rather looked forward to summer. So much blood to be boiled, so many riots to be raised among the sticky dust of the city's districts. Now, however, all that rises from the assembled faubourgs is the phantom force of my rage. It hangs like a gloomy miasma over haute-coutured Paris, seeping into the fine wines and expensive foods of the tourists who crowd the streets, perpetrating inanity. Perhaps I flatter myself to think that they can taste my ghostly wrath like a bitter liqueur upon their tongues.
Yes, the goddess Anoia is certainly among us in Paris, these days. Perhaps that is why I have glimpsed so few of my former comrades. I hear rumors, now and then, of some ridiculous pilgrimage Desmoulins has undertaken to Rome, yet of Danton and Robespierre: nothing. Probably they have gone off on some grand voyage and left me behind. It would be in all ways consistent with their previous behavior.
Still, the spiders spin their webs, humming comforting spider-songs about the demise of the civilized world and the coming of all things to ruins and dust in which future arachnid generations will continue to weave. Reassuring things, spiders. Perhaps it is their fatality that makes them such faithful companions.