rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Not My House

Back in the 1960's-1970's, The Los Angeles Times published a Sunday magazine called West. I have some issues of it somewhere out in the garage, moldering away. It was a nicely designed, surprisingly ambitious supplement to the Sunday paper for several years, but never very successful financially. Eventually, its run ended, and a number of years later the paper came out with the Los Angeles Times Magazine, which I never found as interesting as West had been. I just discovered that today, The Times will revive the name West for its revamped Sunday magazine. I won't be able to compare it to the original, as I'm not in Los Angeles anymore, and I don't think there's an out-of-town-paper vendor within sixty miles of this place. I'm a bit curious about it, though.

A genuine chill pervades the air tonight. This will add a few more wintry hours to this season's meager toll. I heard more waterfowl flying north. The cold doesn't seem to have intimidated them. I guess they are eager to get back to their breeding grounds and have sex.

There will be a window of opportunity today to go to the store and not have to stand in line, because of the football. The streets will be just about empty, too (not that they're ever all that full in these parts.) I hope to wake early enough to take advantage of it. That means to bed soon.

Sunday Verse

In My House

by Jacques Prevert

You will come into my house
but it is not my house
I don't know whose it is
I came into it one day
No one was here
only a few red peppers on a while wall
No one came here
But day after day
I waited for you

I did nothing
nothing much
Sometimes in the morning
I would utter the cries of animals
I would bray like a donkey
with all my might
simply because it pleased me
And I would play with my feet
Feet are very intelligent
they take you far
when you want to go far
and when you don't want to go out
they stay home and keep you company
and when there's music they dance
(you can't of course dance without them)
They're happy as larks
Except that a lark isn't happy
except when it's happy
It's not happy when it's sad as a lark
and sometimes it's neither
So then what is it
What is a lark when men
men with feet
don't call it a lark?
Clever as we are we'll never know that
and what's all the fuss about anyhow?

You will come to my house
That's what I think about even when I'm not
And when you come in
you will take off all your clothes
and stand quite still nude and your mouth red
as the red peppers hanging against the white wall
and then you will go to bed and I will go to bed near you
In my house
which is not my house

-translated by Teo Savory

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