È sempre una donna ciò di cui si ha bisogno, nella carne e nella mente. La parte di noi che è terra e aria, che impasta l’argilla nera della notte e soffia la polvere sulla luce grigia dell’alba. La donna che esiste nel gelo dentro le ossa, che provoca dolore e fa sentire soli. Affamati di quel calore che è lei, protetti e insicuri. A chi ci ha generati abbiamo strappato il cuore bisognosi di trattenerlo per sempre. In mano, ci restano solo pietre. Soli, nella nostra grotta profonda, le sfreghiamo forte. Ad ogni scintilla ci sussulta il cuore, sarò finalmente il mio calore? Difficile essere la donna che siamo, è una potenza sensibile che fa perdere la testa in ondate incontrollate che vanno comprese e imparate. Tutto da capo, tutto fa male. Mi ritrovo davanti i miei stessi occhi di donna. Un po’ tremo, un po’ amo.
Asserting that the world is real, you are blind to its deeper reality; denying that the world is real, you are blind to the selflessness of all things. […] Step aside from all thinking, and there is nowhere you can’t go.
That time when the sun hasn’t quite broken free of the landscape and long, projected shadows tiger-stripe the light.
There’s the occasional sound of wind and leaves and the occasional slap splash of a larger wavelet breaking on the side of your boat, but nothing else.
You reach over the side and feel the shock of the water.
You pull your arm back, holding out your hand. You close your eyes and feel the tiny mathematics of gravity and resistance as the liquid finds roots across your skin, builds itself into droplets of the required weight, then falls, each drop ending with an audible tap.
Now, right on that tap stop.
Here’s the real game.
The lake in my head
has just become the lake in your head.
I could’ve been dead a hundred years before you were even born and still the lake in my head has become the lake in your head.
Behind or inside or through the 221 words that made up my description there is some kind of flow.
A purely conceptual stream with no mass or weight or matter or ties to gravity or time–a stream flowing directly from my imaginary lake into yours.
Next, try to visualize all the streams of human interaction, of communication.
All those linking streams flowing in and between people through text, pictures and spoken words, streams through shared memories, casual relations, witnessed events, touching pasts and futures, cause and effect.
Try to see this immense latticework of lakes and flowing streams, this huge rich environment of all information and identities and societies and selves.
Now, go back to your lake, back to your boat. But this time know the place for what it is, and when you’re ready, take a look over the boat’s side.
The water is clear and deep. Broken sunlight cuts blue wedges down down into the clean, cold depths.
Be very still.
They say life is tenacious – life will always find a way, they say.
Be very quiet.
Keep looking into the water.
Keep looking and keep watching.
Tilda Swinton reads The Raw Shark Texts
by Steven Hall
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