We love to cut up with Herr Ernst in this Magpie Tale.
The hammer of Thor knocks at the glass door of Berlin.
“Who’s there?” “Thor.” “Thor who?” “Thor whom the hammer tolls.”
Baby Grand Guignol is on a date with Rigo Morges.
Swimming up that river to the strains of Francis Poulenc who went all holy after that car crash. “If Jean Cocteau calls, I’m not here.”
Proust in his bedroom of cork needed to lose track of the sounds of the world. The very sounds that John Cage would call poetry.
Mahler losing track of the world.
Forever Weimar. No matter how we try to escape it, those clashing days of Berlin keep luring us back in. Red, black and white in grainy color. It refuses to let us go. Marked in indelible chalk on the M of our palm.
The money moment of memories that are not ours and therefore ever more potent. The brutal snap of the bra strap of history assures us with the nuttiness of Zeus dressed as Venus.