Posted:26 Aug 2010 17:05 +0100
<center><iframe scrolling="no" frameborder="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" style="width: 120px; height: 240px;" src="../heart-scatter-logical/hsl-amazon.html"></iframe></center><p><br /><br /><span style="font-size: larger;"><strong>I adore my hoover. It is a Dyson Animal Pro, metallic orange and grey plastic. It sucks the life out of everything living, but no doubt could be used in reverse manner to resuscitate the suicidal among us. Recently I have felt like I have been sucked up inside that hoover, whizzing around inside with chunks of filth, hair and glitter. A bit like the baroque mystic concept of people being lost in a concentric whirlwind, failing to hit the spot in the middle where peace of mind lives. I did intend to put some nifty link to great wisdom there, but after getting sucked into a seventeenth century tornado of ranting about how god is in me if I am in god, but to be god I have to cease to be, Death, Satan, and the abyss, my mind began to buzz like a fish, my stomach to roar like a despot, my knee to grind like unwashed lentils ... and my gullet to clamor for Pernod. So my quest for the epicentre, or at least its documentation failed.<br /><br />I should have sought spices instead. Aniseed maybe.<br /><br />And so here I wonder, wander and meander, avoiding my point as if it were either infectious or too perfect to bear looking at. In fact it is neither. And neither here nor there. It is evasive, like everything I have failed to touch of late. I seem to be caught in slomo, grasping at the strings attached to balloons all floating off in random directions.</strong></span></p><p><strong>And my cat ate my photographs, memories of my youth. In the dead of night.<br /><br />Logically, to add to that waxing confusion, Heart:Scatter:Logical has finally hit print. Anyone wishing to purchase a copy can do so from the following places:<br /><br /></strong><a href="http://www.amazon.de/Heart-Scatter-Logical-Uta-Lotharingia/dp/0956170226/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books-intl-de&qid=1282227604&sr=8-1"><span style="font-size: larger;"><strong>Amazon.co.uk</strong></span></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.amazon.de/Heart-Scatter-Logical-Uta-Lotharingia/dp/0956170226/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books-intl-de&qid=1282227604&sr=8-1"><strong>Amazon.de</strong><br /><br /></a><a href="http://www.amazon.fr/Heart-Scatter-Logical-Uta-Lotharingia/dp/0956170226/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=english-books&qid=1282228628&sr=8-1"><strong>Amazon.fr</strong></a><br /><br /><a href="http://www.aj-books.com/"><strong>aj-books</strong></a><strong><br /><br />Or, request a signed copy from me from approximately 10 pounds sterling, I will keep the doting masses posted when I finally manage to get my calculations done, it is proving difficult whilst inhaling hoover dirt and watching balloons.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size: medium;">The Spice of the Knife.</span><br />by ~Lotharingia<br /><br />She rummaged through the cutlery drawer, removing one knife after the other, running her index finger along the blades sceptically. Sighed. Put them all back, left the drawer open and wandered off, twisting one hand in her nest of unkempt hair.<br /><br />The winter sun shimmered reluctantly through the windows. Pure, crisp and yet lethargic. She climbed on the window sill, squinted out. People passed by, looked. Looked away. She wondered why. If she had not been there, they would have pressed their greasy noses against the panes, commenting loudly in foreign languages or in indecipherable words.<br /><br />She went back to the kitchen, turned the radio on. It was badly tuned, wisps of By the Rivers of Babylon intermingled with a voice crackling French like and interminable hailstorm and pulsating balalaika tunes. She took all the knives from the drawer, sharpened each one in turn with slow determination and placed them, neatly arranged, on a clean but crumpled tea towel covering a tray. She painted their blades with liquid honey using a pastry brush, sprinkled each with a different spice, ginger, chilli, cardamom, turmeric, cumin, coriander.<br /><br />Having deposited the tray on the kitchen table, she sat, legs crossed, the fingers of one hand again twisting her hair. With the other hand she took the knives, one at a time, licked off the sweetness and the bitterness, feeling a warm liquid pearl down her chin and spatter on her dress.</strong></p><center><img src="../img/hsl.jpg" alt=""></img><br /><br /><object height="300" width="400"><param value="true" name="allowfullscreen"></param><param value="http://www.facebook.com/v/450487657677" name="movie"></param><embed height="300" width="400" allowfullscreen="true" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://www.facebook.com/v/450487657677"></embed></object></center>