When Hades decided he loved this girl he built for her a duplicate of earth, everything the same, down to the meadow, but with a bed added.
Everything the same, including sunlight, because it would be hard on a young girl to go so quickly from bright light to utter darkness
Gradually, he thought, he’d introduce the night, first as the shadows of fluttering leaves. Then moon, then stars. Then no moon, no stars. Let Persephone get used to it slowly. In the end, he thought, she’d find it comforting.
A replica of earth except there was love here. Doesn’t everyone want love?
He waited many years, building a world, watching Persephone in the meadow. Persephone, a smeller, a taster. If you have one appetite, he thought, you have them all.
Doesn’t everyone want to feel in the night the beloved body, compass, polestar, to hear the quiet breathing that says I am alive, that means also you are alive, because you hear me, you are here with me. And when one turns, the other turns—
That’s what he felt, the lord of darkness, looking at the world he had constructed for Persephone. It never crossed his mind that there’d be no more smelling here, certainly no more eating.
Guilt? Terror? The fear of love? These things he couldn’t imagine; no lover ever imagines them.
He dreams, he wonders what to call this place. First he thinks: The New Hell. Then: The Garden. In the end, he decides to name it Persephone’s Girlhood.
A soft light rising above the level meadow, behind the bed. He takes her in his arms. He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you
but he thinks this is a lie, so he says in the end you’re dead, nothing can hurt you which seems to him a more promising beginning, more true.
Months ago it was reported that Portishead contributed a cover of Abba’s “SOS” to the soundtrack of Ben Wheatley’s JG Ballard adaptation High-Rise. While the song did appear in the film, it was absent from the soundtrack, confounding and disappointing fans that were looking forward to the first new recording from the band in years.
You don’t have to pay taxes on your feelings. You don’t have to fill a bucket with snow. You don’t have to carry the bucket from Aunt Clover’s. You don’t have to let the critters out their cove. You don’t have to be dexterous, eclectic or bright. You don’t have to think “red powder” hundred-times-fast. You don’t have to slay maimed adversaries today. You don’t have to be such an asshole. You don’t have to arrange these by size, color, order or kind, like Dijon mustard. Your sinus
ignites somewhere deep in the tropics. A yellow bird drops you a world’s smallest tundra, thoughtfully. All the landscape speeds back to its vanishing point. Are you ready for your induction?
I ingratiate myself with electrical haircuts. In the house of forestry I learn from my disciple. In that which I invest, you’ll witness me invested. Were there another gesture I would know, having invented these sublimes.
Are you a carpetbagger? Are you what they call modern art? Are you in cahoots with the rebels? Are you the rebels? Are you authorized to drive a motor vehicle? Are you aware of my condition? Are you, would you say, cat-friendly? Are you going to help me off this island? I’m a stranger, and it’s dark. Are you listening?
Here’s a dream: George Clooney gets into a boating accident and wakes up in this meadow. Clooney, figuring himself to be marooned in the Pacific, finds a dry cave in which to sleep, takes to eating indigenous flora, etc. Trouble is he’s in Arkansas, on account of an elaborate scheme concocted by those who manage boating insurance. Now George has to piece together the evidence, such as the sun’s trajectory in relation to its zenith, why the locals talk so funny. It ends without him ever realizing the extent of his beguilement.