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They were the cars at the fair that were whirling around her ; no, they were the planets, while the sun stood, burning and spinning and glittering in the centre ; here they came again, Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Pluto ; but they were not planets, for it was not the merry-go-round at all, but the Ferris Wheel, they were constellations, in the hub of which, like a great cold eye, burned Polaris, and round and round it here they went : Cassiopeia, Cepheus, the Lynx, Ursa Major, Ursa Minor, and the Dragon ; yet they were not constellations, but, somehow, myriads of beautiful butterflies, she was sailing into Acapulco harbour through a hurricane of beautiful butterflies, zigzagging overhead and endlessly vanishing astern over the sea, the sea, rough and pure, the long dawn rollers advancing, rising, and crashing down to glide in colourless ellipses over the sand, sinking, sinking, someone was calling her name far away and she remembered, they were in a dark wood, she heard the wind and the rain rushing through the forest and saw the tremors of lightning shuddering through the heavens and the horse—great God, the horse—and would this scene repeat itself endlessly and for ever ?—the horse, rearing, poised over her, petrified in mid-air, a statue, somebody was sitting on the statue, it was Yvonne Griffaton, no, it was the statue of Huerta, the drunkard, the murderer, it was the Consul, or it was a mechanical horse on the merry-go-round, the carrousel, but the carrousel had stopped and she was in a ravine down which a million horses were thundering towards her, and she must escape, through the friendly forest to their house, their little home by the sea. But the house was on fire, she saw it now from the forest, from the steps above, she heard the crackling, it was on fire, everything was burning, the dream was burning, the house was burning, yet here they stood an instant, Geoffrey and she, inside it, inside the house, wringing their hands, and everything seemed all right, in its right place, the house was still there, everything dear and natural and familiar, save that the roof was on fire and there was this noise as of dry leaves blowing along the roof, this mechanical crackling, and now the fire was spreading even while they watched, the cupboard, the saucepans, the old kettle, the new kettle, the guardian figure on the deep cool well, the trowels, the rake, the sloping shingled woodshed on whose roof the white dogwood blossoms fell but would fall no more, for the tree was burning, the fire was spreading faster and faster, the walls with their millwheel reflections of sunlight on water were burning, the flowers in the garden were blackened and burning, they writhed, they twisted, they fell, the garden was burning, the porch where they sat on spring mornings was burning, the red door, the casement windows, the curtains she’d made were burning, Geoffrey’s old chair was burning, his desk, and now his book, his book was burning, the pages were burning, burning, burning, whirling up from the fire they were scattered, burning, along the beach, and now it was growing darker and the tide coming in, the tide washed under the ruined house, the pleasure boats that had ferried song upstream sailed home silently over the dark waters of Eridanus. Their house was dying, only an agony went there now. And leaving the burning dream Yvonne felt herself suddenly gathered upwards and borne towards the stars, through eddies of stars scattering aloft with ever wider circlings like rings on water, among which now appeared, like a flock of diamond birds flying softly and steadily towards Orion, the Pleiades...

Malcolm Lowry, Under the Volcano

Déçu de mes nouvelles tempes, des AKG, chers, avec télécommande-micro mais bof, et le son définitivement trop clair, manque de basse, parfait pour écouter du piano seul, inconfortable pour tout ce qui est poprock ou électro rythmé. Idem le bruit ambiant du monde est mal couvert. Très en-dessous des Sennheiser que l’autre steak, juillet, m’a décapités en me tirant l’iPhone à bord d’un train en marche.

Et nouvel œil aussi, cadeau H.. En avais marre des 17h34 granuleux de l’iPhone 3GS, sans parler de la tâche ou de la poussière vissé sur l’objectif qui lèche toutes les photos, toutes ou presque. Passé au Panasonic Leica je ne sais quoi. Compact et fin niveau de l’image. Apprends au fur et à mesure à m’en servir. Vidé pour ça les anciennes cartes mémoires montées, jusque-là, sur d’autres yeux passés, parcouru des photos oubliés, chutes de 17h34 amputés ou recalés lors de la mise en ligne du dimanche soir (d’autres vies que les miennes).

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