transliterations

Toccata Augustin-Louis Cauchy was born in Paris as the French Revolution began to stir. Politics would flavour the rest of his life as his strongly held views swung him in and out of favour with the succession of authorities who took over France in the wake of the revolution. One colleague went so far as to declare that Cauchy was "mad and there is nothing that can be done about him." Nonetheless, nobody denied his mathematical genius. Cauchy published more papers than any mathematician but Leonhard Euler, covering nearly every topic in mathematics and applied mathematics. Two of his most famous results are vector inequalities. Vectors can

Nik and Ludis drove the van across Germany and into Belgium.  It was a dying security truck with a mattress in the back.  There were seven of us plus the kid and the dog; nine in total. Four travelled in the car and the rest in the van.  We took turns on the mattress.  At nights we sat by the river and smoked and talked and when the stars got up and the smoke got in our blood we got out an old guitar, the veteran of a hundred climate camps we’d been given by a hippy in exchange for twelve apples, and sang.  During the day whoever wasn’t driving slept.  Only Jimmy and Max claimed to be able to handle the obstreperous van, and nobod

 It was only two months ago when you had the procedure.  You can no longer remember why.  You know only that you must have liked the idea of your eyes tasting shapes.  You had money.  Maybe that was all the reason there ever was. For a month, your life was normal.  Your brain was still learning to process the new input.  Sometimes you would vaguely taste oranges when sitting at your computer.  Or catch yourself thinking that the letter O seemed sour.  Or avoid a restaurant that served food on oval plates, because some ovals taste like bad coffee. You can't pinpoint the day you first spent over an hour staring at squares.  You had not mean

I made a deal with the devil Sold her my voice, for the one I loved. But know this, deals With devils Will always hurt. No matter what. She took vials of sea shell creatures long Forgotten, and perhaps Missed; by the rest of the ocean floor. And she dropped them into a pot. Made me Sign a release. And then my voice Was gone. I was running with two feet And completely naked. It's true what they say About the serpent tricking people into Feeling their nakedness. I never Felt it before. But now I'm running. The big octopus, bruising my thoughts Her inky stain wrapped around my voice. Strangling it. The man of my dreams, only

     This is the time of year that you love the best. The air is cold, the nights are long, but you are warm in your house and you watch the snow fall on the yard. You can't wait to go out, build forts and fling snow at your friends.     But for now you must put on your best clothes, go to church and sing songs to praise the one who was born the next day. It seems right. This is his time, and he shares it with us. Who else would do that?     You go back home, and more loved ones come. They kiss and hug and laugh and tell tales of joy and of loss. They bring food and gifts and make the place look its best. Your home is now warm and full an

sea shines; sun breaks; horizon on its side; black marks on the world like bubbles, or amino acids forming into bacteria, or the souls of the damned; red thunderclouds; a cleansing light, or the edge of torn paper; if the light is cleansing, and we're corrupted, the marks following us everywhere, are we gonna die, are we gonna die; a collection of pixels like a hairbow; faces, faces in the clouds; is the light coming towards us; a black sun gathers stars for protection; a raindrop, five raindrops; the horizon at sunset flipped onto its side, like dead bodies; souls gathering above the sea; is the sea made of fire; are the clouds laughing a

Meg's world is a world of uneven earth and blue skies, surface rock cracked and blown about by howling wind. She runs through wasteland, stumbles with purpose towards a wooden desk in the distance. She runs and runs, dirt and stones scuffing Mary Janes, but the writing desk is a finish line she can't reach. "Why a writing desk?" her friend Alex says when she tells him about the dream. He emphasizes the question with a hand, waving the sandwich he's holding towards her before taking a bite. She's left out details: how she is smaller, younger, a smooth-faced child with little hands dressed in her Sunday best instead of the twenty-one-year-old

Sturtian: There are days when I am fortresses melting slowly by the fireplace.  Each finger and toe is distinct, and they house their own visitors.  I disdain them, the bits of dust and bacteria my body collects sometimes.  I would rather even the sun didn't make its way through boarded windows and touch me.  I would like to be alone. It is snowing.  The hills and driveways and roads will be erased, trees will fall, the world will be quiet.  There will be no screaming, no bubbling anger or hope. I am like water but I am more like ice.  I do not forget, for the memories I would perhaps lose were never there.  I am gathering myself in the

The allure isn't lived but as a slow acceleration of the curve. It glistens like it is a home. The fumes are sentient, the light pink and sparse. It surrenders your sadness, dulcetly, tacitly - the chant and caress of life. It comes from hills like a bloodied siege, neither cried out nor reported by the president, known only by the sentience of the fumes. This is not an event of servitude. Rejoice that it is the essence of solitude and life.

 Your stride is like snow leaving the ground.  I say this not to be dramatic but because it scratches on the mind like your briefcase scratches on the ground.  This is during the one moment the sun is high enough in the sky that you cannot quite handle the weight. The cries of children, or perhaps random passerby, are still quiet.  But you change pace with the beat of your heart.  Boom.  I am behind you like a chirping chicklet.  I am concerned that my skin is thick enough to boing.  I am concerned that my bone is so close to the surface that it will tear my skin like paper.  There are days where I do not know what I look like. I imagine

The last time I learnt to read, it was from clouds. They hung on the bald horizon, and I could feel what they were saying without suddenness or ceremony. They lowed like cows on the slopes of my home which was not my home. My country lay spread out behind me. I blinked and it was gone. They lowed goodbye – I did not weep. * "Are you cold?" Anna asked. Slap-slap-slap went the sea on the edge of the boat, trying to pen a letter. I stared out across the water. She tried again. "I'll get you some bread." "You asked me if I was cold." "Are you?" "If I am, bread will not warm me." She laughed. It was a dangerous thing to do. I felt

 It is as if the world is made of names.  Some days, you can see etchings in rock.  You know they mean nothing, but they feel like secrets anyways.  Scatter true secrets on the ground.  Leave shredded trees and ink on the ground.  Let them sink to the core. Only now does it become apparent that you are evading the sea.  Your hair understands.  It itches towards the water as if recalling home.  You suspect it has forgotten that you can no longer breathe water.  Those millions of years have passed.  Though the stillness of lakes is the same. Your face is mimicked by the cliff face.  It is of course too small to be a cliff and too featureles

i. Simplicity of life.  Slowly dripping.  A shadow enters the room.  Nothing occurred. There are things we forget.  These are falling.  Slowly there is a descent into shadow. There are things we're forgetting.  A glimpse of God.  Slowly descend into shadow. There are things we've forgotten.  Blips against the dark.  We are unwritten.  Angels. Just like meditation.  There is nothing in us.  Just like meditation.  Slowly we forget. Dream-states break meditation.  Nothing.  Nothing.  Nothing. I am dreaming of life.  There is shadow.  I am dreaming of God.  There is shadow.   I am forgetting. ii. Nothing is seen.  Floating visualizations.  Patch

The wind blows from my future. The wind blows from your future. Our deaths are not our intent, but the gentlemen and the gentlewomen knock on our doors at night. This begins to be experienced more than the rivers and more than the lakes of our youth. I hate it as do you: we know we mustn't but the anger comes out in the occasional word. Like a demon, it satisfies. Still, we mustn't let this take control. Our words could be innocent if we just put in the effort. We can bring gifts to the world if we just put in the effort.