26 November 2015
If anyone sees that sand or dust is falling on him,
then he will become very rich
and own a lot of property.
If he sees that he is walking in dust and sand
or he sees that he is loaded with the soil,
then he will have to toil much to get wealth
and he will get plenty of it.
If anyone sees that dust is suspended in the sky,
then it is a sign that his affairs
will become complicated.
If a person sees that he is digging the earth
and eating its oil
then he will be devouring wealth
with deceit and falsehood,
because “earth” means
a false religion.
A wilderness of horror
has the same interpretation.
From Interpretation of Dreams, Imam Muhammad Bin Sirin (Ahmadiyya Muslim Mission Nigeria, 1979). Submitted by Dale Wisely.
23 November 2015
The telephone rang in the Newspaper Room. It was
Francis Crammer Greenman. A friend had just called
from the Library to tell her
that a type she had been looking for for a picture
was sitting in the Newspaper Room.
It was an old man with a beard.
Would the assistant hold him until she got there —
she was six blocks away?
The man had left.
But they thought he had gone to the Magazine Room.
The call was transferred: the man was found
by Reference in our room.
He stayed. She came.
They left together.
From the Daily Happenings log of the New York Public Library Reference Room, June 1952. Submitted by John FitzGerald.
19 November 2015
with your face about powerful creatures
their assailants, louboutin pas cher
for more information on forg louboutin
et the fear, forget escape
this condition called scared no point
Qin Feng today, everywhere
In the such and all, in one state
Some Wordpress spam. Submitted by Ffion Lindsay.
16 November 2015
Remove all sharp objects from jumper!
Do not use when smoking!
Do not use with high blood pressure!
Do not use during pregnancy!
Do not use when suffering!
Do not use somersaults!
Use only bare foots!
The warning notice packaged with a trampoline kit from the Big Bounce trampoline company. Submitted by Emma Neale.
12 November 2015
I’m a patriotic husband,
you my patriotic wife,
lemme book into ya camp
and manufacture life.
Only financially secure adults
in stable, committed, long-term
relationships should participate.
A song encouraging Singaporeans to have more babies, reported in Baby Love, The Economist, 25 July 2015. Submitted by Rishi Dastidar.
09 November 2015
It makes me remember
all the times we’ve been together
absolutely alone in some suspended hour
a holiday from Time
prowling about in those quiet places
alienated from past and future
where there is no sound save listening
and vision is an anesthetic…
When I see how handsome you are
my stomach will fall
with many unpleasant emotions
like a cake with too many raisins
and I will want to shut you up in a closet
like a dress too beautiful to wear.
A letter from Zelda Fitzgerald to her husband F. Scott Fitzgerald in 1931. Submitted by Grace Andreacchi.
05 November 2015
off duty without a friend, a hobby to console me,
or the price of a cinema ticket, what can I do?
I enter a little shop down the road, furtively,
and ask the woman for my favourite brand.
I sneak back to my room and lock the door
against everyone. Then out comes the teaspoon
I filched from the dining room. I indulge in an orgy
of onions, gherkins, piccalilli, mustard and spice.
Yes, I finish the whole jar. Then I wash my hands,
clean my teeth, and can face the world. Maybe
it’s because pickles aren’t provided in our meals.
Or maybe my nature requires still more acid.
Mother says the vinegar will dry up my blood
and I’ll be preserved. But, oh, what a glorious end.
From a letter to an old edition of Woman magazine sent in by Miss J.D. Huddersfield of Yorkshire. Submitted by Angela Readman.
02 November 2015
She was going out with him,
she was supposed to love him,
but she left him in the fridge
and let the council deal with the body.
Overheard in the street in a small city in southern England, 7 October 2015. Submitted by Mark Totterdell.
29 October 2015
I know I am not the only woman in the world
with a sort of hurt feeling about fruit shops.
The windows are always so full of delicious
looking fruit. The rosiest of apples, succulent
black grapes, oranges and grapefruit that make
my mouth water. The greenest of watercress,
and sprightly mustard cress just ask for a plate
of thin bread and butter and a cup of strong tea.
Brussel sprouts are so neat and compact.
And every potato is round, neat and eyeless,
- just right to bake with half a dozen of its brothers.
Why is it then, when I get home with my basket
I find little shapeless many eyed potatoes, sprouts
dirty and loose-leaved, cress yellow and limp?
I know every fruit and vegetable can’t be perfect.
But I think some of the window fruit should get
into the shopping basket more often - in fact I know.
From a letter to Woman magazine sent in by Miss I.A.L Shields of County Durham, around the late 1940s. Submitted by Angela Readman.
26 October 2015
I started thinking about smell,
the strange olfactory world,
and made a collection
of evocative aromas.
Rubber, naphtha, motorcycle dope,
cuir de russe, gasoline, ammonia.
Juniper wood, styrax, patchouli,
frangipani, amber, myrrh, geraniol.
Opoponx, heliotrope, nardo
spikenard oil, civet, coumarin.
Where does karanal stand
in relation to tuberose?
Or sandalwood to sage?
Don't ask me.
From Scents and Sensibility by Brian Eno, Details magazine, July 1992. Submitted by Dale Wisely.
24 October 2015
Mommy, the universe
is such a big scary place,
says the little girl with red hair.
Oh, yes, it is such a big scary place,
says the red-headed mother
of the little girl with red hair.
But don't worry, dear,
we're not going there.
Overhead while exiting the Hayden Planetarium, New York City. Submitted by J.R. Solonche.
21 October 2015
Mummy, I’m not afraid to die.
Why do you talk of dying
and you so young
do you want a lollipop?
No, but I shall be with Peter and June.
Mummy, let me tell you about my dream last night.
Darling, I’ve no time now. Tell me again later.
No, Mummy, you must listen.
I dreamt I went to school
and there was no school there.
Something black had come down all over it.
You mustn’t have chips for supper for a bit.
The next day off to school went her daughter
as happy as ever.
In the communal grave she was buried
with Peter on one side
and June on the other.
Dialogue from an account of 10-year-old Eryl Mai's premonition of the 1966 Aberfan avalanche disaster, via Futility Closet. Submitted by Gabriel Smy.