The last time I had a dream I didn’t write it down. And I suppose if everyone knew what they were talking about, we’d be licking the wrinkles off our fingertips instead of hiding pinpricks in our poetry. You have to string together enough of the right words to call them yours, see—you have to drip dialogue and lick it dripping. Be brave today and bleed novels while I sleep; my mouth drip, it’s throbbing.
When people fled Fukushima and other parts of Japan a year ago, thousands of pets were left behind. While many pets have since been reunited with their owners, a horrific situation still exists in the no-go 12.5-mile radiation zone around the damaged nuclear plants.
There, homeless dogs and cats are still wandering around the area, according to World Vets founder and CEO Cathy King. She told Discovery News that “a lot of these animals have since been rescued out, but some remain.”
The problem demonstrates how difficult recovery has been after the 9.0 magnitude earthquake that struck off the northeast coast of Japan on March 11, 2011.
The resulting tsunami and nuclear woes devastated the area. Animal support teams from all over the world descended upon the region and are still trying to improve the situation.
More images and information about the rescue efforts here
photo 1 & 2: Corbis
Decay is the Way Dead Things Live
on Bruno Schulz, Jindřich Štyrský,
and other modernist masters of matter.
The fiction of Bruno Schulz is alive with dead things. His stories all take place in the narrow landscape of his childhood: the small, provincial town of Drohobycz in what was then the Austro-Hungarian Empire and is now western Ukraine, a few years after the start of the twentieth century. At the same time, they seem to occupy a separate cosmos, one whose physics, biology and even meteorology are distinct from our own. Schulz’s Drohobycz is a city of abnormal winds, intercalated seasons and illusory geography, in which time is entirely plastic, stretching out and contracting according to its own desires.
Here, the boundaries between people and things aren’t fixed. Human beings are susceptible to sudden, inexplicable transformations. They turn into animals — cockroaches, flies, crustaceans — and objects — a pile of ash, a primitive telegraph, a heap of rubbish, the rubber tube of an enema. A flock of multicolored birds flies from the family house in winter; in the fall, it returns blind and misshapen, the birds’ anatomy a nonsense of cardboard and carrion. The substance of reality seems paper-thin and prone to tearing. In attics, darkness degenerates and ferments. Unmade beds rise like dough. Colorless poppies sprout out of the weightless fabric of nightmares and hashish.