Wednesday, April 16, 2014

The tune of tuesday morning rain.. Did anybody ever think that all rain is the same? Every droplet makes a different sound when it kisses the ground, and even the spaces between droplets make music.Some of these droplets are deft dancers, others’ only ambitions are to become puddles of gray mud. Some fall with suicidal stubbornness to their death, others fall gently as if falling in love…But each one is a symphony still. As if some god, sitting bored on the apex of some hill, decided to make some subtle sound and scattered rain notes around, so that all of us could hear.

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

favorite pastime: reading wine and drinking books; smoking sadness and drowning in cigars.

Sunday, April 13, 2014

Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises


Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises

i want to cry for days. just for the fuck of it, just for the sea and the ocean of it. because of how steep are the stairs of the soul, and how high the ladders of love. because i think that my nature animal has escaped. that blank brained creature which moves to muscle music only, has gone away to roam, and i am left with a dry intellect, and the blackbirds of its fingerprints on my pillow. i want to cry because of lovelack and the fact that the sun has gone out for a walk across the universe. because i’m hiding in my room and in each verse, until it returns.

follow my friend + be tempted to buy one of her magnificent works (more coming)

Tuesday, April 8, 2014

A Light exists in Spring
Not present on the Year
At any other period —
When March is scarcely here

A Color stands abroad
On Solitary Fields
That Science cannot overtake
But Human Nature feels.

It waits upon the Lawn,
It shows the furthest Tree
Upon the furthest Slope you know
It almost speaks to you.

Then as Horizons step
Or Noons report away
Without the Formula of sound
It passes and we stay —

A quality of loss
Affecting our Content
As Trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a Sacrament.

Emily Dickinson (812)

Between sequences of sun and dark sleep
between coffee and tea
between you and me
appear all these dreams
of a huge supermarket

Maybe our life is some huge supermarket
where deep in distress
we shop for happiness
where ailes are days,
and we get lost in them

With neon-lit minds & wire-tangled hearts
we are the meek, who
seek salvation in junk
by the streets of stuffed shelves we weep

Everything is too sleek
for tears, and the sterile sun doesn’t get
our fears: that we will never find our way
out toward the final cashier

or that we’ll sell our friends
along the way
or that we’ll pay with pain for all of this
wandering in this mean modern abyss
askew, astray.

As all can see, this blog is deep asleep. The spring sun has lulled it silly; and the steady humdrum of work, work, work has dulled it into dumbness. I hope to waken it when time comes. I say with Eliot that ‘there will be time - there will be time’, believing that words like fruits will ripen and I will come to reap them pretty soon.

Thursday, April 3, 2014
I like the feeling of words doing as they want to do and as they have to do. Gertrude Stein, from Selected Writings of Gertrude Stein

(Source: violentwavesofemotion)