http://salastia.wordpress.com/
do come by for tea
xxo
K&E
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Friday, May 28, 2010
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
my body as a needle passing through the pedestrians' passing moments, weaving them into a tapestry
blurring the boundaries between aesthetics and transcendent experience
http://blog.art21.org/2009/09/17/meet-the-season-5-artist-kimsooja/
http://blog.art21.org/2009/09/17/meet-the-season-5-artist-kimsooja/
Friday, May 21, 2010
This was my grade 10 monologue
Ingemar: I should have told her everything. Mama loved stories like that. It's not so bad if you think about it. It could have been worse. What about Laika, the space dog? They put her in a Sputnik, and sent her into space. They attached wires to her heart and her brain to see how she felt. I dont think she felt so good. She spun around there for five months until her doggy bag was empty. She starved to death.
It's important to have things to compare with. I think about that woman who went to Ethiopia to be a missionary...they beat her to death with clubs--right while she was preaching. You have to compare all the time.
I think about the guy who saw Tarzan in a movie and tried to swing on a high tension wire and fell dead on the spot. You should never think you're Tarzan. I should have told her everything while she still had her strength. Stories from life, Mom really loved those. She collects them. You have to have something to tell her. I like it when she laughs, then she puts her books down. The problem is she reads a lot. It's good to get her to think of something else.
It bothers me to think of that poor dog Laika. Terrible sending a dog in a spaceship without enough food. She had to do it for human progress, she didn't ask to go.
I think about the guy who tried for a world record in jumping buses with a motorcycle. He lined up 31 buses. If he'd left it at 30, maybe he would have survived. Imagine, missing the world record by one bus. The last one. He just touched it with his back wheel. I think about the guy who walked across the sports arena. He got a javelin right through the chest. He must have been very surprised.
In fact, I've been lucky compared to others. You have to compare so you can get a little distance on things. It's important to keep a certain distance.
It's important to have things to compare with. I think about that woman who went to Ethiopia to be a missionary...they beat her to death with clubs--right while she was preaching. You have to compare all the time.
I think about the guy who saw Tarzan in a movie and tried to swing on a high tension wire and fell dead on the spot. You should never think you're Tarzan. I should have told her everything while she still had her strength. Stories from life, Mom really loved those. She collects them. You have to have something to tell her. I like it when she laughs, then she puts her books down. The problem is she reads a lot. It's good to get her to think of something else.
It bothers me to think of that poor dog Laika. Terrible sending a dog in a spaceship without enough food. She had to do it for human progress, she didn't ask to go.
I think about the guy who tried for a world record in jumping buses with a motorcycle. He lined up 31 buses. If he'd left it at 30, maybe he would have survived. Imagine, missing the world record by one bus. The last one. He just touched it with his back wheel. I think about the guy who walked across the sports arena. He got a javelin right through the chest. He must have been very surprised.
In fact, I've been lucky compared to others. You have to compare so you can get a little distance on things. It's important to keep a certain distance.
"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue."
— Pablo Neruda
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.
I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.
I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,
and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue."
— Pablo Neruda
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Thursday, May 13, 2010
To love life, to love it even
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weighs you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
{ellen bass; the thing is}
when you have no stomach for it
and everything you’ve held dear
crumbles like burnt paper in your hands,
your throat filled with the silt of it.
When grief sits with you, its tropical heat
thickening the air, heavy as water
more fit for gills than lungs;
when grief weighs you like your own flesh
only more of it, an obesity of grief,
you think, How can a body withstand this?
Then you hold life like a face
between your palms, a plain face,
no charming smile, no violet eyes,
and you say, yes, I will take you
I will love you, again.
{ellen bass; the thing is}
The Day Time Waited For Me
And so, I wait because you have already left and my work here, is done. I wait and wonder how my skin feels like it’s made of love letters written a hundred years too soon (too late). I wonder at the mystery of life and how much of it can possibly remain. I wonder at pain and hurt and love and time and how much of each I held. I wonder at how I cannot remember anything in my life before I met you. I wonder at the tiniest of touches and try, desperately, to keep their memories alive. I wonder at loneliness. I wonder at how long it’ll be, before I see you again. I wait. And I wonder.
pleasefindthis.com
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Sometimes I pretend we are timeless
And that only the moon, the wind and the oceans
Whom I have lived next to for so long
And still cannot quench my admiration for
Are the only thing still here
Still shinging, blowing and breathing
Onto a beach somewhere
Or into my bedroom
Where my dreams shall sleep forever
Under my pillow
And in my unexperienced heart
Drench the logics out
For I wish to live
Only with a sting in my heart
Where flowers shall grow
Every morning and every night
Before I am weakened
And put to sleep
In other arms.
And that only the moon, the wind and the oceans
Whom I have lived next to for so long
And still cannot quench my admiration for
Are the only thing still here
Still shinging, blowing and breathing
Onto a beach somewhere
Or into my bedroom
Where my dreams shall sleep forever
Under my pillow
And in my unexperienced heart
Drench the logics out
For I wish to live
Only with a sting in my heart
Where flowers shall grow
Every morning and every night
Before I am weakened
And put to sleep
In other arms.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Monday, May 10, 2010
urban interventions. personal projects in public spaceshttp://www.booooooom.com/2010/05/10/urban-interventions-gestalten-book/
In a Dream
by Patti Masterman
In a dream I shall feel
The wings of the world unfolding, and
Worlds spinning on the axis of mad journeys;
And the seas breaking turquoise, upon their rippled surface.
In the heart of the ears
I shall hear the shivering willows, dreaming their
Wood-smoke dreams, full of sap and funneled sunlight;
Pierced by light for a thousand years
And the flowers sleeping nestled in stars;
Gathered in the deep, among the wood-thrushes,
In coagulated violet forests, all shadowed and dark:
And a whispered peace barely rustles this world.
Read more: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/in-a-dream/#ixzz0nXOvJrfU
by Patti Masterman
In a dream I shall feel
The wings of the world unfolding, and
Worlds spinning on the axis of mad journeys;
And the seas breaking turquoise, upon their rippled surface.
In the heart of the ears
I shall hear the shivering willows, dreaming their
Wood-smoke dreams, full of sap and funneled sunlight;
Pierced by light for a thousand years
And the flowers sleeping nestled in stars;
Gathered in the deep, among the wood-thrushes,
In coagulated violet forests, all shadowed and dark:
And a whispered peace barely rustles this world.
Read more: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/in-a-dream/#ixzz0nXOvJrfU
Sunday, May 9, 2010
“The Velveteen Rabbit was about how little kids get one toy that they love more than all the others, and even when its fur has been rubbed off, and it’s gone saggy with bits missing, the little child still thinks it’s the most beautiful toy in the world, and can’t bear to be parted from it. That’s how it works, when people really love each other.”
— Helen Fielding
— Helen Fielding
“ We laughed and laughed, together and separately, out loud and silently, we were determined to ignore whatever needed to be ignored, to build a new world from nothing if nothing in our world could be salvaged, it was one of the best days of my life, a day during which I lived my life and didn’t think about my life at all.
- Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
- Jonathan Safran Foer, Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close
Saturday, May 8, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Attempting to be Happy
| 2000, Oil and alkyd on linen over panel, 70 x 70 in click this (yum): http://www.squeakcarnwath.com/art_paint_pmg.html |
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Friday, April 30, 2010
Thursday, April 29, 2010
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
If you keep taking stabs at utopia
sooner or later there will be scars.
Suppose there was a thermometer able to measure
contentment. Would you slide it under
your tongue and risk being told you were on par
with a thirteenth century farmer who lost
all his teeth in a game of hide and seek? Would you
be tempted to abandon your portable conscience,
the remote control that lets you choose who you are
for every occasion? I wish we cared more
about how we sounded than how we looked.
Instead of primping before mirrors each morning,
we'd huddle in echo chambers, practicing our scales.
As a kid, I thought the local amputee was dying in
pieces,
that his left arm was leaning against a tree in heaven,
waiting for the rest of him to arrive, as if God
was dismantling him like a jigsaw puzzle, but now
I understand we're all missing something. I wish
there were Band Aids for what you don't know, whisky
breath mints for sober people to fit in at wild parties.
There ought to be a Smithsonian for misfits,
where an insomniac's clammy pillow hangs over
a narcoleptic's drool cup, the teeth of an anorexic
displayed like a white picket fence designed
to keep food from trespassing. I wish the White House
was made out of mood ring rock, reflecting
the health of the nation. And an atheist hour
at every church, and needle exchange programs,
and haystack exchange programs too, and emotional
baggage thrift stores, a Mount Rushmore for assassins.
I'm sick of strip malls and billboards. I dream
of a road lit by people who set themselves on fire,
no asphalt, no rest stops, just a bunch of dead grass
with footprints so deep, like a track meet in wet cement.
{jeffrey mcdaniel; the scars of utopia}
sooner or later there will be scars.
Suppose there was a thermometer able to measure
contentment. Would you slide it under
your tongue and risk being told you were on par
with a thirteenth century farmer who lost
all his teeth in a game of hide and seek? Would you
be tempted to abandon your portable conscience,
the remote control that lets you choose who you are
for every occasion? I wish we cared more
about how we sounded than how we looked.
Instead of primping before mirrors each morning,
we'd huddle in echo chambers, practicing our scales.
As a kid, I thought the local amputee was dying in
pieces,
that his left arm was leaning against a tree in heaven,
waiting for the rest of him to arrive, as if God
was dismantling him like a jigsaw puzzle, but now
I understand we're all missing something. I wish
there were Band Aids for what you don't know, whisky
breath mints for sober people to fit in at wild parties.
There ought to be a Smithsonian for misfits,
where an insomniac's clammy pillow hangs over
a narcoleptic's drool cup, the teeth of an anorexic
displayed like a white picket fence designed
to keep food from trespassing. I wish the White House
was made out of mood ring rock, reflecting
the health of the nation. And an atheist hour
at every church, and needle exchange programs,
and haystack exchange programs too, and emotional
baggage thrift stores, a Mount Rushmore for assassins.
I'm sick of strip malls and billboards. I dream
of a road lit by people who set themselves on fire,
no asphalt, no rest stops, just a bunch of dead grass
with footprints so deep, like a track meet in wet cement.
{jeffrey mcdaniel; the scars of utopia}
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
"Young friends, whose string-and-tin-can phone extended from island to island, had to pay out more and more string, as if letting kites go higher and higher.
“It’s getting almost impossible to hear you,” said the young girl from her bedroom in Manhattan as she squinted through a pair of her father’s binoculars, trying to find her friend’s window.
“I’ll holler if I have to,” said her friend from his bedroom in the Sixth Borough, aiming last birthday’s telescope at her apartment.
The string between them grew incredibly long, so long that it had to be extended with many other strings tied together: his yo-yo string, the pull from her talking doll, the twine that had fastened his father’s diary, the waxy string that had kept her grandmother’s pearls around her neck and off the floor, the thread that had separated his great-uncle’s childhood quilt from a pile of rags.
Contained within everything they shared with one another were the yo-yo, the doll, the diary, the necklace, and the quilt. They had more and more to tell each other, and less and less string.
The boy asked the girl to say “I love you” into her can, giving her no further explanation. And she didn’t ask for any, or say “that’s silly,” or “we’re too young for love,” or even suggest that she was saying “I love you” because he asked her to. Instead she said, “I love you.” The words traveled the yo-yo, the doll, the diary, the necklace, the quilt, the clothesline, the birthday present, the harp, the tea bag, the tennis racket, the hem of the skirt he one day should have pulled from her body.
The boy covered his can with a lid, removed it from the string, and put her love for him on a shelf in his closet. Of course, he never could open the can, because then he would lose its contents. It was enough just to know it was there.” - Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer
“It’s getting almost impossible to hear you,” said the young girl from her bedroom in Manhattan as she squinted through a pair of her father’s binoculars, trying to find her friend’s window.
“I’ll holler if I have to,” said her friend from his bedroom in the Sixth Borough, aiming last birthday’s telescope at her apartment.
The string between them grew incredibly long, so long that it had to be extended with many other strings tied together: his yo-yo string, the pull from her talking doll, the twine that had fastened his father’s diary, the waxy string that had kept her grandmother’s pearls around her neck and off the floor, the thread that had separated his great-uncle’s childhood quilt from a pile of rags.
Contained within everything they shared with one another were the yo-yo, the doll, the diary, the necklace, and the quilt. They had more and more to tell each other, and less and less string.
The boy asked the girl to say “I love you” into her can, giving her no further explanation. And she didn’t ask for any, or say “that’s silly,” or “we’re too young for love,” or even suggest that she was saying “I love you” because he asked her to. Instead she said, “I love you.” The words traveled the yo-yo, the doll, the diary, the necklace, the quilt, the clothesline, the birthday present, the harp, the tea bag, the tennis racket, the hem of the skirt he one day should have pulled from her body.
The boy covered his can with a lid, removed it from the string, and put her love for him on a shelf in his closet. Of course, he never could open the can, because then he would lose its contents. It was enough just to know it was there.” - Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
27. There was another person with whom I had been on close terms. We used to discuss the gloomy and delightful and bitter things of the world. The she went down to Chikuzen. One bright moonlit night after she had left, I lay thinking fondly about a similar evening when I had met this friend in the Princess’s Palace and stayed up with her, gazing at the moon and not getting a wink of sleep all night. I dozed off and dreamt that we had met in the same palace and talked to each other just as we used to do in reality. When I awoke, the moon hung near the western ridge of the hills. Realizing that it had been a dream, I lay there sunk in deep reflection and wished I had never woken up. I composed this poem,
I saw her in my dream,
And now my bed is all afloat with tears.
Tell her how much I yearn for her,
Oh moon, as now you glide towards the West!
I saw her in my dream,
And now my bed is all afloat with tears.
Tell her how much I yearn for her,
Oh moon, as now you glide towards the West!
As I Crossed a Bridge of Dreams: Recollections of a Woman in Eleventh-Century Japan, Lady Sarashina.
Lady Sarashia was born in A.D. 1008 in Japan. Her real name is unknown. As I Crossed a Bridge of Dreams was probaby written a year after her husband’s death when she was fifty years old, and recounts her life and travels, her family life and the wonders and sorrows she finds in the world
Lady Sarashia was born in A.D. 1008 in Japan. Her real name is unknown. As I Crossed a Bridge of Dreams was probaby written a year after her husband’s death when she was fifty years old, and recounts her life and travels, her family life and the wonders and sorrows she finds in the world
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Boy Lilikoi
I want to be a lilikoi, Boy Lilikoi
You grind your claws, you howl, you growl unafraid of Hoi Polloi
You run, you're free, you climb endless trees - You reignite
You growl, you howl, you show your teeth
You bite, it's alright
Just say no more, use your eyes, the world goes and flutters by
Use your eyes, you'll know you are
Use your eyes, the world goes and flutters by
Use your eyes, you'll know you are
Wild be my boy, you burn so bright, till you illuminate
One day you're out, you give up the fight, you slow down heart-rate
We all grow old, use your life, the world goes and flutters by
Use your life, you'll know you are
Use your life, the world goes and flutters by
Use your life, you'll know you are
Electricity wires are down, rainbow colours fade into brown
I dreamt your smile was shifting for good
Courageous boy, now you are gone
And run faster, yet have no place to go
Your spirit still burns, it's now a ghost sun
You are....... (Alive)
You are....... (Alive)
I want to be a lilikoi, boy, you...
You grind your claws, you howl, you growl, unafraid of Hoi Polloi
Electricity wires are down, rainbow colours fade into brown
I dreamt your smile was shifting for good
Courageous boy, now you are gone
You run faster, yet have no place to go
Your spirit still burns, it's now a ghost sun
You are....... (Alive)
You are....... (Alive)
You grind your claws, you howl, you growl unafraid of Hoi Polloi
You run, you're free, you climb endless trees - You reignite
You growl, you howl, you show your teeth
You bite, it's alright
Just say no more, use your eyes, the world goes and flutters by
Use your eyes, you'll know you are
Use your eyes, the world goes and flutters by
Use your eyes, you'll know you are
Wild be my boy, you burn so bright, till you illuminate
One day you're out, you give up the fight, you slow down heart-rate
We all grow old, use your life, the world goes and flutters by
Use your life, you'll know you are
Use your life, the world goes and flutters by
Use your life, you'll know you are
Electricity wires are down, rainbow colours fade into brown
I dreamt your smile was shifting for good
Courageous boy, now you are gone
And run faster, yet have no place to go
Your spirit still burns, it's now a ghost sun
You are....... (Alive)
You are....... (Alive)
I want to be a lilikoi, boy, you...
You grind your claws, you howl, you growl, unafraid of Hoi Polloi
Electricity wires are down, rainbow colours fade into brown
I dreamt your smile was shifting for good
Courageous boy, now you are gone
You run faster, yet have no place to go
Your spirit still burns, it's now a ghost sun
You are....... (Alive)
You are....... (Alive)
Friday, April 9, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
THE ART OF DEVELOPING A BEAUTIFUL MIND. John O'Donohue
When you beautify your mind, you beautify your world. You learn to see differently. In what seemed like dead situations, secret possibilities and invitations begin to open before you. In old suffering that held you long paralysed, you find new keys. When your mind awakens, your life comes alive and the creative adventure of your soul takes off. Passion and compassion become your new companions. As St. Iraneus said in the 2nd Century: The glory of God is the human person fully alive.
The world is not simply there. Everything and everyone we see, we view through the lenses of our thoughts. Your mind is where your thoughts arise and form. It is not simply with your eyes but with your mind that you see the world. So much depends on your mind: How you see yourself, who you think you are, how you see others, what you think the meaning of life is, how you see death, belief, God, darkness and beauty is all determined by the style of mind you have.
Your mind is your greatest treasure. We become so taken up with the world, with having and doing more and more that we come to ignore who we are and forget what we see the world with. The most powerful way to change your life is to change your mind. In this evening’s talk, we will explore ways of awakening, enriching and refining your mind. We will use lecture, conversation, story, poetry and meditation.When you beautify your mind, you beautify your world. You learn to see differently. In what seemed like dead situations, secret possibilities and invitations begin to open before you. In old suffering that held you long paralysed, you find new keys. When your mind awakens, your life comes alive and the creative adventure of your soul takes off. Passion and compassion become your new companions. As St. Iraneus said in the 2nd Century: The glory of God is the human person fully alive.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
| leaving is not enough; you must stay gone. train your heart like a dog. change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. you lucky, lucky girl. you have an apartment just your size. a bathtub full of tea. a heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. you had to have him. and you did. and now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. don’t lose too much weight. stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. and you are not stupid. you loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. heart like a four-poster bed. heart like a canvas. heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street. ~Marty McConnell; Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell |
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
Thirteen words not found in the english language:
1. Waldeinsamkeit (German): the feeling of being alone in the woods
2. Ilunga (Tshiluba, Congo): a person who is ready to forgive any abuse
for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time
3. Taarradhin (Arabic): a way of resolving a problem without anyone losing
face (not the same as our concept of a compromise – everyone wins)
4. Litost (Czech): a state of torment created by the sudden sight of one’s own misery
5. Esprit de l’escalier (French): a witty remark that occurs to
you too late, literally on the way down the stairs…
6. Meraki (Greek): doing something with soul, creativity, or love
7. Yoko meshi (Japanese): literally ‘a meal eaten sideways’, referring to
the peculiar stress induced by speaking a foreign language:
8. Duende (Spanish): a climactic show of spirit in a performance or work of art,
which might be fulfilled in flamenco dancing, or bull-fighting, etc.
9. Guanxi (Mandarin): in traditional Chinese society, you would build up good
guanxi by giving gifts to people, taking them to dinner, or doing them a favour,
but you can also use up your gianxi by asking for a favour to be repaid.
10. Pochemuchka (Russian): a person who asks a lot of questions
11. Tingo (Pascuense language of Easter Island): to borrow objects
one by one from a neighbour’s house until there is nothing left
12. Radioukacz (Polish): a person who worked as a telegraphist for
the resistance movements on the Soviet side of the Iron Curtain
13. Selathirupavar (Tamil): a word used to define a certain
type of absence without official leave in face of duty
1. Waldeinsamkeit (German): the feeling of being alone in the woods
2. Ilunga (Tshiluba, Congo): a person who is ready to forgive any abuse
for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time
3. Taarradhin (Arabic): a way of resolving a problem without anyone losing
face (not the same as our concept of a compromise – everyone wins)
4. Litost (Czech): a state of torment created by the sudden sight of one’s own misery
5. Esprit de l’escalier (French): a witty remark that occurs to
you too late, literally on the way down the stairs…
6. Meraki (Greek): doing something with soul, creativity, or love
7. Yoko meshi (Japanese): literally ‘a meal eaten sideways’, referring to
the peculiar stress induced by speaking a foreign language:
8. Duende (Spanish): a climactic show of spirit in a performance or work of art,
which might be fulfilled in flamenco dancing, or bull-fighting, etc.
9. Guanxi (Mandarin): in traditional Chinese society, you would build up good
guanxi by giving gifts to people, taking them to dinner, or doing them a favour,
but you can also use up your gianxi by asking for a favour to be repaid.
10. Pochemuchka (Russian): a person who asks a lot of questions
11. Tingo (Pascuense language of Easter Island): to borrow objects
one by one from a neighbour’s house until there is nothing left
12. Radioukacz (Polish): a person who worked as a telegraphist for
the resistance movements on the Soviet side of the Iron Curtain
13. Selathirupavar (Tamil): a word used to define a certain
type of absence without official leave in face of duty
Sunday, February 28, 2010
NACHO
“I like to see objects as living organisms, imagining them coming alive and being able to surprise you with their behaviour. I want to create objects with my hands, then I can give them my personality. I turn them into communicative objects that can arouse one’s sensations and imagination. In short, what I want to create are objects with a fictional or fantasy element, that allow you to escape everyday life.” -Nacho Carbonell-
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
her gentle body sways
with the honeysuckle
as she with an intimate gesture
asks permission to taste life.
a humble way of being
in this world,
which is not
given to us to hide in.
she carries the beauty of this universe
inside her wings
as her hovering body
gracefully turns in
gratitude.
a gentle knock at the door inside
with her beak,
and she owns the pain
we feel with every attempt
to find our place.
sometimes we only need
a hand on the other side
to hold onto as we dissolve
into the fierce heat
of our devotion.
she rises and falls
into the heavens,
i am reminded
to breathe.
if we only could listen to the quiet
she brings us
and continue to look
for the lost entry to our soul,
we could rest easier.
anneli (spiritweaves.com)
with the honeysuckle
as she with an intimate gesture
asks permission to taste life.
a humble way of being
in this world,
which is not
given to us to hide in.
she carries the beauty of this universe
inside her wings
as her hovering body
gracefully turns in
gratitude.
a gentle knock at the door inside
with her beak,
and she owns the pain
we feel with every attempt
to find our place.
sometimes we only need
a hand on the other side
to hold onto as we dissolve
into the fierce heat
of our devotion.
she rises and falls
into the heavens,
i am reminded
to breathe.
if we only could listen to the quiet
she brings us
and continue to look
for the lost entry to our soul,
we could rest easier.
anneli (spiritweaves.com)
More:
“If I had a camera,” I said, “I’d take a picture of you every day. That way I’d remember how you looked every single day of your life.” “I look exactly the same.” “No, you don’t. You’re changing all the time. Every day a tiny bit. If I could, I’d keep a record of it all.” “If you’re so smart, how did I change today?” “You got a fraction of a millimeter taller, for one thing. Your hair grew a fraction of a millimeter longer. And your breasts grew a fraction of a-” “They did not!” “Yes, they did.” “Did NOT.“ “Did too.” “What else, you big pig?” “You got a little happier and also a little sadder.” “Meaning that they cancel each other out, leaving me exactly the same.” “Not at all. The fact that you got a little happier today doesn’t change the fact that you also became a little sadder. Every day you become a little more of both, which means that right now, at this exact moment, you’re the happiest and the saddest you’ve ever been in your whole life.” “How do you know?” “Think about it. Have you ever been happier than right now, lying here in the grass?” “I guess not. No.” “And have you ever been sadder?” “No.” “It isn’t like that for everyone, you know. Some people, like your sister, just get happier and happier everyday. And some people, like Beyla Asch, just get sadder and sadder. And some people, like you, get both.” “What about you? Are you the happiest and saddest right now that you’ve ever been?” “Of course I am.” “Why?” “Because nothing makes me happier and nothing makes me sadder than you.”
from The History of Love
from The History of Love
From The History of Love
So many words get lost. They leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. On rainy days you can hear their chorus rushing past: IwasabeautifulgirlPleasedon’tgoItoobelievemybodyisma deofglassI’veneverlovedany oneIthinkofmyselfasfunnyFo rgive me...
There was a time when it wasn’t uncommon to use a piece of string to guide words that otherwise might falter on the way to their destinations. Shy people carried a little bundle of string in their pockets, but people considered loudmouths had no less need for it, since those used to being overheard by everyone were often at a loss for how to make themselves heard by someone. The physical distance between two people using a string was often small; sometimes the smaller the distance, the greater the need for the string.
The practice of attaching cups to the ends of the string came much later. Some say it is related to the irrepressible urge to press shells to our ears, to hear the still-surviving echo of the world’s first expression. Others say it was started by a man who held the end of a string that was unraveled across the ocean by a girl who left for America.
When the world grew bigger, and there wasn’t enough string to keep the things people wanted to say from disappearing into the vastness, the telephone was invented.
Sometimes no length of string is long enough to say the thing that needs to be said. In such cases all the string can do, in whatever its form, is conduct a person’s silence.
Monday, February 15, 2010
"Now comes the long blue cold
and what shall I say but that some
bird in the tree of my heart is singing.
That same heart that only yesterday
was a room shut tight, without dreams.
Isn’t it wonderful—the cold wind and
spring in the heart inexplicable.
Darling girl. Picklock."
From Mary Oliver's Red Bird
and what shall I say but that some
bird in the tree of my heart is singing.
That same heart that only yesterday
was a room shut tight, without dreams.
Isn’t it wonderful—the cold wind and
spring in the heart inexplicable.
Darling girl. Picklock."
From Mary Oliver's Red Bird
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Monday, February 1, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
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