secretfragileskies: And all my days are trances

Monday, January 10, 2011

And all my days are trances

And all my days are trances,

And all my nightly dreams
Are we here thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.

To One in Paradise, by Edgar Allan Poe

 pascalegeorgiev:                                                                                      via theantidote:

HelenLyôn
(via musiquevisuelle:)

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Mere forgetfulness cannot remove it
Nor wishing bring it back, as long as it remains
The white precipitate of its dream
In the climate of sighs flung across our world,
A cloth over a birdcage. But it is certain that
What is beautiful seems so only in relation to a specific
Life, experienced or not, channeled into some form
Steeped in the nostalgia of a collective past.

"Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror," John Ashbery

falling

Damiel;

It's great to live by the spirit, to testify day by day for eternity, only what's spiritual in people's minds. But sometimes I'm fed up with my spiritual existence. Instead of forever hovering above I'd like to feel a weight grow in me to end the infinity and to tie me to earth. I'd like, at each step, each gust of wind, to be able to say "Now." Now and now" and no longer "forever" and "for eternity." To sit at an empty place at a card table and be greeted, even by a nod. Every time we participated, it was a pretense. Wrestling with one, allowing a hip to be put out in pretense, catching a fish in pretense, in pretense sitting at tables, drinking and eating in pretense. Having lambs roasted and wine served in the tents out there in the desert, only in pretense. No, I don't have to beget a child or plant a tree but it would be rather nice coming home after a long day to feed the cat, like Philip Marlowe, to have a fever and blackended fingers from the newspaper, to be excited not only by the mind but, at last, by a meal, by the line of a neck by an ear. To lie! Through one's teeth. As you're walking, to feel your bones moving along. At last to guess, instead of always knowing. To be able to say "ah" and "oh" and "hey" instead of "yea" and "amen."

Catherine Hessling, La fille de l’eau, Jean Renoir, 1924.

secretfragileskies

Monday, January 10, 2011

And all my days are trances

And all my nightly dreams
Are we here thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.

No comments:

august

an altered space

“The world is airtight
yet held together
by what it does not house,
by the vanished. They are everywhere.”

Dead men make such convenient Heroes

falling

secretfragileskies

Monday, January 10, 2011

And all my days are trances

And all my nightly dreams Are we here thy grey eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams— In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams.

No comments:

august

an altered space

“The world is airtight yet held together by what it does not house, by the vanished. They are everywhere.”

Dead men make such convenient Heroes

falling

And all my nightly dreams
Are we here thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.

“The world is airtight
yet held together
by what it does not house,
by the vanished. They are everywhere.”