Saturday, January 29, 2011

something in between

It looks like freedom and it feels like death, it’s something in between I guess.

Thursday, January 27, 2011

The still undanced cadence of vanishing


If one day it happens
you find yourself with someone you love
in a café at one end
of the Pont Mirabeau, at the zinc bar
where white wine stands in upward opening glasses,

and if you commit then, as we did, the error
of thinking,
one day all this will only be memory,

as you stand
at this end of the bridge which arcs,
from love, you think, into enduring love,
learn to reach deeper
into the sorrows
to come – to touch
the almost imaginary bones
under the face, to hear under the laughter
the wind crying across the black stones. Kiss
the mouth
which tells you, here,
here is the world. This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones.

The still undanced cadence of vanishing.

from: Little Sleep’s-Head Sprouting Hair In The Moonlight

Galway Kinnell via booksvscigarettes


Wednesday, January 26, 2011


In front of a candle, as soon as one dreams, what one sees is nothing compared to what one imagines.
Gaston Bachelard, The Flame of a Candle

Sonja Vordermaier, Leuchtenwald, Streetlampforest a collection of 30 european streetlamps from different origins and times : Amsterdam, Berlin, Erfurt, Leipzig, Glasgow, Innsbruck, Milano, Hamburg, Prag, Cagnes-sur-mer (France), Sarajevo, Stuttgart, Belgrade, Lippstadt, Munich, Sofia, Trieste,Wolfsburg and Vienna. approx. 29 x 46 x 33 ft Mangfallpark Rosenheim, 2010
workman via iheartmyart:  

Sunday, January 23, 2011

a gesture of both opening and closing

flight before a dream… by Геннадий Тараканов
“… at that moment when words open out onto the things they say, without ambiguity or residuum, they also have an invisible or multiform effect on other words, which they link or dissociate, support and destroy in unavoidable combinations. There, symmetrical with the threshold of meaning, is a secret threshold, curiously open, as if the key forbade crossing the door it fits, as if the gesture creating this fluid, uncertain space were one of definitive mobilization; as if, having come upon this internal door by which it communicates with the dizziness of all its possibilities, language would linger over a gesture of both opening and closing.”
- Michel Foucault, “Speaking and Seeing in Raymond Roussel”

asosyalsosyalist via liquidreams

text: invisible stories 

Friday, January 21, 2011

something that isn’t there

 This is what a memorial is: standing still, staring at something that isn’t there.

Love is the Higher Law, by David Levithan (via the-final-sentence)

Saturday, January 15, 2011

"It's the stupidest tea-party I ever was at in all my life!" 

`Really, now you ask me,' said Alice, very much confused, `I don't think--'

`Then you shouldn't talk,'
said the Hatter. 

"Rep. Michele Bachman (R-Minn.), who now leads the tea party caucus in the House..."

 "The outspoken Minnesota Republican and Tea Party favorite has been tapped by House Speaker John Boehner for a coveted slot on the House Permanent Select Committee on Intelligence, giving her a new role as overseer of the CIA, the National Security Agency and the rest of the U.S. intelligence community. 

'[...]the real issue about Bachmann is "will she able to keep quiet" about everything she gets briefed on in the  committee, almost all of which will be classified information."

Had to re-post.  Been on my mind.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

Space reaches from us and translates the world
What birds plunge through is not the intimate space
in which you see all forms intensified.
(Out in the Open, you would be denied
your self, would disappear into that vastness.

Space reaches from us and translates the world:
to know a tree, in its true element,
throw inner space around it, from that pure
abundance in you. Surround it with restraint.
It has no limits. Not till it is held
in your renouncing is it truly there.

image :here
text: Rilke via booksvscigarettes

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

try to remember some details

try to remember some details. remember the clothing
of the one you love
so that on the day of loss you’ll be able to say: last seen
wearing such-and-such, brown jacket, white hat.
try to remember some details. for they have no face
and their soul is hidden and their crying
is the same as their laughter,
and their silence and their shouting rise to one height
and their body temperature is between 98 and 104 degrees
and they have no life outside this narrow space
and they have no graven image, no likeness, no memory
and they have paper cups on the day of their rejoicing
and paper cups that are used once only.

try to remember some details. for the world
is filled with people who were torn from their sleep
with no one to mend the tear,
and unlike wild beasts they live
each in his lonely hiding place and they die
together on battlefields
and in hospitals.
and the earth will swallow all of them,
good and evil together, like the followers of korah,
all of them in their rebellion against death,
their mouths open till the last moment,
praising and cursing in a single
howl. try, try
to remember some details.
via:  onlyondemairt
 Photoshoot by Kristamas Klousch

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

(via musiquevisuelle:)

Sunday, January 9, 2011

MLK: excerpts for today

This I believe to be the privilege and the burden of all of us who deem ourselves bound by allegiances and loyalties which are broader and deeper than nationalism and which go beyond our nation's self-defined goals and positions. We are called to speak for the weak, for the voiceless, for victims of our nation and for those it calls enemy, for no document from human hands can make these humans any less our brothers. 

We can no longer afford to worship the god of hate or bow before the altar of retaliation. The oceans of history are made turbulent by the ever-rising tides of hate. History is cluttered with the wreckage of nations and individuals that pursued this self-defeating path of hate. As Arnold Toynbee says : "Love is the ultimate force that makes for the saving choice of life and good against the damning choice of death and evil. Therefore the first hope in our inventory must be the hope that love is going to have the last word."
We are now faced with the fact that tomorrow is today. We are confronted with the fierce urgency of now. In this unfolding conundrum of life and history there is such a thing as being too late. Procrastination is still the thief of time. Life often leaves us standing bare, naked and dejected with a lost opportunity. The "tide in the affairs of men" does not remain at the flood; it ebbs. We may cry out desperately for time to pause in her passage, but time is deaf to every plea and rushes on. Over the bleached bones and jumbled residue of numerous civilizations are written the pathetic words: "Too late." There is an invisible book of life that faithfully records our vigilance or our neglect. "The moving finger writes, and having writ moves on..." We still have a choice today; nonviolent coexistence or violent co-annihilation. 

solutions: the secret life of bees  
Brenda Palms Barber wasn’t always drawn to beekeeping. But her quest to find work for residents of Chicago’s economically disadvantaged North Lawndale neighborhood — where some 50 percent of adults have been in the criminal justice system — led her to start Sweet Beginnings, a transitional jobs program for formerly incarcerated individuals and others with significant barriers to employment...
read more :here

Friday, January 7, 2011

On the last page I would write

“If someone told me to write a book on morality, it would have a hundred pages and ninety-nine of them would be blank. On the last page I would write, “I recognize only one duty and that is to love.” And as far as everything else is concerned, I say no.”

— Albert Camus [mianoti:thanks to chiararizzolo]

Source: vogueweekend 
 via asosyalsosyalist

Thursday, January 6, 2011

the kiss

Your first kiss is destiny knocking. 
Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones

Bill Brandt, Limehouse, 1945

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

Notable Books

 ~ 100 Notable Books of 2010

two in Paris...

So you are here? Straight from that moment still suspended?
The net’s mesh was tight, but you? Through the mesh?
I can’t stop wondering at it, can’t be silent enough.
How quickly your heart is beating in me.

The Invisible Bridge, Julie Orringer


Shakespeare & Co.-

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

This place is a dream

“This place is a dream. Only a sleeper considers it real. Then death comes like dawn, and you wake up laughing at what you thought was your grief.”
 text-smokeandsassafrass: (via oceanofmind)
image via maybeghosts

Sunday, January 2, 2011

moving into the unknown

László Moholy-Nagy : 7 A.M. (New Year’s Morning) (ca. 1930)

(via: uncertaintimes)
 There is a part of everything which is unexplored, because we are accustomed to using our eyes only in association with the memory of what people before us have thought of the thing we are looking at. Even the smallest thing has something in it which is unknown.
Gustave Flaubert (via invisiblestories)

László Moholy-Nagy : 7 A.M. (New Year’s Morning) (ca. 1930)
invisible stories (via: uncertaintimes)

Saturday, January 1, 2011