“At the end of this day there remains what remained yesterday and what will remain tomorrow: the insatiable, unquantifiable longing to be both the same and other.”

—Fernando Pessoa, from section 26 [24], The Book of Disquiet (Serpent’s Tail, 1991) 

"…and I talked at dinner perpetually because I thought irritatingly empty words were precisely what they deserved; they deserved each naked phrase I could possibly utter at the time. They were not worthy of my silence."
— Virginia Woolf, from Selected Letters (via violentwavesofemotion)
"Am I a bad poet? Very well, then I am a master of my own bad poetry."
— Federico Garcia Lorca (via myelegiaalone)


The Gothic Quarter, Barcelona, Spain (by Barca 19)

surrounded by stone and yet there is so much light

  1. Camera: Nikon D7000
  2. Aperture: f/9
  3. Exposure: 1/40th
  4. Focal Length: 32mm
"Oh, she knew this game. All her life it had been the cure-all. Pretend the world better. If you weep, pretend you’re smiling. If you’re puzzled, pretend you’re certain. If you’re hungry, pretend you’re full. If you see chaos, pretend there’s a plan. If today stinks, pretend it’s tomorrow. If it hurts — psychoprophylaxis. […] But why should I pretend this doesn’t hurt? she thought, and was all of a sudden angrier than she could ever remember being before."
— Francis Spufford, Red Plenty

I am inside someone
who hates me. I look
out from his eyes. Smell
what fouled tunes come in
to his breath. Love his
wretched women.

Slits in the metal, for sun. Where
my eyes sit turning, at the cool air
the glance of light, or hard flesh
rubbed against me, a woman, a man,
without shadow, or voice, or meaning.

This is the enclosure (flesh,
where innocence is a weapon. An
abstraction. Touch. (Not mine.
Or yours, if you are the soul I had
and abandoned when I was blind and had
my enemies carry me as a dead man
(if he is beautiful, or pitied.

It can be pain. (As now, as all his
flesh hurts me.) It can be that. Or
pain. As when she ran from me into
that forest.
                Or pain, the mind
silver spiraled whirled against the
sun, higher than even old men thought
God would be. Or pain. And the other. The
yes. (Inside his books, his fingers. They
are withered yellow flowers and were never
beautiful.) The yes. You will, lost soul, say
‘beauty.’ Beauty, practiced, as the tree. The
slow river. A white sun in its wet sentences.

Or, the cold men in their gale. Ecstasy. Flesh
or soul. The yes. (Their robes blown. Their bowls
empty. They chant at my heels, not at yours.) Flesh
or soul, as corrupt. Where the answer moves too quickly.
Where the God is a self, after all.)

Cold air blown through narrow blind eyes. Flesh,
white hot metal. Glows as the day with its sun.
It is a human love, I live inside. A bony skeleton
you recognize as words or simple feeling.

But it has no feeling. As the metal, is hot, it is not,
given to love.

It burns the thing
inside it. And that thing

Amiri Baraka,An Agony. As Now.” from The Dead Lecturer. Copyright © 1964 by Amiri Baraka. 

"One wants to turn away—and cry
for fire to break out on the stairs
and raze each suffocating room.
But the walls stay, the roof remains
strong and immovable, and we
can only pray that if these rooms
have memories, they are not ours."
—Dana Gioia, Maze Without a Minotaur (via ashesandstatic)

(Source: white-noise-essays)


Innsbruck, Austria (by traumlichtfabrik)

"Each lock makes two prisoners."
— James Richardson (via andlohespoke)

My long-silent little corner of tumblr is a year old, today.  I find this amazing; I have changed more in this last year than I could ever begin to express.

As “stopping and then starting up again” appeals, I considering posting here again.  The rhythm I used before no longer suits, but there is much to be said for searching out a new one.