reaction.

To Read:

finish, begin

finish, begin

to finish and to begin

But it doesn't always happen that way

Does it? 

In fact, it rarely does

if ever

at all

Though we may not know it

If ever

At all.

It wasn't so very late, that night at home. Somehow it always seems later when away from the life that fills in moments of silence found alone. Alone at home, even though another moved through unoccupied rooms. So I began to think about closing books. 

What if reading the book is like the process of birth--like being born--and closing the book like taking the first breaths of air? Those few seconds from the moment you eye and grasp the book with a view to open it to the moment you do--reading, eyeing, mouthing, whispering, speaking that first word--is like the act of consummation. Deciding whether to open the book at all, to consider it even, is like the dance of choosing a partner. And depending on pre-meditation, how long you've waited for this book, could even be naive falling in love. 

Huh, well. Nary a page of this sort read over the break. And now, once again but for the final time, come the textbooks. 

again.

I can’t take the credit for coming across this song by Megan Washington, which contained the first harmonic notes to greet my ears upon settling down on my bedroom floor. They had grown used to the steady tread of tires flying 75 MPH down dampened highways, Seattle to Portland.

And I walked through the door of my childhood home... don’t know if I can say home without a qualifier right now.

I felt as if melting into the shadowy 7 pm wooden floors, yes, right on the Oriental rug. Smelling by breathing so deep as to full my whole self with the place that is care and comfort and the sort of love, elusive, mother and daughter. So I began to listen to this song and watch this story. I listened some more and then turned around, looking up for some air and some sky. It had, in fact, ruptured. The sun was leaving for some tomorrow elsewhere and night was rolling along. But in between was a sky left layered violet and fuchsia. And now it is so coal black that my city tamed eyes widen at the shock of suburban night.

So back to this song. It’s buoyant, so that through one’s eyes shapes melt into one another and so do people, because suddenly you’re smiling so. The stripped down singing to you quality is such a catalyst for this.

Plus, there is tilt-shift, which I first came across here. An unlikely combination of trippy and charming, which I've never seen in motion... until now. 

 

yes, please.

“Make the most of every molecule you’ve got, as long as you’ve got a second to go. That’s your charge.” 

- David Brower 

hier, it was a whole year of seasons in a day

photo I, via Lolita

photo II, we came home

anthem.

And then I was thinking

It's not so much a running away from as a running toward, or perhaps just 

running. 

That was before stumbling across this song by the Kahn Brothers,

 by way of a certain gash of creativity and consciousness,

and also had nothing to do with the message in the video 

yet, like many a time, these guys ended up falling into running leap

and muddy brawl along with my thoughts. Or the other way around. 

what do you believe? it is our choice.

I Believe in Bedtime Stories

I Believe in placing a small piece of dark chocolate on the tongue just before falling asleep, if only to wake the next morning with it's ruddy, bitter taste still on the buds -- I know someone does this, I read about him once, I think he was an architect

I Believe in this boy and his poetics and his words 

I Believe in Play

I Believe in these people and this question

I Believe that I don't know 

But

Most of All

I Believe in Love. 

monday morning.

Lately I’m finding inspiration in the simple words of other human beings, unguarded, off guard and generally observational. But the words are revelatory of the writer’s depth of thought and consciousness and ability to see a moment for more than just the physical actions being played out before them, while the figures of study unaware of their identity as actor in the everyday scene. For this everyday scene is suddenly a rupture from the mundane routine. And all that it takes is an Other, an observer, to feel the rupture. It becomes something else; or at least the false bottom drops away like one’s heart upon the decent of a rollercoaster, the future opens up and this gaping past-of-choices propels it. Like an hourglass where the sand slides through the narrow passage for but an instant, where above and below open wide like arms readying for an embrace, the moment slows for a point, just long enough to glimpse and maybe even to feel, before things change and the sands slide on.

A long way to reach something I look forward to every Monday: The Metropolitan Diary in the New York Times. I can’t get last Monday’s mention of stifled poetic possibility out of my head. And today, a whole bouquet of scenes to bloom all the week’s rest.

On tuning out {"On the L.I.R.R."}

On saving the world  and On the sweetness of New York, when all would seem bitter  {The first and the final letters}