Taking Care Callista Buchen
trying on a metaphor
I'd rather be in outer space đ¸
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@anthonyso
Taking Care Callista Buchen
some hyper famous artists like Van Gogh transcend overratedness and become underrated because they're so normalized. Like I'll look at a van Gogh and I'm like wait this really is amazing you guys don't get it
Shakespeare is like this
Every time I see a Van Gogh thatâs not one of his better known pieces it absolutely blows me away
Have you seen this shit my liege? smh unreal
Whatâs meant for you will find you, but that doesnât mean you control how or when it shows up.
Itâs more about trusting that you donât have to force everything, while still being present enough to recognize it when it does.
"I am, I am, I am", Tathev Simonyan
Wildness Before Something Sublime Leila Chatti
âWatching you talk on the phone, I consider the empty space around atoms-â original poem by Rhiannon McGavin
I tried my hand at blackout poetry, for the second time ever, iirc.
I feel like this is from the perspective of âthe other womanâ, and it just happened that it came out that way as I was blacking out lines (it barely made sense in the beginning lol)
but Iâd love to know what you think.
Watching you talk on the phone, I consider the empty space around atoms - Rhiannon McGavin
11.17.17
Last night I placed seven flowers under my pillow, that I might see you again. I sleep in the theory of morphic resonance, in symphonies of winter and chastity houses. I dream of a field between language and light, that I might find you there. I walk among the living, speaking in tongues, turning dead cinders and lichens into meaning. I pretend that all this will not one day be in the past tense. These are our worldly duties: to forget, but I have loved none more than you, the words of you and the dust of hours. When the cold comes in, it is swift in its veins and as white as the fires of presence. I know now that to love is to have something that would be too painful to forget, also to remember. Here, where the living wait, there is a threshold. I thought to speak your name, a summoning; to say your name, a field. All among the earth, black upon black, such is our loss and the poppies. I learned to burn the small dead branches, another way of speaking. I learned to pray for the ground, to feel no pain, that we might finally know peace: bodily, the peace of a hundred windy fires. But to see you again, I would give this peace and all the hours of the earth. Even from a distance. I have given no one violets, I have mourned, and still the earth does not know how much we loved one another. We dream and forget the dream in our waking. To be like that is a wind-swept spirit, a window. To be like that is to forget and then remember youâve forgotten. These are the flowers of you I have collected.
âOnce I wove you a mask of rattan and hair. Once I carved you a mask of painted wood. I brushed my wooden leg against your wooden leg. We had learned to imitate each otherâs breath. When I see you again will you know who I am? Will you place your words back into my open mouth? Once I held you for years in the stones of my eyes. You were an ineluctable act of God. Into the drainage ditch we hurled our toys.â
â Michael Dumanis, âThe Forecastâ
Eavan Boland
âIn my great melancholy, I loved life, for I love my melancholy.â (Soren Kierkegaard)Â
âEvery thing that you love, you will eventually lose, but in the end, love will return in a different form.â
â May Benatar, Kafka and the Doll: The Pervasiveness of Loss
âNobody speaks to me. People fall in love with me, and annoy me and distress me and flatter me and excite me andâand all that sort of thing. But no one speaks to me. I sometimes think that no one can. Can you?â
â Edna St. Vincent Millay, from a letter to Arthur Davison Ficke featured in Savage Beauty: The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay
âA ruin is an accidental aesthetic object. If it becomes beautiful, this was certainly not the intention. A ruin is not constructed or maintained. The tendency of a ruin is to crumble down into a heap. The most beautiful parts remain standing despite their wear. The memory of you is what stays up, your body what subsides. Your ghost remains upright in my memory, while your skeleton is in the earth.â
â Edouard Leve, Suicide
âThe light of memory, or rather the light that memory lends to things, is the palest light of allâŚI am not quite sure whether I am dreaming or remembering, whether I have lived my life or dreamed it. Just as dreams do, memory makes me profoundly aware of the unreality, the evanescence of the world, a fleeting image in the moving water.â
â Eugène Ionesco, Present-Past Past-Present