Karner Blues

Alone with our madness and favorite flower

[journalofanobody]

“You and I – are like two mountains. You and I – not meeting in this world.”

Anna Akhmatova. (via journalofanobody)

[karnerblues]

It's sad to see you go, David Bowie. Tonight the stars have burned out each and every one. Thank you for the music. You will always be one of my heroes.

[karnerblues]

She liked being reminded of butterflies. She remembered being six or seven and crying over the fates of the butterflies in her yard after learning that they lived for only a few days. Her mother had comforted her and told her not to be sad for the butterflies, that just because their lives were short didn't mean they were tragic. Watching them flying in the warm sun among the daisies in their garden, her mother had said to her, see, they have a beautiful life. Alice liked remembering that.

Lisa Genova, Still Alice

[moonlun3-blog]

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[karnerblues]

I was thinking of Anna. I make myself think of her, I do it as an exercise. She is lodged in me like a knife and yet I am beginning to forget her. Already the image of her that I hold in my head is fraying, bits of pigments, flakes of gold leaf, are chipping off. Will the entire canvas be empty one day? I have come to realise how little I knew her, I mean how shallowly I knew her, how ineptly. I do not blame myself for this. Perhaps I should. Was I too lazy, too inattentive, too self-absorbed? Yes, all of those things, and yet I cannot think it is a matter of blame, this forgetting, this not-having-known. I fancy, rather, that I expected too much, in the way of knowing. I know so little of myself, how should I think to know another?

John Banville, The Sea

[antigonick]

I liked the idea of living in a city—any city, especially a strange one—liked the thought of traffic and crowds, of working in a bookstore, waiting tables in a coffee shop, who knew what kind of solitary life I might slip into? Meals alone, walking the dogs in the evenings; and nobody knowing who I was.

Donna Tartt, The Secret History

[korineharmonies]

As I Was Moving Ahead Occasionally I Saw Brief Glimpses of Beauty (2000)

dir. Jonas Mekas

[karnerblues]

Love Is Like Sounds Donald Hall

Late snow fell this early morning of spring. At dawn I rose from bed, restless, and looked Out of my window, to wonder if there the snow Fell outside your bedroom, and you watching.

I played my game of solitaire. The cards Came out the same the third time through the deck. The game was stuck. I threw the cards together, And watched the snow that could not do but fall.

Love is like sounds, whose last reverberations Hang on the leaves of strange trees, on mountains As distant as the curving of the earth, Where snow still hangs in the middle of the air.

[karnerblues]

In his poem “On Discovering a Butterfly,” Lolita author Vladimir Nabokov wrote of “the secluded stronghold” where specimens are kept “safe from creeping relatives and rust.” When Nabokov caught a frosty-blue butterfly in France in 1938, he brought it to the stronghold of the American Museum of Natural History, where it still sits with a bright red label, crowning it the first and official representative, or holotype, of Lysandra cormion.

While Nabokov is most famous for his fancy prose style, he was also devoted to lepidopterology, the study of moths and butterflies. After fleeing Russia in 1940, Nabokov started his American life volunteering in the Museum’s entomology collections. He once told an interviewer, “It is not improbable that had there been no revolution in Russia, I would have devoted myself entirely to lepidopterology and never written any novels at all.”

The L. cormion specimen was only the beginning of the author’s contributions to the collections. In 1941, Nabokov sent nearly 500 field-caught butterflies to the Museum as he traveled with his family from the East Coast to California with stops in the Southwest.

source

[love-less]

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[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

it is like love: the abrupt, hard certainty of the end—

Louise Glück, from Poems 1962-2012

[criterioncollection]

In a Wenders mood tonight.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

I agree with you. About the voice of the younger Joni and the older Joni. The former is filled with such hope and longing, wishes that tinkle like tiny bells. The latter, on the other hand, is tired, heavy, threadbare. I listen and think: What has the world done to you, Joni? Tug that voice hard enough and it will disintegrate. I hear it most in her revisit of Case of You.

Yeah. Heartbreak shows in her voice and she must have been through a lot. At the same time her voice in the revisit is raw in the realest sense. But yeah…“What has the world done to you, Joni? Tug that voice hard enough and it will disintegrate.” – you expressed this perfectly

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

What are some of your favorite Joni Mitchell songs? I love the entire Blue album and a lot of her newer stuff but other than that, I haven't listened to as much as I'd like to

Both Sides Now is my favourite. And then Blue – well, nothing beats Both Sides Now & A Case Of You; Joni has such quality, either her new stuff or her old stuff say a lot about who she is as a person but let’s just say that she simply downright wounds with her newer stuff…she sings the love and the pain and she sings it too damn good and it’s very painful and devastatingly raw and mature in the most sincere sence (no exaggeration with the adverbs) & kind of bittersweet/nostalgic too but what wins is the the fact that overall Both Sides Now is such a personal record. It feels personal. It’s amazing. I feel that what she had to say in these last years, she said it with Both Sides Now and it was a brilliant closure indeed

[thegood-byelook]

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[orplid-deactivated20181205]

Virginia Woolf and her lover, the English poet Vita Sackville-West

“Look here Vita — throw over your man, and we’ll go to Hampton Court and dine on the river together and walk in the garden in the moonlight and come home late and have a bottle of wine and get tipsy, and I’ll tell you all the things I have in my head, millions, myriads — They won’t stir by day, only by dark on the river. Think of that. Throw over your man, I say, and come.”

- Virginia Woolf’s 1927 Love Letter to Vita Sackville-West

[karnerblues]

Hey, this is Aydin. Note to those of you who know me on here: I’ve changed my picture, and the blog’s name is now blueovercoat.