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thunderstruck9

Gustaf Fjaestad (Swedish, 1868-1948), Winter Landscape, 1925. Oil on canvas, 94 x 103 cm.

leahgardner-art

2022, oil on cradled wood panel

metamorphesque

— Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

[text ID: It seems to me more than ever that I am a victim of introspection. If I have not the power to put myself in the place of other people, but must be continually burrowing inward. I shall never be the magnanimous creative person I wish to be. Yet I am hypnotized by the workings of the individual, alone, and am continually using myself as a specimen.]

isletic

I’ve spent my whole life daydreaming. It embarrasses me to think of tallying the hours. It feels like ingratitude. It feels like infidelity. It’s often been about infidelity. I’ve daydreamed while walking, while running, while drinking, while smoking—sitting in the Boston cold, seventeen years old, daydreams sprouting like so many weeds from the cracked sidewalk of a broken heart. I’ve daydreamed on every form of transport—something about commuting feels conducive to daydreaming, the pockets of time in between our commitments, and the fact of the body in motion, neither here nor there, available for an elsewhere. I’ve daydreamed to music and in silence, in solitude and in company. It’s hardly exceptional.

- Leslie Jamison, Dreamers in broad daylight: ten conversations

metamorphesque

— Anne Carson, The Glass Essay

[text ID: Perhaps the hardest thing about losing a lover is / to watch the year repeat its days. / It is as if I could dip my hand down / into time and scoop up / blue and green lozenges of April heat / a year ago in another country.]

derangedrhythms

The incalculable malice of the everyday.

Sylvia Plath, Collected Poems; from 'Three Women'

metamorphesque

Landscape in Mâcon, Hippolyte Petitjean

cestlabellevie

metamorphesque

— Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

[text ID: I never tried to be anything other than a dreamer. I never paid any attention to people who told me to go out and live. I belonged always to whatever was far from me and to whatever I could never be. Anything that was not mine, however base, always seemed to be full of poetry. The only thing I ever loved was pure nothingness.]

metamorphesque

― Clarice Lispector, A Breath of Life

[text ID: I've never been free in my whole life. Inside I've always chased myself. I've become intolerable to myself. I live in a lacerating duality. I'm seemingly free, but I'm a prisoner inside of me.]