C’

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud; clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun; and loathsome canker lies in sweetest bud.

[oldpaintings]

Ferdinand du Puigaudeau (French, 1864–1930)

[dwightschrute]

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Stateless - Bloodstream

[fragrantblossoms]

Masao Yamamoto, 841, from Nakazora (series).

[namelessmons]

180307, bitter

i. impermanence The moment I vanish is the moment I’m free one part a million of possibilities to be here It takes more than a million times to be brave when a bubble tries to survive as long as possible Our body won’t even last longer than those tireless waves, somebody have learned the lesson we never have everything we crave. ii. unselfconsciousness All suffer started from the first step in the labyrinth, alone in their mind they can’t fly higher with the burden of their sins, it’s all in their mind Do I have a self, or it’s just a tiny snippet in a repeated delusion? People pretend that streetlights are starlight, that fancy cages are clemency sky I do need more light, need the persistence but also need more coffee and sometimes be absence “I like it when it’s bitter but not too, bitter, you know”. iii. suffering But who will read this story? I fear that I’ll be a page no one gonna flip a word that’s long forgotten how to say a blank space people always skip memories that are left in the ashtray So I keep wandering around, to practice being friend with myself, trying to accept this shell, I take this curse so at least I won’t forget myself “give me the bitterest coffee you have I can sweeten it myself”.

c.

[ilbluprofondodelmare]

Anne Magill (Northern Ireland1962~) - Shimmer 2016

[mythologyofblue]

I fell in love with the idea that the mysterious thing you look for your whole life will eventually eat you alive.

Laurie Anderson explaining her attraction to Moby-Dick (via mythologyofblue)

[lucreziadonnati]

Henri Fantin-Latour Roses (French 14 January 1836 – 25 August 1904) 

[cyberscribbles]

What if you wake up some day, and you’re 65, or 75, and you never got your memoir or novel written; you didn’t go swimming in warm pools and oceans all those years because your thighs were jiggly and you had a nice big comfortable tummy; or you were so strung out on perfectionism and people-pleasing that you forgot to have a big juicy creative life, of imagination and radical silliness and staring off into space like when you were a kid? It’s going to break your heart.

Anne Lamott (via cyberscribbles)

[old-vietnam]

VIETNAM. Hanoi. 1989. During Tet. © David Alan Harvey/Magnum Photos

[metaphorformetaphor]

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“Evgeni’s Waltz” by Abel Korzeniowski [ W.E., 2012]

[iamjapanese]

Chen Jialing（陳 家泠 Chinese, b.1937）

via    more

[aspiritualwarrior]

I have learned so much from God that I can no longer call myself a Christian, a Hindu, a Muslim, a Buddhist, a Jew. The Truth has shared so much of Itself with me that I can no longer call myself a man, a woman, an angel, or even a pure Soul. Love has befriended me so completely it has turned to ash and freed me of every concept and image my mind has ever known.

Hafiz (via aspiritualwarrior)

[photoflor]

Cathedral of Burgos - Burgos 2013

[soracities]

All her shadows He has captured in himself.

Vasko Popa, from ‘The Quartz Pebble’, Collected Poems, 1943-1976 (trans. Anne Pennington)

[equatorjournal]

Alexander Calder Many

[namelessmons]

190326, rain again

Winter has gone Why’s the sky still grey? I peeled the haze find my stopwatch still ticked at the moment Peeled myself, asking for me for who I already known but never greet of belated greatness I’m sleepless in Hanoi What’d we talk about when we talk about being human ? Of one’s smile fading at the last moment withered roses, after the rush Crushed rain, but we needed more more, just a little more rain Of unpeeled insanity once every eternity that too we need

Sleeping on the sound of the rain add more inane in my tea, pretty please?

c.

[damecuratedgoods]

[artamass]

Iran, 18th century (Freer Sackler)

[lifeinpoetry]

In ancient Greek you use the verb άρπάζειν, which comes over into Latin as rapio, rapere, raptus sum and gives us English rapture and rape – words stained with the very early blood of girls, with the very late blood of cities, with the hysteria of the end of the world. Sometimes I think language should cover its own eyes when it speaks.

— Anne Carson, from Norma Jeane Baker of Troy

[songperday]

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Santo and Johnny: Sleep Walk

Album: Lo Mejor de Barrio Music Vol. 1