#memoryslandscape

[bluewillowmoon]

“Before long, fate will sit down

for one last supper,

will savor each taste of remembrance —

Dusk, and the cicadas are at it again.

They strain above the early evening silence,

a gentle husking of time.”

— Greg Sellers, from “Geis,” work-in-progress, n.d. (saved from post by memoryslandscape)

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Ocean Beach, San Francisco . . :: Photo: James Fox

* * * * *

“Our view of life is but a sliver of light in the thick, velvety darkness. […] Remember that any summary of life, even a well-written biography, fails to capture the details that comprise a life: the quiet evenings by the sink, the way a person smiled or laughed, an April sunset turning crimson behind a row of beech that sets them into a reverie of childhood, which is, itself, misremembered, since accessing a memory changes its form.”

— Andrew Bertaina, from “Home Burial,” The Chattahoochee Review (vol. XL, no. 2 & 3, Fall 2020) [memoryslandscape]

[zoeflake]

“Some landscapes do not fade as memories; they remain panoramas for the soul.”

— Greg Sellers, journal entry, 3 June 2018 (@memoryslandscape)

[tamurakafkaposts]

I would rather be one tree in a field than another among the woods. Greg Sellers, journal entry (14 November 2017)

[huong1952]

'But till that morning comes' is an original swallow silhouette painting by Melbourne based artist Vincente-Lucy Knight.

https://felt.co.nz/listing/75342/Original-acrylic-swallow-painting-on-silk-paper-

“swallows follow swells / in sky’s deepening blue, flee / dusk’s dark undertow”

@memoryslandscape

[da-da-sk]

“I have been born so much / and twice as much have suffered / in the memory of here and there.”

 -- Alejandra Pizarnik

@memoryslandscape

© da-da-sk

[bluewillowmoon]

“Night always meant longing—for the woman was moonlight, something that could touch him but he was unable to touch in return.”

— Greg Sellers, journal entry, Notes from Neruda’s Ghost, 24 March 2018

(saved from memoryslandscape post)

[bluewillowmoon]

“Desire is the ocean wave that never quite reaches her body.”

— Greg Sellers, journal entry, Notes from Neruda’s Ghost, 18 April 2018

(saved from memoryslandscape post)