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mythology
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Édouard Manet, The Luncheon on the Grass, 1862-63
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mythology
24 Sep2 views
I kept fiddling with my phone through dinner because I was fascinated that every time I tried to type love, I missed the o and hit i instead. I live you is a mistake I make so often, I wonder if it’s not what I’ve been really meaning to say. -Jamaal May, Hum
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mythology
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You should write because you love the shape of stories and sentences and the creation of different words on a page. Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write. — Annie Proulx
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Édouard Manet, The Railway, 1873
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I wake to listen: A far sea moves in my ear. -Sylvia Plath
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Sorrow is better than fear. Fear is a journey, a terrible journey. But, sorrow is at least an arriving. — Alan Paton
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Morocco, December 2017
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mythology
24 Sep3 views
The empty grocery cart is beginning to roll across the empty parking lot. It’s beginning to act like Marlon Brando might if no one were watching. It’s a joyous sight, but it might not end at all happily, the way someone light in the head does something charming and winds up dead. My thoughts are so heavy you couldn’t lift the bier. They are so light and stray so far someone in a uniform wants to bring them in. The world might be in agony, but I don’t think so. Somewhere a woman is swathed in black veils and smiling too. It might be the eve of her baptism, the day after her son hit a pole. How can she signal her acceptance of life? What if a hummingbird enters her mouth? I hate the thought, whizzing by in red clothes. Yet I admire its gloves. Hands are unbearably beautiful. They hold on to things. They let things go. -Mary Ruefle, “The Cart”
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Flora Borsi
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You never know what worse luck your bad luck has saved you from. — Cormac McCarthy, No Country for Old Men
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This is a case in which I need more than words to find the meaning. — Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking
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Evan Wakelin
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Our fate is shaped from within ourselves outward, never from without inward. — Jacques Lusseyran
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Vladimir Mayakovsky and Lilya Brik, 1915
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24 Sep10 views
When the cold front came, all the leaves went limp. That was that—no more white flies on the patio, one bloom still curled tightly in its calyx, its promise of color fading. Yet there’s nothing like a radio in a room without tables or chairs—the way music can furnish our lives with something. A cracked clay pot holds the door open as you pack up your belongings in boxes that have lost their stiffness, move after move after move, leaving more behind each year, a flower swaying on its stem in a silent dance. It doesn’t matter what was playing all these years, w h at more could you want than this—to travel as light as possible? Leave me in this house as evening washes over us. -Timothy Liu, “A Killing Frost”
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Maxime Bondu, The Challenger, 2015
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Vladimir Mayakovsky‘s ROSTA poster, Russia
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Every act of perception, is to some degree an act of creation, and every act of memory is to some degree an act of imagination. — Oliver Sacks, Musicophilia
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9 Oct16 views
I’m learning so many different ways to be quiet. There’s how I stand in the lawn, that’s one way. There’s also how I stand in the field across from the street, that’s another way because I’m farther from people and therefore more likely to be alone. There’s how I don’t answer the phone, and how I sometimes like to lie down on the floor in the kitchen and pretend I’m not home when people knock. There’s daytime silent where I stare, and a nighttime silent when I do things. There’s shower silent and bath silent and California silent and Kentucky silent and car silent and then there’s the silence that comes back, a million times bigger than me, sneaks into my bones and wails and wails and wails until I can’t be quiet anymore. That’s how this machine works. — Ada Limon, “The Quiet Machine” from Bright Dead Things
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14 Oct37 views
Men’s voices in the dark —once in a temple— men’s voices in the sun —once I was caryatid number nine— men’s voices in the park —I was a statue untouchable naked with no other mirror than the fingers of the air yielding to thought after thought with no other sadness than the rustling of leaves— men’s voices in the park: why did they waken me? -Inger Christensen, ”from Light: Men’s Voices”
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14 Oct38 views
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14 Oct38 views
Henri Rousseau. Indian Fighting a Jaguar. 1910.
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31 Oct24 views
Color is not a trivial subject but one that has compelled, for hundreds of years, a passionate curiosity in the greatest artists, philosophers, and natural scientists. The young Spinoza wrote his first treatise on the rainbow; the young Newton’s most joyous discovery was the composition of white light; Goethe’s great color work, like Newton’s, started with a prism; Schopenhauer, Young, Helmholtz, and Maxwell, in the last century, were all tantalized by the problem of color; and Wittgenstein’s last work was his Remarks on Colour. And yet most of us, most of the time, overlook its great mystery. Oliver Sacks
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31 Oct31 view
Okada Baison, A Swallow in the Rain
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31 Oct31 view
That was the summer we had so many clouds we didn’t know what to do with them. They overflowed the sky – they were on our streets, in our homes, in our drawers, and in our cabinets. They were in our cars and in our buses, I even saw them in taxis…They cast long shadows in an unearthly light. Some were blue, some were gray, some black, some white, some were pink, some were lavender, some orange, some a ghastly purple. All cast a trance and silence upon us… -Mary Ruefle, “Among the Clouds”
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mythology
7 Nov24 views
Because you used to leaf through the dictionary, Casually, as someone might in a barber shop, and Devotedly, as someone might in a sanctuary, Each letter would still have your attention if not For the responsibilities life has tightly fit, like Gears around the cog of you, like so many petals Hinged on a daisy. That’s why I’ll just use your Initial. Do you know that in one treasured story, a Jewish ancestor, horseback in the woods at Yom Kippur, and stranded without a prayer book, Looked into the darkness and realized he had Merely to name the alphabet to ask forgiveness— No congregation of figures needed, he could speak One letter at a time because all of creation Proceeded from those. He fed his horse, and then Quietly, because it was from his heart, he Recited them slowly, from aleph to tav. Within those Sounds, all others were born, all manner of Trials, actions, emotions, everything needed to Understand who he was, had been, how flaws Venerate the human being, how aspirations return Without spite. Now for you, may your wife’s X-ray return with good news, may we raise our Zarfs to both your names in the Great Book of Life. -Jessica Greenbaum, “A Poem for S.”
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7 Nov29 views
August Natterer, My Eyes At the Time of Revelation, 1911-1913
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19 Nov12 views
He described her mouth as full of ashes. So when he kissed her finally he was thinking about ashes and the blacker rim just below the edge of the ashtray, and the faint dark rim that outlined her lips, and the lips themselves, at the limit of another darkness, farther and far more interior. Then the way the red, paling, just outside those lines caught fire and the pages caught soon after that. Slowly at first, but then all at once at the scalloped brown corners of each; like the ruff of an offended and darkening bird, extended, then folded in on itself; multiple, stiffening, gone. -Susan Stewart, “In the Novel” from The Hive: Poems
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mythology
19 Nov11 views
Megan Shein. Abandoned Houses Detroit Series: Abandoned House VIII, 2010; Abandoned House IX, 2010.
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19 Nov11 views
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19 Nov13 views
Albert Bierstadt, Cloud Study, Moonlight, 1860
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mythology
27 Nov10 views
One wants so many things … One wants simply, said the lady, to sit on the bank and throw stones while another wishes he were standing in the Victoria and Albert Museum looking at Hiroshige’s Waterfall: one would be able to paint like that, and Hiroshige wishes he could create himself out of the Yuro sea spray in Mino province where a girl under the Yuro waterfall wants to die, not quite sure who her person is, but that the water falls like a sheet of tin and another day’s thrown in the sieve; one can barely see the cherry blossoms pinned up in little buns like the white hair of an old woman who was intended for this hour, the hour intended to sit simply on the bank at the end of a long life, throwing stones, each one hitting the water with the tick of a hairpin falling in front of a mirror. -Mary Ruefle, “The Intended”
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mythology
27 Nov13 views
Hiroshige’s Waterfall
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27 Nov14 views
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27 Nov15 views
Jane Wilson, Sunset Terrace, 2006
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mythology
4 Dec18 views
«Я пропадаю, я гибну…» ПРОПАСТЬ. Приступ подавленности, испытываемый влюбленным субъектом из-за отчаяния ими из-за переполнения. От уязвленности или от счастья, но иногда меня охватывает желание пропасть. Этим утром (в деревне) пасмурно и тихо. Я страдаю (не знаю, по какому случаю). <...> Приступ «пропадания» может начаться от уязвленности, но также и от слияния: мы умрем вместе от нашей любви; открытая смерть растворением в эфире, замкнутая смерть общей могилы. Приступ «пропадания» может начаться от уязвленности, но также и от слияния: мы умрем вместе от нашей любви; открытая смерть растворением в эфире, замкнутая смерть общей могилы. youtu.be/Q9Goxfb-8w4
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mythology
4 Dec14 views
Uncommunicative
Boating Drama In The High Desert
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mythology
4 Dec20 views
This time I’m not going to say a thing about deity. It’s not the blizzard, it’s three days after. Trinkle from thawing roofs, ruined crocus pronging through. Ruin, I promise, won’t be mentioned again. Trees, sure, still begging in the road, split to the bole but this isn’t about the chainsaw. A pruning saw will have to do. The puppets aren’t hanging themselves in each other’s strings. Everyone’s easily identifiable beneath the funny mask. Somewhere in Oregon, Mary has another month to go, she’s comfortable in any position for thirty-five seconds. Lulu, we know you’re in there but no one’s blaming you for reluctance to come out. Poetry is the grinding of a multiplicity throwing off sparks, wrote Artaud and look what that got him: toothlessness and shock therapy. Your dad, who has the worst teeth of anyone I know, once ordered eggplant in a steakhouse. Do not order eggplant in a steakhouse turned out to be more than aphoristicly true. Do not spend a lot of time in an asylum writing cruel poems if you can help it, one Artaud is enough. In Kandinsky’s Blue 2, there’s a shape in two rows of shapes that seems okay although to the right’s a capsized canoe full of mathematicians, to the left a bow about to launch the killer astrolabe. By what manner is the soul joined to the body? How about climbing a ladder of fire? No thanks. On TV, a rhino’s lying in some red dust, munching a thorn. You wouldn’t think he could ejaculate for half an hour straight, but you’d be wrong. See that cloud, it might weigh 10,000 pounds which is about average for a cloud. Happy birthday, happy birthday to you. Tony says Mary is always writing about the sacred. Talcum powder, binoculars, this decimated planet. I know, a promise has been made but Tony’s been sick for years and no one knows with what. Flax oil, bark tinctures, corticosteroids. He’s not exactly someone you’d trust to drive your car, but still. Something awful’s coming, isn’t it? Would it help if I said Amen? -Dean Young, “Acceptance Speech”
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18 Dec12 views
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