I’d spent all day searching for it. At 8pm, nearing darkness, I turned on a lamp. It began to rain faintly – even with thunder like a gentle whisper. I laid down on the floor, closed my eyes, and listened. The cicadas, a splash of water on the road as a car drove by, the murmuring of a distant conversation.

A small wooden boat rocked gently. I’d forgotten if it was roped or shackled.

“All the diversity, all the charm, and all the beauty of life are made up of light and shade.”

“A person who has not been completely alienated, who has remained sensitive and able to feel, who has not lost the sense of dignity, who is not yet “for sale”, who can still suffer over the suffering of others, who has not acquired fully the having mode of existence – briefly, a person who has remained a person and not become a thing – cannot help feeling lonely, powerless, isolated in present-day society. He cannot help doubting himself and his own convictions, if not his sanity. He cannot help suffering, even though he can experience moments of joy and clarity that are absent in the life of his “normal” contemporaries. Not rarely will he suffer from neurosis that results from the situation of a sane man living in an insane society, rather than that of the more conventional neurosis of a sick man trying to adapt himself to a sick society. In the process of going further in his analysis, i.e. of growing to greater independence and productivity, his neurotic symptoms will cure themselves.”

I’d tell them that the city is a fabrication, a forgery. It seems that the “renewal” was somehow all too rushed and now it reeks of Disingenuity. Sometimes the air here feels so stifled and stuck that I wonder if we’re all not walking around in a grave. A dizzying sensation as we swim between the bodies of yesterday’s dim breeze. Wrap your wistful wishes in guilty silk and bury them by the lemon trees.

A hero or heroine falls under a dark spell which eventually traps them in some wintry state, akin to a living death: physical or spiritual imprisonment, sleep, sickness or some other form of enchantment. For a long time they languish in this frozen condition. Then a miraculous act of redemption takes place, focused on a particular figure who helps to liberate the hero or heroine from imprisonment. From the depths of darkness they are brought up into glorious light.

 

A sutured scar, the edges joined by cotton wire.

The bells began to ring and slowly drawled out to a dim hum that remained.

He, like a hollowed-out tree.

Or a vacant cave, calling upon and conjuring.

Her fingertips, now blackened to midnight, and unable to stir ashen cinders.

The provocative, rousing intoxication watered down to the dreary, prosaic channel.

Vronsky

Structure, detachment, distance, only bring chaos, craving, and confinement.

I’m naive, idealistic, innocent. I’m cold, calculated, cruel.

Your kindness will only ever be exploited by callous people who suffer. Forgive them and love them anyway. You are too bright of a light to burn out, so burn on.

These pieces are somehow stitched together, slowly playing in symphony. I hoped for an adventure and now I ache for a silent sea. I don’t think I have it in me.

The glittering horizon or a misplaced house? Should I choose walls or water? Does my contentment come only in a sealed container?

That vastness. The infinite stretching of space and stars, the dissociation, the driftwood. His fingers drawing circles on my shoulder, hearts wrapped in rusted ropes, shipwrecked.

That drug-like passion that seems to come only with impermanence. Lovers lying between bedsheets, burdened by the twisted weight of wanting. Both seeking refuge from the hurricanes and avalanches within us.

Let their gentle whispers warp you.

 

pro-tip

principle

/ˈprɪnsɪp(ə)l/

noun

  1. A fundamental truth or proposition that serves as the foundation for a system of belief or behaviour or for a chain of reasoning.
  2. a rule or belief governing one’s behaviour.

 

Paris. Early espressos over second-hand Shakespeare. We drank champagne on a sunny Montmarte terrace. Notre-Dame bells and five rolls of Kodak Portra 400. I played a lazy Chopin on a street piano and wished for the fingers of someone with more commitment. We spent the afternoon at Monet’s lilies. He found the blackest, deepest dimension, the reflections of willow trees in the water’s edge, and declared it his. This could have been my city.

White lights and black beaches
And blood red sangrias
We traveled for weeks
Just to escape your demons
But you’ve got your reasons

“True creativity is very, very rare. And so, if you happen to be a creative person or if you happen to be someone who is profoundly interested in ideas, you are in a pronounced minority.”

– Jordan Peterson

“I just want to write” she said. “Except everything is all too loud.”

“Loud?” he asked. He’d been looking out the window at a neighbors’ balcony where a lone tea-towel had fallen from a clothes line.

“Do you ever feel like your mind is messy? Like what you’re feeling today is what you were feeling three months ago, except it’s only now that you’ve found the time to actually let it sink in?”

He turned to her now and focused intently on her face. She’d been in a light mood all summer, with her dark eyes that somehow seemed to be always smiling.

“You take me as quite an orderly person. Is it like you to be messy?”

“Not really, no.”

“But you feel messy inside?”

“Yes, something like that.”

Men could not part us with their worldly jars,
Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;
Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars,–
And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,
We should but vow the faster for the stars.

*

Behold and see
What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,
And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn
Through the ashen greyness.

 

– Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Sonnets from the Portuguese

hold on / let go

The five-year-old fighting with the fascist dictator.

How to stop a mind:

  1. Music
  2. Making love
  3. Running away