dispirited-contrarian replied to your post: but really I move to NYC in two weeks I should…
Drive up/sleep on the piers.
I’m thinking a house boat would just solve both problems
but really I move to NYC in two weeks I should probably find a place to live/buy my plane ticket…???
Today is my birthday
Don’t secrets sustain her, keep her separate, make her self-aware? How can she know who she is if she gives away her secrets?
written by Don DeLillo, Libra
written by Don DeLillo, Libra
(Source: Spotify)
Past
We have to discard the past
and, as one builds
floor by floor, window by window,
and the building rises,
so do we keep shedding -
first, broken tiles,
Then proud doors,
until, from the past,
dust falls
as if it would crash
against the floor,
smoke rises
as if it were on fire,
and each new day
gleams
like an empty
plate.
There is nothing, there was always nothing.
It all has to be filled
with a new, expanding
fruitfulness;
then, down
Falls yesterday
as in a well
Falls yesterday’s water,
into the cistern
of all that is now without voice, without fire.
It is difficult to get bones used
to disappearing,
to teach eyes
to close,
but
we do it
unwittingly.
Everything was alive,
alive, alive, alive
like a scarlet fish,
But time passed with cloth and darkness
and kept wiping away
the flash of the fish.
Water water water,
the past goes on falling
Although it keeps a grip
on thorns
and on roots.
It went, it wen, and now
memories mean nothing.
Now the heavy eyelid shut out the light of the eye
ad what was once alive
is now no longer living;
what we were, we are not.
and with words, although the letters
still have transparency and sound,
They change, and the mouth changes;
the same mouth is now another mouth;
they change, lips, skin, circulation;
another soul took on our skeleton;
what once was in us now is not.
It left, but if they call, we reply
“I am here,” and we realize we are not,
that what was once, was and is lost,
lost in the past, and now does not come back.
Pablo Neruda
Tree
It is foolish
to let a young redwood
grow next to a house.
Even in this
one lifetime,
you will have to choose.
That great calm being,
this clutter of soup pots and books—
Already the first branch-tips brush at the window.
Softly, calmly, immensity taps at your life.
Jane Hirshfield
(Source: Spotify)
A Time Unlike
Child like a child trying
not failing but falling not so
long a way to the spaces he made
along the hours, halve
the brick, inside the same. Child
like a man trying not to try
but proceed, past the parcel
of a child, of an hour spent
derelicting, scarcely beheld
places he felled with abandon.
Man is a space is half without
distance, assemblage of halflings
in a row. Like a fleetness
of falling before seeking for
Child in a place where child wonts.
Jessie Gaynor
