Halloween: A day of rest for those who wear a mask all the time.
Archive for October, 2011
Posted in art, art,poetry,writing, Books, Photography, photography, Poetry, Writing, tagged art, fog, Huda Ablan, marine layer, Photograph, poem, Poetry, poetry and photgraphy, Strangers, the poetry of arab women on October 30, 2011 | Leave a Comment »
by Huda Ablan
No one belongs to the path
except a pocket
stuffed with the leaves of the night.
It keeps steps in stock
from a shop at the crossroads of the will,
patched with the skin of an old dream.
it invites them to a dance
with few feet and much madness.
it devours their warm, ripe whispers.
it drinks their cries washed with holy water.
it forsakes its lenght and shrinks
to a remote corner of the heart
leafing through pictures of those
who have passed away
ensnaring with their song…
It will cast glances,
No one belongs to the rose
except its melting
in the hand of a sad lover
who plucks it from slumber
and plants it in the vase of a tear
overflowing with pain.
He teaches how love sings
and how to breathe the secret
hiding behind the eyes
so it may reveal itself
No one belongs to the heart.
Immersed in opening its chambers–
Shut tight with red forgetfulness–
It stirs the beats of a love
over which a curtain has been drawn
for a thousand nights,
and shakes a cup of blood
freezing as it faces circulation.
stabs the rug of a wound
made ready for crying
There is no one in the house
is dozing cracks obscure
the rounded journey of a small sun.
In the enclosure of the spirit
its walls bend in the face
of blows from the winds.
Its warmth ages and shrinks
in the coldness of waiting.
With the eyes of the absent
it soaks up warm places that flow
at the very edge of the passage
and melts in the shudder
of an endless beckoning.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, And spills the upper boulders in the sun; And makes gaps even two can pass abreast. The work of hunters is another thing: I have come after them and made repair Where they have left not one stone on a stone, But they would have the rabbit out of hiding, To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean, No one has seen them made or heard them made, But at spring mending-time we find them there. I let my neighbor know beyond the hill; And on a day we meet to walk the line And set the wall between us once again. We keep the wall between us as we go. To each the boulders that have fallen to each. And some are loaves and some so nearly balls We have to use a spell to make them balance: 'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!' We wear our fingers rough with handling them. Oh, just another kind of outdoor game, One on a side. It comes to little more: There where it is we do not need the wall: He is all pine and I am apple orchard. My apple trees will never get across And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him. He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors.' Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder If I could put a notion in his head: 'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it Where there are cows? But here there are no cows. Before I built a wall I'd ask to know What I was walling in or walling out, And to whom I was like to give offense. Something there is that doesn't love a wall, That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him, But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather He said it for himself. I see him there Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed. He moves in darkness as it seems to me, Not of woods only and the shade of trees. He will not go behind his father's saying, And he likes having thought of it so well He says again, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'
Posted in art, digital collage, photography, writing, architecture, Featured Artists, Film, Paris Diaries, Photography, photography, tagged Dianna Ippolito, Movie, Movie poster, Parapluies de Cherbourg, photographer, The umbrellas of Cherbourg, umbrellas on October 26, 2011 | Leave a Comment »
Posted in Architecture, art, Design, Experiments, Jewelry, Jewelry and Accessory Design, Poetry, Writing, tagged architectural, beads, bolts intrepidity, copper strands three nodes, industrial chic, jewelry design, nuts, rugged, Susan Lenart Kazmer, talismans on October 26, 2011 | 2 Comments »
A talisman (from Arabic طلسم Tilasm, ultimately from Greek telesma or from the Greek word “telein” which means “to initiate into the mysteries”) is an amulet or other object considered to possess supernatural or magical powers. (thankyou wiki.)
Each spacer/bolt has the word intre·pidi·ty embedded on it.
tal·is·man \ˈtælɪzmən\: objects worn to bring specific qualities into your life, such as strength, happiness and protection.
She considers herself a “contemporary builder of talismans utilizing objects of her own culture”. As soon as I saw her rugged and evocative spacers I was immediately inspired to create an industrial/architectural piece.
Posted in Architecture, art, Collage, Digital Collage, Paris Diaries, Photography, Writing, tagged collage, Digital Collage, fans, la rose de versailles, marie antoinette, Paris, Photography, rose, slate roofs on October 25, 2011 | Leave a Comment »
To walk in Paris is to behold, and be part of, a living and continuously changing painting.
By Frederick Seidel
It is time to lose your life,
Even if it isn’t over.
It is time to say goodbye and try to die.
It is October.
The mellow cello
Allee of trees is almost lost in sweetness and mist
When you take off your watch at sunrise
To lose your life.
You catch the plane.
You land again.
You arrive in the place.
You speak the language.
You will live in a new house,
Even if it is old.
You will live with a new wife,
Even if she is too young.
Your slender new husband will love you.
He will walk the dog in the cold.
He will cook a meal on the stove.
He will bring you your medication in bed.
Dawn at the city flower market downtown.
The vendors have just opened.
The flowers are so fresh.
The restaurants are there to decorate their tables.
Your husband rollerblades past, whizzing,
Making a whirring sound, winged like an angel–
But stops and spins around and skates back
To buy some cut flowers in the early morning frost.
I am buying them for you.
I am buying them for your blond hair at dawn.
I am buying them for your beautiful breasts.
I am buying them for your beautiful heart.
Reblogged from here
Les chemins de la Liberte’ passent par le Flore.
Posted in art, Poetry, Writing, tagged books, derive, Edmund White, flaneur, flaneur a stroll through the paradoxes of paris, moleskine paris, Paris, pariswalks, quiet corners of paris, walks on October 3, 2011 | 6 Comments »
For many travelers, Paris is Parisland. Here’s the Eiffel Tower. Let’s take aboat ride along the Seine. Ah, the Champs Elysees. Five museums on the list —
let’s whip through them. And, late at night, we’ve got to find that nightclub where the girls kick up their …heels.
Others — that’s my brood and me — go to Paris for the quiet. We sit in cafes for hours. We settle on parkbenches. We take long walks on nearly empty streets. It’s still Parisland, just another kind: an open-air library, a set for dreaming, an urban pillow for outdoor naps.
From a review of Quiet Corners of Paris
Here is a curated list for the flaneur/flaneuse to pack on your messenger bag.
And here, more on the The Flâneur: A Radical-Chic Icon
“Inside a lover’s heart there’s another world, and yet another.”
rests on no foundation.
It is an endless ocean,
with no beginning or end.
a suspended ocean,
riding on a cushion of
All souls have drowned in it,
and now dwell there.
One drop of that ocean is
and the rest is