Sur La Siene

Courbevoie (Paris), July 2011

Once upon a time, I fell in love. And it was not with the river, or the oh-so typical someone. No regrets and few frets. Oh, I will never forget the love I felt, the love I felt for myself.

Monday is when all the souls depart- Sunday (day of the saints) is when there are whispers of death (through softened breaths)

Beauty is in the street

Paris, 1968

 "From Aristotle to Edmund Burke, the greatest conservative thinkers have said that to change societies, one must understand them, accept them as they are and help them evolve."

-Fareed Zakaria

There, I would repeat to myself "This is where I will die!", but the truth is I don't know. And that's alright and if I can live with that fact, that confining morose feature of life then the time that goes by, slow yet countable days; I will be alright.

The darker, the deeper. The deeper, the closer to truth. Something valuable is at the end, perhaps a virtue. All I know is, it's unknown and I want it. I want to know.

WANDERLUST

 Dream of the East.

Cambodia above (from here).

Watch the day break into a purple mass

Nepal by D.W Rawlinson.

all i want to do.

Blue friday (something blue to you).

Dát někomu modré z nebe.

"Some days we just want to look like astronauts and that's okay."

Thank you, Man Repeller.

old tree

Frustration builds as does my rage; I have but one thing that makes me feel free.  Oh and it's the thought of me, old me the old tree.

But now it's gettin' late
And the moon is climbin' high
I want to celebrate
See it shinin' in your eye.

 

-Neil Young

everything i could never tell you

harvest moon.

With that crazy yellow moon behind me

Haunting, daunting upon each and every breath

The smallness I feel underneath

Chased by the clouds of the evening sun

Awakened by all of the morning with glee

I loved the moon

But it's powers are beyond me


(harvest moon)

bludy good.

"You know sometimes I really do think that I will be a heller of a good writer some day. Every once in a while I knock off a yarn that is so bludy good I can’t figure how I ever wrote it."

-Ernest to Ursula Hemingway, 1919

All autumn I've been sleeping in. Watching through my window the leaves gild and morning sun bounces off them and sparkles into my eyes. Walks and talks outside with homemade cappuccinos in hand. Wanders through the night.  The fur and jackets come out. Layers pile up. Lace them boots. Textbooks takeover Kundera time. Except at night it's Me & Milan against the will of tick tock my clock.

I look for beauty. I long to get better. I'm going to be good. I want to know me better.

Red lights on (faux) fur friday. Drank some of that red, red wine. Talked and danced until the morning. Ate the angriest of poutine. What a good way to ring in October, oh my.