CML

A playground, in a park. One lady
raises to the top of the slide a ball
of newspaper, gives it a kiss:
“Ready … set … go!” Another holds
a lampshade in her hands, smoothing
its chenille bangs. “My daughter,
you should see her dance—
she’s already won two prizes.”
“Did I tell you mine—he’s three—can already write?”

A girl, in line behind them with her son,
is listening. She tightens her grip on his hand,
hoping no one
will notice he’s real, and alive.

(via blogut)

“In the multiple peregrinations of love, Sabina was quick to recognize the echoes of larger loves and desires. The large ones, particularly if they had not died a natural death, never died completely and left reverberations. Once interrupted, broken artificially, suffocated accidentally, they continued to exist in separate fragments and endless smaller echoes.

[…]A partial resemblance could stir what remained of the imperfectly rooted out love which had not died a natural death. Whatever was torn out of the body, as out of the earth, cut, violently uprooted, left such deceptive, such lively roots below the surface, all ready to bloom again under an artificial association, by a grafting of sensation, given new life through this graft of memory.”

—Anais Nin, A Spy in the House of Love (via reticence-)

rhea137:

Giuseppe Randazzo, Stone Fields

Using algorithms to create the structure of the stones and to sort them by size according to an underlying pattern

Via

legrandcirque:

Photograph by Michael Rougier. Japan, 1964.

zombiehypnosis:

P.M. Dawn - Set Adrift On Memory Bliss

How else will you know
the color of crushed time;
how else will you feel
what it is to change and remember,
to lose and absorb
this summer inside you

(via ahuntersheart)

I envy men who can yearn
with infinite emptiness
toward the body of a woman,

hoping that the yearning
will make a child,
that the emptiness itself
will fertilize the darkness.

Women have no illusions about this,
being at once
houses, tunnels,
cups & cupbearers,
knowing emptiness as a temporary state
between two fullnesses,
& seeing no romance in it.

If I were a man
doomed to that infinite emptiness,
& having no choice in the matter,
I would, like the rest, no doubt,
find a woman
& christen her moonbelly,
madonna, gold-haired goddess
& make her the tent of my longing,
  the silk parachute of my lust,
the blue-eyed icon of my sacred sexual itch,
the mother of my hunger.

But since I am a woman,
I must not only inspire the poem
but also type it,
not only conceive the child
but also bear it,
not only bear the child
but also bathe it,
not only bathe the child
but also feed it,
not only feed the child
but also carry it
everywhere, everywhere…

while men write poems
on the mysteries of motherhood.

I envy men who can yearn
with infinite emptiness

(via leda-swanson) 

annasintervals:

Rogi Andre  1905-1970

hotparade:

Larry Fink