Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Flâneur:
the deliberately aimless pedestrian, unencumbered by any obligation or sense of urgency, who wastes nothing, including his time which he spends with the leisurely discrimination of a gourmet, savoring the multiple flavors of his city.
forgotten
"How happy is the blameless vestals lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each prayer accepted and each wish resigned. "
- Alexander Pope Eloisa to Abelard
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Monday, December 14, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
if christmas can't bring you home.
Friday, December 11, 2009
Thursday, December 10, 2009
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
xo
i spend two minutes burning my fingers on matches, attempting to light the wick of a candle at the bottom of a glass jar, dropping matches in the solid wax until finally it lights.
sundays always have this whimsical element.
any other day of the week you dread the sound of the
next snooze button alarm, radio waves screaming in your ear, saying wake up!!! the worlds spinning too fast and you're wasting it away under your blankets; But on sundays you can turn it all off, pull the covers over your head until 2 pm and completely submit yourself to your beautiful, bizarre, unconscious dream world. and if you want spend the rest of the day making love, telephoning old friends free of charge, drinking tea, listening to records or re-reading books off your shelf, there's no hurry or worry to complete a days task.
sunday's are oh so sweet.
it's so cold and sad in portland, it seems appropriate to listen to him.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Lies about love
We are a liars, because
the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow,
whereas letters are fixed,
and we live by the letter of truth.
The love I feel for my friend, this year,
is different from the love I felt last year.
If it were not so, it would be a lie.
Yet we reiterate love! love! love!
as if it were a coin with a fixed value
instead of a flower that dies, and opens a different bud.
the truth of yesterday becomes a lie tomorrow,
whereas letters are fixed,
and we live by the letter of truth.
The love I feel for my friend, this year,
is different from the love I felt last year.
If it were not so, it would be a lie.
Yet we reiterate love! love! love!
as if it were a coin with a fixed value
instead of a flower that dies, and opens a different bud.
- D.H. Lawrence
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