Oranges & Sardines

Instants - Jorge Luis Borges

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 21:19:05 -0400

If I could live again my life,
In the next - I’ll try,
- to make more mistakes,
I won’t try to be so perfect,
I’ll be more relaxed,
I’ll be more full - than I am now,
In fact, I’ll take fewer things seriously,
I’ll be less hygenic,
I’ll take more risks,
I’ll take more trips,
I’ll watch more sunsets,
I’ll climb more mountains,
I’ll swim more rivers,
I’ll go to more places - I’ve never been,
I’ll eat more ice creams and less (lime) beans,
I’ll have more real problems - and less imaginary
ones,
I was one of those people who live
prudent and prolific lives -
each minute of his life,
Offcourse that I had moments of joy - but,
if I could go back I’ll try to have only good moments,

If you don’t know - thats what life is made of,
Don’t lose the now!

I was one of those who never goes anywhere
without a thermometer,
without a hot-water bottle,
and without an umberella and without a parachute,

If I could live again - I will travel light,
If I could live again - I’ll try to work bare feet
at the beginning of spring till
the end of autumn,
I’ll ride more carts,
I’ll watch more sunrises and play with more children,
If I have the life to live - but now I am 85,
- and I know that I am dying …

Extract from The Ballad Of Reading Gaol - Oscar Wilde

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 21:16:55 -0400

The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die.

Carpe Diem, Youth

Sat, 27 Apr 2013 21:05:31 -0400

Carpe diem, carpe diem,
How, but how?
Words in a row,
Sunshine in the shutters,
Carpe diem, carpe diem,
How, but how?
A forbidden springtime,
Daylight on the padlock,
Carpe diem, seize the day,
I don’t know the way,
My generation
In a quartet ash-grey.

For the White poets who would be Indian - Wendy Rose

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 11:50:00 -0400

just once
just long enough
to snap up the words
fish-hooked from
our tongues.
You think of us now
when you kneel
on the earth,
turn holy
in a temporary tourism
of our souls.

With words
you paint your faces.
chew your doeskin,
touch breast to tree
as if sharing a mother
were all it takes,
could bring instant and primal
knowledge.
You think of us only
when your voices
want for roots,
when you have sat back
on your heels and
become
primitive.

You finish your poem
and go back.

“Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when...

Tue, 26 Feb 2013 22:26:18 -0500

“Everyone discusses my art and pretends to understand, as if it were necessary to understand, when it is simply necessary to love.”

— Monet

“If you know that I am an unbeliever, then you know me better than I do myself. I may be an...

Tue, 26 Feb 2013 22:24:23 -0500

“If you know that I am an unbeliever, then you know me better than I do myself. I may be an unbeliever, but I am an unbeliever who has a nostalgia for a belief.” — Pier Paolo Pasolini

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be...

Tue, 26 Feb 2013 22:24:00 -0500

“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes “Awww!”

— Jack Kerouac, On the Road

Pa forme eshte qielli,si tru idioti.Merzitshem trotuaret shiu i qull.Nje kalimtar,nje...

Tue, 26 Feb 2013 22:22:00 -0500

Pa forme eshte qielli,si tru idioti.
Merzitshem trotuaret shiu i qull.
Nje kalimtar,nje ombrelle,gjemon moti.
Nje biciklete kthesen merr me vrull.

Pa forme eshte qielli,si nje mendim idioti.

Fall in Tirana

Without form is the sky, like a brain of an idiot.

Annoyingly the rain soaks pavements.

A passerby, an umbrella, weather thunders.

A bicycle takes a turn with momentum.

Without form is the sky, like the thought of an idiot.

metaconscious: The Mountain | by Terje Sorgjerd Mind-blowingly...

Wed, 06 Feb 2013 18:41:00 -0500

metaconscious:

The Mountain | by Terje Sorgjerd

Mind-blowingly beautiful. Do not miss this.

A few words from Terje:

“This was filmed between 4th and 11th April 2011. I had the pleasure of visiting El Teide.

Spain´s highest mountain @(3715m) is one of the best places in the world to photograph the stars and is also the location of Teide Observatories, considered to be one of the world´s best observatories.

The goal was to capture the beautiful Milky Way galaxy along with one of the most amazing mountains I know El Teide. I have to say this was one of the most exhausting trips I have done. There was a lot of hiking at high altitudes and probably less than 10 hours of sleep in total for the whole week. Having been here 10-11 times before I had a long list of must-see locations I wanted to capture for this movie, but I am still not 100% used to carrying around so much gear required for time-lapse movies.

A large sandstorm hit the Sahara Desert on the 9th April (bit.ly/g3tsDW) and at approx 3am in the night the sandstorm hit me, making it nearly impossible to see the sky with my own eyes.

Interestingly enough my camera was set for a 5 hour sequence of the milky way during this time and I was sure my whole scene was ruined. To my surprise, my camera had managed to capture the sandstorm which was backlit by Grand Canary Island making it look like golden clouds. The Milky Way was shining through the clouds, making the stars sparkle in an interesting way. So if you ever wondered how the Milky Way would look through a Sahara sandstorm, look at 00:32.”

<3 to @eglinski for making my day with this find.

“No written word, no spoken pleaCan teach our youth what they should be,Nor all the books on...

Tue, 22 Jan 2013 17:24:07 -0500

“No written word, no spoken plea
Can teach our youth what they should be,
Nor all the books on all the shelves.
It’s what the teachers are themselves.”

annsymes: Brian Collier Orkney Island series - Soul and Stones...

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 10:39:29 -0500

annsymes:

Brian Collier

Orkney Island series - Soul and Stones (detail) pencil

www.briancollier.co.uk/gallery

iamjapanese: Shuki Okamoto（岡本秋暉 Japanese,...

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 10:37:47 -0500

iamjapanese:

Shuki Okamoto（岡本秋暉 Japanese, 1807-1872）

Auspicious Symbols: Crane, Rising Sun and Peach

Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau - William Blake

Mon, 10 Dec 2012 21:54:13 -0500

Mock on, mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau;
Mock on, mock on; ‘tis all in vain!
You throw the sand against the wind,
And the wind blows it back again.
And every sand becomes a gem
Reflected in the beams divine;
Blown back they blind the mocking eye,
But still in Israel’s paths they shine.

The Atoms of Democritus
And Newton’s Particles of Light
Are sands upon the Red Sea shore,
Where Israel’s tents do shine so bright.

Ask the artist. Ask the poet. Ask the scientist. Ask the inventor or the philosopher: are the clouds...

Sat, 01 Sep 2012 02:00:29 -0400

Ask the artist. Ask the poet. Ask the scientist. Ask the inventor or the philosopher: are the clouds lonely or angry?!

Goodbye My Love, goodbye - Anon

Fri, 27 Jul 2012 08:30:00 -0400

Fire runs through my body with the pain of loving you

Pain runs through my body with the fires of my love for you

Sickness wanders my body with my love for you

Pain like a boil about to burst with my love for you

Consumed by the fire with my love for you

I remember what you said to me

I am thinking of your love for me

I am torn by your love for me

Pain and more pain

Where are you going with my love?

I am told you will go from here

I am told you will leave me here

My body is numb with grief

Remember what i have said, my love

Good bye, my love, good bye.

This poem, recited by an anonymous Kwakuitl Indian of Southern Alaska to a missionary in 1896, captures the excruciating pain of lost love.

Richard Cory - Edwin Arlington Robinson

Wed, 18 Jul 2012 07:40:33 -0400

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
‘Good-morning,’ and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

My Papa's Waltz - Theodore Roethke

Wed, 18 Jul 2012 07:35:44 -0400

The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.

The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.

You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening - Robert Frost

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 10:24:00 -0400

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

I Like For You To Be Still - Pablo Neruda

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 09:34:29 -0400

I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not touch you
It seems as though your eyes had flown away
And it seems that a kiss had sealed your mouth
As all things are filled with my soul
You emerge from the things
Filled with my soul
You are like my soul
A butterfly of dream
And you are like the word: Melancholy

I like for you to be still
And you seem far away
It sounds as though you are lamenting
A butterfly cooing like a dove
And you hear me from far away
And my voice does not reach you
Let me come to be still in your silence
And let me talk to you with your silence
That is bright as a lamp
Simple, as a ring
You are like the night
With its stillness and constellations
Your silence is that of a star
As remote and candid

I like for you to be still
It is as though you are absent
Distant and full of sorrow
So you would’ve died
One word then, One smile is enough
And I’m happy;
Happy that it’s not true

Walking Around - Pablo Neruda

Tue, 10 Jul 2012 08:59:00 -0400

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie
houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stores, no gardens,
no more goods, no spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens that I am sick of my feet and my nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Still it would be marvelous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don’t want to go on being a root in the dark,
insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don’t want so much misery.
I don’t want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blazes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the
night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist
houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical
cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.