Archive for the ‘ writing ’ Category
photo by loveblushfever
january blues all beat up cold tired restless and bored what i’d do for just a little sun, a little warmth, the sound of snow melting and the slapping of a skipping rope in the driveway instead it’s the snapping of branches in the cold dark night, the man across the street who works early and wakes me at 4 in the morning as he scrapes frost from his front windshield.
god i hate winter.
photo by loveblushfever (c)
reclamation
Small things are gigantic. A heart on fire in the middle of the ocean. One lonely tree on a hilltop. An old couple holding hands at the market. A clock on the mantle counting down the moments.
I thrive on pretense and assumption, on hope and yearning. Some corner of meager existence, where things make sense in a small way, and little things are just little things, with a spill or two along the way.
Comfortably weary and restless. I hear there’s only so much time. And sometimes everything just has to be slow like snow falling. And sometimes there is no reason, just an idea.
A concentrated mediocrity. Boiled down, reduced, reclaimed, returned. A lifetime isn’t enough. There’s never enough time or hunger to go all the way round.
But to need a little less. To let in a little more. Of the world. Of you. So put on your face. And your dancing shoes.
Life waits for no one.
-loveblushfever
H. Jackson Brown Jr
Isak Dineson
“There is a time for departure even when there’s no certain place to go.”
Tennessee Williams
photo by loveblushfever (c)
Breeze coming in the window. Quiet thoughts. Simple, unadorned images of faint, yet bright memories drifting into and out of view. What we have to say versus what we have to tell. Stories have all kinds of beginnings. I sift through fragments of thoughts, ideas of things, and hold on a little longer to some kind of meaning that continues to elude me. It feels like I haven’t slept in years. My keys are still in the door. I’ve left the coffee on all day. Laundry’s still in the washing machine. I’m holding on to the edge of the desk half off my chair. Either I’m terrified or I’m indecisive. Regardless, it is the end of something. I feel that whatever all of this has been is cascading to an end point where I don’t have to do this anymore, where there is no will to put myself through all the drama any longer. It feels at once relieving, warm and good, and absolutely horrifying. Anything that ends is this way. I’m not prepared to embark, to push away from the shore and just float along, no direction, just stumbling through, on undercurrents, fumes. Just get on with it. Inhale.
565
conundrum
emerging. bringing. recognizing. adhering. landscaping. administering.
life is a conquest of the heart
everything matters
but nothing is dyer
because everything is clear
and well-jointed- and falling off the bone
a labour of love.
conundrum.
loveblushfever
over the edge
of a tall place
thinking, hell, why not?
but also why bother?
it’s all a chore
something to be crossed off but it’s somebody else’s list
i’m fumbling along with adverbs
they’ve already dictated my epitaph
i’m not sure if i should be amused or outraged
this is the extent of my involvement in my life
i just breath and get on with it
apparently there’s this whole other realm
of participation
still
it’s just me breathing
piece
1. a thing considered as a unit or an element of a larger thing, quantity, or class; a portion: a piece of string
2. a portion or part that has been separated from a whole: a piece of cake
3. an object that is one member of a group or class: a piece of furniture
4. an instance; a specimen: a piece of sheer folly
If time is not real, then the dividing line between this world and eternity, between suffering and bliss, between good and evil, is also an illusion. -Herman Hesse
Nothing is more important than reconnecting with your bliss. Nothing is as rich. Nothing is more real. -Deepak Chopra
Life is a pilgrimage. The wise man does not rest by the roadside inns. He marches direct to the illimitable domain of eternal bliss, his ultimate destination. -Swami Sivananda
Clocks slay time… time is dead as long as it is being clicked off by little wheels; only when the clock stops does time come to life. -William Faulkner
photo by loveblushfever (c)
“The lines between choice and mandate are thin because the lines between self and culture are thin, the internal and the external tightly entwined and difficult to separate.” Knapp, Caroline. Appetites. Counterpoint, New York. 2003. P. 112.
To choose well or not is to enter into a mathematical discussion with oneself and even small decisions require some consideration, although the equation might take up fewer pages and perhaps there is no internal recognition of the conversation taking place. Simple things like deciding on coffee or tea after dinner involves a fairly clear-cut set of values; do you want caffeine coursing through your body into the small hours of the morning so that sleep evades you? Perhaps you have a long evening ahead bent over some paperwork, or just a desire to enjoy the fullness of night. Larger choices, particularly those concerning money, fall under this same rule of mathematics, of weighing and balancing, pros and cons.
The process of decision-making falters however, when we allow our emotions entrance to the forum. Suddenly logic fails us. There is nothing mathematical about the heart, after all, but it’s anatomical structure. It is fickle, unpredictable, steered by feelings and instincts that we hardly understand.
To be ‘free to chose’ can be terrifying because it requires us to know and to be certain of what the hell we want. In some instances this is simple and obvious; a new pair of shoes, a magazine, water, a nap….. Other choices are much more demanding of our time and tend to linger just beneath the surface of our day-to-day consciousness. Specifically the art of choosing to share oneself, not the physical structure mind you, but the very core, the pieces that exist beyond our meager tangible constructions. To be human and to be genuine and authentic, we are required to participate in this sharing, this giving and sometimes taking (although we cannot enter into a transaction with the expectation of receiving anything in return-that would be both presumptive and selfish). We must share with intention and purpose. So send out invitations on bits of napkin or fine linen stationary, maybe a group email, by any means really because regardless of how, it is necessary.
A person cannot flourish encapsulated by only their own self as witness. We should strive to make ourselves painfully uncomfortable every so often, to choose to want to be off-balance, just barely treading water.
-loveblushfever
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life or something like it 