There is eternity to blush in
Suddenly, no, at last--

→ Oct 2014

the fact that most shots of andrei rublev could have been painted by brueghel 

→ Oct 2014 "It would be better for you to turn around and go into the thick grasses, there where one of those strange grassy islets in the riverbed will completely cover you, it would be better if you do this for once and for all, because if you come back tomorrow, or after tomorrow, there will be no one at all to understand, no one to look, not even a single one among all your natural enemies that will be able to see who you really are; it would be better for you to go away this very evening when twilight begins to fall, it would be better for you to retreat with the others, if night begins to descend, and you should not come back if tomorrow, or after tomorrow, dawn breaks, because for you it will be much better for there to be no tomorrow and no day after tomorrow; so hide away now in the grass, sink down, fall onto your side, let your eyes slowly close, and die, for there is no point in the sublimity that you bear, die at midnight in the grass, sink down and fall, and let it be like that — breathe your last." —

László Krasznahorkai — in Seiobo There Below

the narrator’s advice for the big white bird

→ Oct 2014 "

What words
Can strangle this deaf moonlight? For we

Are overtaken. Now no cry, no sword
Can fasten or deflect this tidal wedge,
Slow tyranny of moonlight, moonlight loved
And changed

" — Hart Crane — from “Voyages”
→ Oct 2014 "THE MOON: As in the soft and sweet eclipse,
When soul meets soul on lovers’ lips,
High hearts are calm, and brightest eyes are dull;
So when thy shadow falls on me,
Then am I mute and still, by thee
Covered; of thy love, Orb most beautiful,
Full, oh, too full!" — Percy Bysshe Shelley — from Prometheus Unbound
→ Oct 2014

my favorite ancient greek word:

εἰσαεὶ — forever, but the literal translation is ‘into the always’

→ Oct 2014 
Now I have only one thing left to do: nothing.I don’t want any belongings, any memories.No friends, no love.Those are all traps.

Krzysztof Kieslowski — Three Colors: Blue

Now I have only one thing left to do: nothing.
I don’t want any belongings, any memories.
No friends, no love.
Those are all traps.

Krzysztof Kieslowski — Three Colors: Blue

→ Oct 2014 absolvd:

Excerpt 1


Excerpt 1

→ Oct 2014 "I sought a soul that might resemble mine, and I could not find it. I scanned all the crannies of the earth: my perseverance was useless. Yet I could not remain alone. There had to be someone who would approve of my character; there had to be someone with the same ideas as myself. It was morning. The sun in all his magnificence rose on the horizon, and behold, there also appeared before my eyes a young man whose presence made flowers grow as he passed. He approached me and held out his hand: “I have come to you, you who seek me. Let us give thanks for this happy day.” But I replied: “Go! I did not summon you. I do not need your friendship… .” It was evening. Night was beginning to spread the blackness of her veil over nature. A beautiful woman whom I could scarcely discern also exerted her bewitching sway upon me and looked at me with compassion. She did not, however, dare speak to me. I said: “Come closer that I may discern your features clearly, for at this distance the starlight is not strong enough to illumine them.” Then, with modest demeanour, eyes lowered, she crossed the greensward and reached my side. I said as soon as I saw her: “I perceive that goodness and justice have dwelt in your heart: we could not live together. Now you are admiring my good looks which have bowled over more than one woman. But sooner or later you would regret having consecrated your love to me, for you do not know my soul. Not that I shall be unfaithful to you: she who devotes herself to me with so much abandon and trust — with the same trust and abandon do I devote myself to her. But get this into your head and never forget it: wolves and lambs look not on one another with gentle eyes.” What then did I need, I who rejected with disgust what was most beautiful in humanity!" — Comte de Lautréamont — from Les Chants de Maldoror 
→ Oct 2014 "

Flower-muscle that slowly opens back
the anemone to another meadow-dawn,
until her womb can feel the polyphonic
light of the sonorous heavens pouring down;

muscle of an infinite acceptance,
stretched within the silent blossom-star,
at times so overpowered with abundance
that sunset’s signal for response is bare-

ly able to return your too far hurled-
back petals for the darkness to revive:
you, strength and purpose of how many worlds!

We violent ones remain a little longer,
Ah but when, in which of all our lives,
shall we at last be open and receivers?

" —

Rainer Maria Rilke — the fifth poem of the second part of The Sonnets to Orpheus trans. Stephen Mitchell

in a letter to Lou Andreas-Salomé, June 26, 1914

I am like the little anemone I once saw in the garden in Rome: it had opened so wide during the day that it could no longer close at night. It was terrifying to see it in the dark meadow, wide open, still taking everything in, into its calyx, which seemed as if it had been furiously torn back, with the much too vast night above it. And alongside, all its prudent sisters, each one closed around its small measure of profusion. 

→ Oct 2014 "Something festive had entered our lives, an eager enthusiasm. An importance permeated our gestures and swelled our chests with cosmic sighs. The earthly globe seethed at night with a solemn uproar from the unanimous ecstasy of thousands. The nights were black and vast. The nebulae of stars around the earth became more numerous and denser. In the dark interplanetary spaces these stars appeared in different positions, strewing the dust of meteors from abyss to abyss. Lost in the infinite, we had almost forsaken the earthly globe under our feet; we were disoriented, losing our bearings; we hung head down like antipodes over the upturned zenith and wandered over the starry heaps, moving a wetted finger across maps of the sky, from star to star. Thus we meandered in extended, disorderly, single file, scattering in all directions on the rungs of the infinite ladders of the night — emigrants from the abandoned globe, plundering the immense ant heap of stars. The last barriers fell, the cyclists rode into stellar space, rearing on their vehicles, and we were perpetuated in an immobile flight in the interplanetary vacuum, which revealed ever new constellations. Thus circling on an endless track, they marked the paths or a sleepless cosmography, while in reality, black as soot, they succumbed to a planetary lethargy, as if they had put their heads into the fireplace, the final goal of all those blind flights." — Bruno Schulz — from The Street of Crocodiles trans. Celina Wieniewska
→ Oct 2014 "Paintings are metaphors for reality, but instead of being an aid to realization obscure the reality which is far more profound. The only way to circumvent painting is by absolute death." — William Gaddis — from The Recognitions
→ Oct 2014

someone help me with Job — soon my notes will outnumber the pages of the original text 

→ Oct 2014

Song for the Unification of Europe by Zbigniew Preisner
→ Oct 2014 soundsof71:

Sunset Strip billboard for Joni Mitchell’s Blue, released June 22, 1971. 


Sunset Strip billboard for Joni Mitchell’s Blue, released June 22, 1971. 

(via twinpeakspie)

→ Oct 2014 "

What is insomnia?

The question is rhetorical. I know the answer only too well.

It is to count off and dread in the small hours the fateful harsh strokes of the chime. It is attempting with ineffectual magic to breathe smoothly. It is the burden of a body that abruptly shifts sides. It is shutting the eyelids down tight. It is a state like fever and is assuredly not watchfulness. It is saying over bits of paragraphs read years and years before. It is knowing how guilty you are to be lying awake when others are asleep. It is trying to sink into slumber and being unable to sink into slumber. It is the horror of going on being. It is the dubious daybreak.

What is longevity? It is the horror of existing in a human body whose faculties are in decline. It is insomnia measured by decades and not by metal hands. it is carrying the weight of seas and pyramids, of ancient libraries and dynasties, of the dawns that Adam saw. It is being well aware that I am bound to my flesh, to a voice I detest, to my name, to routinely remembering, to Castilian, over which I have no control, to feeling nostalgic for the Latin I do not know. It is trying to sink into death and being unable to sink into death. It is being and continuing to be.

" — Jorge Luis Borges — “Two Forms of Insomnia” trans. Alan S. Trueblood