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Quote with 7 notes
Your body told me in a dream it’s never been afraid of anything.
Quote reblogged from there are no rules for this
I had been pushing against him for so long that when he was gone I fell on my face. I was lost, I had no leverage, no gravity. A frictionless place is difficult, too smooth, too empty. I missed him, I missed him terribly. I realized that I loved him, had loved him the whole time, loved him deeply and completely, and I had been fighting him because I was afraid, afraid of his beauty and depth of feeling. I was afraid that he would open a door in me that once opened could never be shut again. I had been wrong and he had been beautiful.He disappeared and the color of things began to fade.
Source: partythighs
You cannot get in the way of anyone’s path to happiness, it also does no good. The problem is figuring out which part is the path and which part is the happiness.
It’s a blessing, every day someone shows up at the fence. And when no one shows up, a different kind of blessing. In the wrong light anyone can look like a darkness.
Source: fishousepoems.org
The Problem
The problem (if there was one) was simply a problem with the question. He wants to paint a bird, needs to, and the problem is why. Why paint a bird? Why do anything at all? Not how, because hows are easy, series or sequence, one foot after the other, but existentially why bother, what does it solve? Be the tree, solve for bird. What does that mean? It’s a problem of focus, it’s a problem of diligence, it’s supposed to be a grackle but it sort of got away from him. But why not let the colors do what they want, which is blend, which is kind of neighborly, if you think about it. Blackbird, he says. So be it. Indexed and normative. Who gets to measure the distance between experience and its representation? Who controls the lines of inquiry? He does, but he’s not very good at it. And just because you want to paint a bird, do actually paint a bird, it doesn’t mean you’ve accomplished anything. Maybe if it was pretty, it would mean something. Maybe if it was beautiful it would be true. But it’s not, not beautiful, not true, not even realistic, more like a man in a birdsuit, blue shoulders instead of feathers, because he isn’t looking at a bird, real bird, as he paints, he is looking at his heart, which is impossible, unless his heart is a metaphor for his heart, as everything is a metaphor for itself, so that looking at the page is like looking out the window at a bird in your chest with a song in its throat that you don’t want to hear but you paint anyway because the hand is a voice that can sing what the voice will not and the hand wants to do something useful. Sometimes, at night, in bed, before I fall asleep, I think about a poem I might write, someday, about my heart, says the heart. Answer: be the heart. Answer: be the hand. Answer: be the bird. Answer: be the sky.
— Richard Siken
Source: community.livejournal.com
Things happen all the time, things happen every minute that have nothing to do with us.
Source: community.livejournal.com
