tell me what you loved, touched, wondered:did you dream?did you stare at your own reflection?an aching to sliver between the fluttering colors of her consciousness,the human of her, to know her ripest and most shiny parts,for her to hold my face close, spill her metallic language into meuntil i recognize that i am of her,… Continue reading Lucy Seward
Step into this experience with butterflies in your bones; with a nervous feeling so beautiful, you And to a place I come where nothing shines. — Dante Alighieri, Inferno, The Divine Comedy (1320)
Everything the dead do not needaspirin orsorrow,I suppose. but they might needrain.not shoesbut a place towalk. not cigarettes,they tell us,but a place toburn. or we’re told:space and a place toflymight be thesame. the dead don’t needme. nor do theliving. but the dead might needeachother. in fact, the dead might needeverything weneed andwe need so muchif… Continue reading Charles Bukowski
Eat me, drink me; thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden, I go back and back to him to have his fingers strip the tattered skin away and clothe me in his dress of water, this garment that drenches me, its slithering odour, its capacity for drowning. ― Angela Carter, The Bloody Chamber and Other Stories (Vintage, January 1,… Continue reading Angela Carter
If I were another I would have belonged to the road,neither you nor I would return. Awaken the guitarand we might sense the unknown and the route that temptsthe traveler to test gravity. I am onlymy steps, and you are both my compass and my chasm.If I were another on the road, I would havehidden… Continue reading Mahmoud Darwish
Love is holy because it is like grace—the worthiness of its object is never really what matters. — Marilynne Robinson, Gilead (Farrar, Straus and Giroux; Reprint edition, November 15, 2004) Originally published October 28, 2004.
To the attentive eye,each moment of the yearhas its own beauty,and in the same field,it beholds,every hour,a picture which was never seen before,and which shall never be seen again. — Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature; Addresses and Lectures.(1849)
We do not notice the distant hills of our own breathing, — Conrad Hilberry, from “A Pleasant Conversation on the Roof,” Sorting the Smoke: New and Selected Poems (University of Iowa Press, 1990)
For some of us there is only the shadow we step behindthat turns always into night, a night that leaves no memory.Its galaxies constantly change shape because of the weightof dark matter. This too is only a question of belief. For us,there is no difference between the moon and its reflection.The earth releases the song… Continue reading Richard Jackson
The reason birds can fly and we can’t is simply because they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings. ― J.M. Barrie, The Little White Bird (Pook Press; Illustrated edition, February 25, 2013) Originally published January 1, 1902.
The Vale of Soul-Making 