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One of my favorite quotes...
“I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity, and her flaming self respect. And it's these things I'd believe in, even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn't all she should be. I love her and it is the beginning of everything.”― F. Scott Fitzgerald
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The Peace of Wild Things
When despair grows in me and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting for their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free. ~Wendell Berry |
“Wouldn’t it be fine if we could prove things with our mind, and know for certain that things are always in their place. I’d like to know what a place is like when I’m not there. I’d like to be sure.”
~ Ray Bradbury~ "The Illustrated Man" (btw, great book) |
"All these years, all these memories, there was you. You pulled me through time." from the movie "The Fountain" |
I would go to hell to find you.~ What Dreams May Come
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My Love Reveals Objects
My love reveals objects silken butterflies concealed in his fingers his words splash me with stars night shines like lightning under the fingers of my love My love invents worlds where jeweled glittering serpents live worlds where music is the world worlds where houses with open eyes contemplate the dawn My love is a mad sunflower that forgets fragments of sun in the silence Isabel Fraire |
Film quote...
I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick, it even makes me rhyme. I hate the way you always think you're right, I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, I hate you worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call. But most of all I hate the way that I don't hate you. Not even close, not a little bit, not even at all. ~ Ten things I Hate About You |
List of Cross-Dressing Soldiers by Patricia Lockwood
First there was Helen of Sparta, who did it only with oil, no one knows how; then there was Maggie of England, who even on the battlefield put men back together; and then there was Rose of the deepest South, who stood up in her father’s clothes and walked out of the house and herself. Disguised women were always among them. They badly wanted to wear blue, they badly wanted to wear red, they wanted to blend with the woods or ground. Together with men they were blown from their pronouns. Their faces too were shot off which were then free of their bodies. “I never had any dolls I only had soldiers. I played soldier from the minute I was born. Dropped my voice down almost into the earth, wore bandages where I didn’t need them, was finally discovered by the doctor, was finally discovered at the end.” Someone thought long and hard how to best make my brother blend into the sand. He came back and he was heaped up himself like a dune, he was twice the size of me, his sight glittered deeper in the family head, he hid among himself, and slid, and stormed, and looked the same as the next one, and was hot and gold and some- where else. My brother reached out his hand to me and said, “They should not be over there. Women should not be over there.” He said, “I watched people burn to death. They burned to death in front of me.” A week later his red-haired friend killed himself. And even his name was a boy’s name: Andrew. A friend writes to him, “My dress blues are being altered for a bloodstripe.” That’s a beautiful line, I can’t help hearing. “Kisses,” he writes to a friend. His friend he writes back, “Cuddles.” Bunch of girls, bunch of girls. They write each other, “Miss you, brother.” Bunch of girls, bunch of girls. They passed the hours with ticklefights. They grew their mustaches together. They lost their hearts to local dogs, what a bunch of girls. I sent my brother nothing in the desert because I was busy writing poems. Deciding one by one where the breath commas went, or else it would not stand and walk. This was going to be a poem about release from the body. This was going to be a poem about someone else, maybe even me. My brother is alive because of a family capacity for little hairs rising on the back of the neck. The night the roadside bomb blew up, all three sisters dreamed of him. There, I just felt it, the family capacity. My brother is alive because the family head sometimes hears a little voice. I had been writing the poem before the boy died. It then did not seem right to mention that burn means different things in different bodies. I was going to end the poem with a line about the grass. But they were in the desert, and I was in the desert when I thought about them, and no new ending appeared to me. I was going to write, “The hill that they died on was often a woman, wearing the greatest uniform of war, which is grass.” I know my little brother’s head. The scalp is almost green, where the hair is shortest. I know my little brother’s head, and that is where the ending lives, the one that sends the poem home, and makes grass stand up on the back of the neck, and fits so beautiful no one can breathe—the last words live in the family head, and let them live in there a while. |
half-empty by Moriah Pearson
“I’m seeing things as half-empty again, the glass of water, the plane, the old lipsticks & bottles of lotion, the void, the room, the table that could sit just one more, the basement, the spaces between sidewalks. The sky is even half-empty without the crowd of clouds that used to guide me to a half-empty home, a bed half-filled with a love that was still never enough, the way that her tears would soak the sheets.” |
Agua - De Gabriela Mistral
Hay países que yo recuerdo como recuerdo mis infancias. Son países de mar o río, de pastales, de vegas y aguas. Aldea mía sobre el Ródano, rendida en río y en cigarras; Antilla en palmas verdi-negras que a medio mar está y me llama; ¡roca lígure de Portofino, mar italiana, mar italiana! Me han traído a país sin río, tierras-Agar, tierras sin agua; Saras blancas y Saras rojas, donde pecaron otras razas, de pecado rojo de atridas que cuentan gredas tajeadas; que no nacieron como un niño con unas carnazones grasas, cuando las oigo, sin un silbo, cuando las cruzo, sin mirada. Quiero volver a tierras niñas; llévenme a un blando país de aguas. En grandes pastos envejezca y haga al río fábula y fábula. Tenga una fuente por mi madre y en la siesta salga a buscarla, y en jarras baje de una peña un agua dulce, aguda y áspera. Me venza y pare los alientos el agua acérrima y helada. ¡Rompa mi vaso y al beberla me vuelva niñas las entrañas! |
“Art still has truth. Take refuge there.”
― Matthew Arnold |
"The deer on Pine Mountain,
where there are no falling leaves, knows the coming of Autumn Only by the sound of his own voice". -Rexroth |
I don’t know much, and I don't understand all I know. - Me
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“Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart.
...live in the question.” ~Rilke |
“Music melts all the separate parts of our bodies together.”
― Anaïs Nin |
“Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky,
We fell them down and turn them into paper, That we may record our emptiness.” ― Khalil Gibran |
“You are the sky. Everything else – it’s just the weather.”
― Pema Chödrön |
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