86pickles

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i always think until i cant sleep

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Oui, si le souvenir grâce à l’oubli, n’a pu contracter aucun lien, jeter aucun chaînon entre lui et la minute présente, s’il est resté à sa place, à sa date, s’il a gardé ses distances, son isolement dans le creux d’une vallée, où à la pointe d’un sommet, il nous fait tout à coup respirer un air nouveau, précisément parce que c’est un air qu’on a respiré autrefois, cet air plus pur que les poètes ont vainement essayé de faire régner dans le Paradis et qui ne pourrait donner cette sensation profonde de renouvellement que s’il avait été respiré déjà, car les vrais paradis sont les paradis qu’on a perdus.

Marcel Proust, “Le Temps Retrouvé”

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I am overwhelmed sometimes and feel a great deal of wonder at words, just simple words and how deeply we can touch each other with them, though I know that most of the time language is the most abused of all human abilities or traits.

Leslie Marmon Silko, in a letter to James Wright, August 21, 1979

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. . . and this demanded great patience and love.

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where do these days go when they leave us

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résignée...rassurée...ravie?

La Point Courte (1955) d’Agnès Varda

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... but he who / loses his love - neever, no never never never again -

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Final draft

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First draft (out of fifteen) of Elizabeth Bishop’s poem “One Art.” 

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I remember those nights 

I couldn’t get through to you when 

quiet storms came rattled the window panes

couldn’t keep a thing the same way 

when the storm blew in 

and the furniture rearranged

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Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely; all this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely? but that somehow in the streets of London, on the ebb and flow of things, here, there, she survived, Peter survived, lived in each other, she being part, she was positive, of the trees at home; of the house there, ugly, rambling all to bits and pieces as it was; part of the people she had never met; being laid out like a mist between the people she knew best, who lifted her on their branches as she had seen the trees lift the mist, but it spread ever so far, her life, herself.

Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway

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I am not your friend

I am just a man who knows how to feel

I am not your friend; I’m not your lover; I’m not your family

Yeah

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A hit to the back of the neck with coffee breath makes me feel something other than whatever, other than whatever.