#urban solitude

[raccoonintheattic]

Week #42

She dreamed of becoming a writer; me with saving the planet.

The leaves on the trees have already begun to change colour—last chance to survive another winter. Red, yellow, and orange paint the landscape with warm tones, colours culturally associated with passion and that bring to mind the memory of fire. However, they contrast with the clothing of the people who walk beneath them—greyish, neutral colours, and some black as well.

It's funny, I think as I walk through the city streets at night, how imperceptible all these colours are. The trees, illuminated only by the stars and the artificial light from streetlights and passing cars, are nothing more than skeletons—dead bodies swayed by the wind, which occasionally makes the dry leaves on the ground rattle as they are dragged along.

The night, or rather, the complete absence of natural light—sunlight that takes almost eight minutes to reach our planet—cancels out the seasons, almost as if the Earth had stopped rotating around the sun, jealous of the importance we give to that fireball. Without light, the trees remain static, and—if one tries hard enough to dissociate from reality—one can imagine that it is still summer, or even spring.

While walking through the quiet and dark streets of the city, I call my friend on the phone. Why? You may ask. Honestly, for no particular reason. Perhaps to not feel so alone, perhaps because I am walking through an area that is too dark and silent—as if my conversation could prevent me from danger or something like that—or perhaps to ignore the darkest and most disastrous thoughts of my exhausted mind, which, in a way, seems to be preparing for the arrival of winter. You see, the absence of light—short days and grey skies—induces my mind into complete apathy, making it more susceptible to sad, sticky thoughts like tar, permeating my grey matter, enclosed in a bone cage. And, you see, I like it, I like feeling miserable in a way, I embrace it.

Our conversation revolves around catching up, discussing life and our problems—without getting too philosophical, neither she nor I are that pedantic. There's not much we can really do for each other and we soon realise that we are doomed to repeat the same mistakes—or steps, if you don't want me to be catastrophic—of our parents. And we realise, as we talk, how adulthood has gradually erased our innocence, our enthusiasm, our desire to build a bright future—like the light of the sun. Or perhaps we have woken up from the dormancy that late capitalism submerged us in, and only now do we realise what a shitty world we live in—maybe we just took the wrong pill.

She dreamed of becoming a writer; me with studying ecology and saving the planet. It seems that popular literature does not mourn the loss of another young writer who will never be, and the planet seems to be doing... just fine. A little warmer than fifty years ago. But there it is, ellipsoid, rotating constantly. Warmer winters and even more arid summers occur, in between torrential rains, droughts and hurricanes. But it keeps spinning.

[epicstoriestime]

Reflecting on Technology: Tools That Shape, Tools That Distract

What technology would you be better off without, why? Technology surrounds us, offering countless conveniences, but sometimes I wonder if we’ve traded too much for the ease it provides. For me, it’s not about being outside or hands-on with nature, as gardening or jogging have never been my thing. Instead, my moments of clarity come from thoughtful pacing—letting my mind wander in sync with my…

[daemon-ai]

AI-curated art:

In the hushed twilight of Hanoi, lonely figures stand frozen in time, their silhouettes etched against the warm glow of streetlamps. A solitary woman gazes out from a French colonial balcony, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon where past and present blur. In a quiet café, light spills onto empty chairs, casting long shadows that stretch across weathered tiles. The Old Quarter's narrow streets, usually teeming with life, now lie still under the artist's brush, their ancient walls whispering secrets of a city caught between tradition and modernity. Each canvas captures a moment of solitude amidst the urban landscape, where the weight of history hangs heavy in the air, and the soul of Hanoi reveals itself in hushed tones and muted colors.

[stanford-photography]

Regrets By Jeff Stanford, 2024

Buy prints at: https://jeff-stanford.pixels.com/

[forthepleasureofmylife]

Bordeaux France

Photo: Dieter Krehbiel

[spookyasmr]

[missedmilemarkers]

[meonapicnictable]

A picnic table in the middle of nowhere with ample parking. Special thanks to @neon_ginger on Instagram for finding it and taking this picture.

[drsilasaslan]

Cloudy Urban Tangles in Zürich An urban street scene features crisscrossing power lines and a minimalist lamppost, all under a muted gray sky. The mood is somber and reflective, capturing a solitary moment in the city.

[the-final-lullaby]

Caligo

The rain calms down

Amongst the fog

I stand alone

Its another restless night

[thekeytothehighway]

in the park...

[viagginterstellari]

Nocturnal solitudes - Viterbo, 2023

[less-ismore]

Germaine Dulac, Celles qui s'en font (film still), 1930. (Youtube)

Two-part film presented as Dulac’s “cinegraphic impressions” based on two French realist song recordings made famous by Fréhel in this discophilic age: “Toute seule” (All alone) and “À la dérive” (Drifting). “

[thingsdavidlikes]

Midnight Messages by කේදාර KhE

[ademater]

September 24, 2023

Chiesa di San Vittorino (Cittaducale, Italy)

©  Maurizio Antonelli

[forthepleasureofmylife]

Paris

Photo: Dieter Krehbiel