Thursday, April 30, 2009



Here: how I
hold my own arms
around me.

To lower them, and stand

Not with eyes closed nor
with words in air, to bring.
Not with anything but

my skin.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

line of lyrics # 2

Emotional landscapes
They puzzle me

Then the riddle gets solved
And you push me up to this

State of emergency
How beautiful to be

State of emergency
Is where I want to be

(Björk - Joga)

Monday, April 27, 2009

In Rainbows

In Rainbows

Friday, April 24, 2009

yes, clouds

(one which already appeared here, now slightly restyled)

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Wednesday, April 22, 2009

Tuesday, April 21, 2009

Sunday, April 19, 2009

Thursday, April 16, 2009

where there was nought


Lily is asleep now. I caress her hairs once more—something she does not allow me to do when she is awake, because it reminds her of how these hairs will fall out, blown away like dandelion seeds. I am not sure she understood much of the story I told her, but it does not matter. To her, the important thing is that the stories are there; that there are possibilities; that I can create things where first there was nought. That she can believe in this, and sleep.

I often think of the sound of her breathing. At night. It is so rhythmic that it could very well be a distant, innocent ocean embracing and releasing sand in warmth. Here is peace. Quiet. I want to spread myself out over the world as a blanket. Spread myself out over Lily and protect. Here, now; forever. She is so small.

I imagine a few rays of sun slicing through the thick chemical air outside, reaching her face, her hands. Here is warmth.

Embrace, and release."

- Butcherflies

Thursday, April 02, 2009

i actually read this in a park

"Virginia lies quietly in her bed, and sleep takes her again so quickly she is not conscious of falling back to sleep at all. It seems, suddenly, that she is not in her bed but in a park; a park impossibly verdant, green beyond green--a Platonic vision of a park, at once homely and the seat of mystery, implying as parks do that while the old woman in the shawl dozes on the slatted bench something alive and ancient, something neither kind nor unkind, exulting only in continuance, knits together the green world of farms and meadows, forests and parks. Virginia moves through the park without quite walking; she floats through it, a feather of perception, unbodied. The park reveals to her its banks of lilies and peonies, its graveled paths bordered by cream-colored roses. A stone maiden, smoothed by weather, stands at the edge of a clear pool and muses into the water. Virginia moves through the park as if impelled by a cushion of air; she is beginning to understand that another park lies beneath this one, a park of the underworld, more marvelous and terrible than this; it is the root from which these lawns and arbors grow. It is the true idea of the park, and it is nothing so simple as beautiful. She can see people now: a Chinese man stooping to pick something up off the grass, a little girl waiting. Up ahead, on a circle of newly turned earth, a woman sings."

- Michael Cunningham, The Hours