insides

("Shadow Dance" by Martin Lewis).

("Mother and Child" by Gustav Klimt).

For every route, could haves/should haves/might haves in infinity.

It's a dangerous game: the either/or, the re-writing of choices.

There so many pulls inside me.

So many entryways, leading to new entryways.

strangers to change/window-panes

something about doors and windows and openings and closings.
yeah something about that.
--
I got two and a half hours of sleep last night. (I'm tired) (but everyone's tired/but nobody's tired enough). And I had a strange dream, with dream-water again.
My thesis is 45 pages in, and for the first time in a long time, I can see forward and inward and in front of me.

also, Iron & Wine's Daytrotter sessions are really beautiful. I almost like them better than the album versions:

"I recall, the sun in our faces
Stuck and leaning on graces
And being strangers to change

The radio and the bones we found frozen
All the thorns and the roses
Beneath your window pane"

my mind/my mind/oh my//it dances.

Animal Collective - "Fireworks" (Bataclan, Paris - Back On Stages) from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

I don't wanna be "all I ever see sometimes" anymore.

(I'm sorry I was an asshole).
(it's all cloaks, like Dale said).

I'm a tornado.

You are the dust. You're all around, and you're inside.

You are the nature, I'm the roar that comes from you.

I'm a tornado, you are the fences that will fall

But still surround me.

I'm a tornado.
I'm a tornado.
I'm a tornado.

(words by Sharon Van Etten).

cosmia/nausia

-"Whirlwind of Lovers," by William Blake.

"when you ate I saw your eyelashes

saw them shake like wind on rushes

in the corn field when she called me

moths surround me - thought they'd drown me

and I miss your precious heart..."

-"Cosmia," by Joanna Newsom.

---

I cannot tell if the universe is getting bigger or smaller as I grow.

Sometimes I am blanketed in quiet excitement. Sometimes my hands disappear. Sometimes I see nothing but the chaotic matrix. Sometimes I am alone.

a new day.

Beirut - Elephant Gun from Alma Har'el on Vimeo.

(I think I'm waking up again).

on Libraries, Cayle Adams, and Neil Young.

One of These Days
from Neil Young's Harvest Moon.

One of these days,
I'm gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends I've known
And I'm gonna try
And thank them all for the good times together.
Though so apart we've grown.

One of these days,
I'm gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends I've known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it won't be long, it won't be long.

And I'm gonna thank,
That old country fiddler
And all those rough boys
Who play that rock 'n' roll
I never tried to burn any bridges
Though I know I let some good things go.

One of these days,
I'm gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends I've known

One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it won't be long, it won't be long.

From down in L.A.
All the way to Nashville,
From New York City
To my Canadian prairie home
My friends are scattered
Like leaves from an old maple.
Some are weak, some are strong.

One of these days,
I'm gonna sit down and write a long letter
To all the good friends I've known
One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it won't be long, it won't be long.

One of these days, one of these days, one of these days,
And it won't be long, it won't be long.

suspended (in the visceral).

"In Speak, Memory, Mabokov makes the poetic, or the playful speculation that Russian children before the Revolution--and his exile--were blessed with a surfeit of sensual impressions to compensate them for what was to come. Of course, fate doesn't play such premonitory games, but memory can perform retrospective maneuvers to compensate for fate. Loss is a magical preservative" (emphasis mine).

FROM Lost In Translation: A life in a New Language (1989)

via: Hoffman, Eva. "The New Nomads." Letters of Transit: Reflections on Exile, Identity, Language, and Loss. ed. André Aciman. New York: The New Press, 1999.

departure/suspension/missing.

Sometimes i look at old photographs, and swear I don't recognize my own face.
and I know my weight fluctuates and my hair is always different and lately I've been make-up free, but that's not it really--
it's the eyes.
the eyes are different.

and maybe all I've got is change and maybe we're all scattering and--
oh, safe travels.