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What is revealed on this pool-side purple chaise, will not leave this pool-side purple chaise… an ancient magic of sorts, how the fountain’s rhythm can absorb even those thoughts unspoken.
(via An Indian Summer)
You are all so interesting.
I’d follow you all (even imfriendswithsluts) (especially imfriendswithsluts) if my days could be filled with tumblr;
my hours consumed with scrolling through posts,
and my minutes marked by each gleeful “like”.
Suffice to say,
I have travel articles to edit;
authors with whom to correspond;
websites to design;
vocals to record;
paintings to create;
words to compose;
projects to market;
clients to please;
and the obligatory numbers to calculate, documents to process, and files to…. file. Yes, even we crazy, hookah-smoking, cat-loving artists must do our taxes.
So I must resort to following you at your web addresses.
And if you, dear followers, are any indication of the kind of person I am, then I am delighted to say:
I am incredibly smart, witty, enriching, sexy, thoughtful and dreamy!
Thank you.
I wondered.
And I wondered if I became more serious in my wonder,
more calculated,
if it might start spreading answers before me.
So I poured myself a glass of wine
(watered down a trifle, of course)
and I pondered this all,
whiled the hours away
during which I otherwise could have been laughing.
Jamila
“pondering” (a sketchbook excerpt)
on 18” x 14” paper
pencil, charcoal
via hushpoint
What are “likes,” anyway
Comments, pats, cheers, whoops
Sometimes the greatest compliment to me after making a statement is witnessing the silence that falls across the dinner table, like a storm spreading darkness over a landscape. When we hear the rustling of leaves and sense the sky’s shadow, it disquiets. It reminds us to be humble.
It silences.
It can also arouse fear, and I have no doubt I spark a bit of that too, but it is a healthy emotion. If fear can cause anxiety, and anxiety thought, and thought growth, then I am content.
Emily Dickinson
He lights my hookah when I am blue
spooning ginger and honey
Tucks me, watches, tends as
shepherd to lamb;
Resting on my breast to say,
You have the strongest little heart
Culture
i must confess that waltzes
do not move me.
i have no sympathy
for symphonies.
i guess i hummed the Blues
too early,
and spent too many midnights
out wailing to the rain
Assata Shakur
Teach me.
ALL.
Teach me all, for I am young, he said.
But how can one teach answers not yet found?
(Photo: domino magazine)
ARCH
So ominous & overwhelming.
The arch.
It may mark triumph to erect your imperial grace, Arch. On that first day, when God let there be light and truth and beauty and all that jazz, he said – (you know) – “I triumph o’re this darkness, this watery, feminine void.” So said an architect beholding an urban void, reminiscing into the sprawling network of Renaissance grace. He erected the stone and curved the arch, a towering mass under which flow seas of absent-minded wanderers. Mortals, clinging to their power complex, shying at the awe of a large structure. The arch overpowers.
Oh really? – Dark, inviting chamber, bending towards each tethered auspice? – Really, God felt bored one day and sculpted the image in His head, a Paradise twice as idle. And in doing so, He arrogantly fashioned Himself into molded clay. Was He not aware of His blasphemy? And thus He bore Man, His higher self, a higher self always begging Lord, get me high, get me higher when all he has to do is walk beneath the arch, through the darkness, where forth he sprung.
See, one can never triumph o’re the towering arch; the eyes will only as much as gaze into its fleeting stature. Let God sit on His arch, a solemn existence of omniscient perch. There is power in entering the daunting chasm and feeling one’s way through and out again; a little darkness and a little light, if only to illuminate truth and beauty. And when the night begins to feel like suicide, and the sun rises over the hills for the next countless dawn, the soul, numbed in the pain of stillness, may desire to send back from whence it came, to exit into the mystery from which it birthed. Then the torn and weathered life, having wandered the earth, crossed empty rooms and noiseless bridges to still find no mirth, wishes only to close its eyes and send into stardust sleep.
After triumphing o’re the erection of life, momentum leads under the arch’s shaded oblivion, one final time, through the ease of slipping into the dark world of creation.
Some property of European chocolate causes it to melt faster, such that it is apparent on clothing, table tops, bedsheets and noses.
My life is a trail of smudged cioccolato.
A glutton trail, a child’s tale, sweet reminisces smeared at the end of the day.
Night’s giggle fits gone cioccolato drifts.
Sugar highs and staining sighs.
Sweet tooth snuggling in cioccolato sheets.
composed in Florence, Italy
