Galatea (1847) by Charles Jalabert

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Galatea (1847) by Charles Jalabert

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Blue words.
"After Rain (Wet Terrace)" by Aleksandr Gerasimov (1935)
James Wright
People sometimes say that God becomes clearer in moments of suffering, but this is not necessarily true. What becomes clear is one's longing for God. Everything is stripped away, and very little else seems to matter.
Miroslav Volf and Christian Wiman, Glimmerings: Letters on Faith Between a Poet and a Theologian

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"Can the absence of words tell a story? Like a pattern in lace, the holes as important as the threads?"
Eden Robins, Remember You Will Die
Anne de Marcken, It Lasts Forever and Then It’s Over
Photographed by Duane Michals
- lighthousekeeping, jeanette winterson
Tending Flowers I - Chloe Chlumecky , 2026
Canadian , b. 1999 -
Oil on wood panel , 30 x 40 in.

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leopard orchid
trying to figure out how to phrase my personal theory of grief:
- the self as something that emerges through recognition by others, a reciprocal network of witnesses, and memory as something that is collectively maintained
- grief is not something that fades or resolves but a permanent structural reorganization of the self. the death of a loved one is not just the absence of companionship but a total destabilization of identity
- every intimate relationship creates a distinct social self. a relationship is the creation of a specific version of us that can only be understood and enacted through that relationship. with death, that social self is lost, that identity can no longer be enacted, that version of you lacks context
- grief is a structural imbalance in the entire self: love remains but recognition disappears; relational patterns that were maintained through the body (because we spend our entire lives in our bodies) are broken, and the body experiences it as a sort of withdrawal
- memory erodes with time but love does not, eventually rendering the relationship and lost social self in the abstract. grief becomes detached from specific memories and becomes a permanent emotional structure, becomes something more than itself. with every loss that structure compounds
- love can survive the collapse of memory and identity. recognition and memory are not the same thing, and so even when cognitive memory fails love can still persist. i know this because i have experienced it firsthand. i have been loved fiercely by someone who could not remember why, only that they did because of the joy and relief they felt in my presence. something of the self is maintained through recognition by others, can be recalled through that relationship
- even when those relational traces are gone they are still present in the body as a form of somatic memory. death forces a total reorganization of the self, the self becomes a repository of the dead. as long as we live we contain those relational patterns, that recognition, that understanding of their distinct social self, and so they persist. grief is the lived experience of that continuation. the relationship is internalized and forms the emotional scaffolding of the self; there is no longer a version of the self that can be legible without it. as long as other relationships continue, as the self continues to emerge through recognition by others, that lost relationship persists as an active presence
- put simply: as long as you live as a social being, the dead do too
david lachapelle, my house (alek wek). 1997
The lottery used by the Selective Service to determine who would be drafted for Vietnam. United States, 1969
via reddit
A MYTH OF DEVOTION
by Louise Glück
When Hades decided he loved this girl
he built for her a duplicate of earth,
everything the same, down to the meadow,
but with a bed added.
Everything the same, including sunlight,
because it would be hard on a young girl
to go so quickly from bright light to utter darkness
Gradually, he thought, he’d introduce the night,
first as the shadows of fluttering leaves.
Then moon, then stars. Then no moon, no stars.
Let Persephone get used to it slowly.
In the end, he thought, she’d find it comforting.
A replica of earth
except there was love here.
Doesn’t everyone want love?
He waited many years,
building a world, watching
Persephone in the meadow.
Persephone, a smeller, a taster.
If you have one appetite, he thought,
you have them all.
Doesn’t everyone want to feel in the night
the beloved body, compass, polestar,
to hear the quiet breathing that says
I am alive, that means also
you are alive, because you hear me,
you are here with me. And when one turns,
the other turns—
That’s what he felt, the lord of darkness,
looking at the world he had
constructed for Persephone. It never crossed his mind
that there’d be no more smelling here,
certainly no more eating.
Guilt? Terror? The fear of love?
These things he couldn’t imagine;
no lover ever imagines them.
He dreams, he wonders what to call this place.
First he thinks: The New Hell. Then: The Garden.
In the end, he decides to name it
Persephone’s Girlhood.
A soft light rising above the level meadow,
behind the bed. He takes her in his arms.
He wants to say I love you, nothing can hurt you
but he thinks
this is a lie, so he says in the end
you’re dead, nothing can hurt you
which seems to him
a more promising beginning, more true.

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Blue night, roses.
Friedrich Nietzsche, from Selected Letters of Friedrich Nietzsche