#quaintobsessions

somehow, i find myself in belgium, photographing chestnut trees.

not on purpose- not with a plan- but as if drawn, by some quiet gravity, to these narrow streets and onto this vacant square -shaded like a held breath.

i get lost, not dangerously so, just enough to forget what I was looking for -and there they are chestnut trees impossibly still blossoming, with all the time in the world.

i raise my camera, not to remember- but because something in me needs to hold what has already been expressed.

in may, they bloom. -and i bloom.

'How bright the ruin around me grew' - pure magic.

speakingvoiceless replied to your post “Petals”

Perfect!

shreddspread replied to your post “As We Were”

Those 3 images at the end are awesome.

(For Marinca, @quaintobsessions) In response to 'To Keep My Feet On The Ground'

 I’ve heard the truth is found unspoken between the lines we write as overtones resonate when two notes are

played in perfect pitch. We met washing dishes at the broken hearts party ‘cause all the best conversations happen in the kitchen

where we hum our little songs and leave a little self respect behind, finding it again somehow on tear-slickened strings thrumming And moonlit nights in the dunes

waiting for the sea to whisper a song of forgiveness and resurrection. You wake me too as we take our fragile, then determined, steps toward home,

those places we find vacant and yet so full of expectation, trying at last to release all we’ve held in, for far too long, buried far too deep

burning out all the tarnished parts ‘til we shine gold in the brazen sun.

a collaboration with quaintobsessions

The tops of the trees had left Their own perches. Bare of bark They shone in the roving rain As if stripped by an unseen hand. Birdsong here abruptly stilled.

More than what gave us this More than the earth held in

A mundane raindrop at edge Of the leaf; antlers fragmented Inside the corner of the mouth, And autumn’s come. The woods Are sufficient with their grieving.

You lay down in your rusted bathtub, its clawed feet arching into the rough tile.

You never felt clean enough to allow your ablutions to be performed in a softer place.

Paint peeling the walls down, soap running off your puckered skin, is there anything not slowly running away from itself?

You pull away the curtains but cover yourself in a rough towel.