the house of mirth

@theexplorah-blog

Sorry for the cartography reposts--I wish we had maps for everything so the routes in life always lay beneath our fingertips. My favorite quotes are caught at the intersection of ephemerality and nostalgia: "this too shall pass" and "he saw nothing – unless he were wizard enough to detect a poignant wish, a powerful longing that the cable car would never stop anywhere, but go on and on with her forever." Never let me off --A

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Secret from PostSecret.com

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Secret from PostSecret.com

Took this outside the Redmond Police Dept.

No, I did not get arrested.

Arched leg, treat the stage as your canvas, and you are both pliable brush and willing artist; Every step, twirl, leap, flip, is a paint-stroke. At once more vivid and ethereal than a watercolor’s drip Permanent, layered, decisive, like a thick dash of oil or acrylic: your grip, Sensual, for you are the body in motion and no Olympia nor Venus of Milo could be this Is it strange that every artist is some imperfect pretender, to an embodiment they cannot be, Not without your brush, not without your canvas; and every work of art can only see, Try to reproduce, not flawlessly, because a copy is only a copy and we want originality, And so we dance. Climb. Run. For art is only as good as the ones who make it, and we May yet be artists, only we speak different languages than those masters of marble, paint, and clay Our medium is the breath we breathe. This is what it is to live—to be the artist, to be art.

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timelightbox

With just five days left in her campaign, check out the latest addition to our curated Kickstarter page: Finding Trust by Annie Marie Musselman.

The work I produce documents the delicate union that exists between humans and animals. It’s not just the actual places where were our lives often intersect, like a park or forest, but the spaces where our emotions meet. When a creature on an examining table turns toward my camera, I see the universal reactions of pain and confusion in its eyes. The work documents the infirmed animals’ recovery with a sense of wonder as they heal, hoping to return to the wild forests of the Northwest.

Musselman is seeking funds to publish a book of the work with Kehrer Verlag — support the project here.

Free to move, speak, extemporise, and yet. We have not been cut loose. Our truancy is defined by one fixed star, and our drift represents merely a slight chance of angle to it: we may seize the moment, toss it around while the moment pass, a short dash here, an exploration there, but we are brought round full circle to face again the single immutable fact

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Tom Stoppard

Actors! The mechanics of cheap melodrama! That isn't death! (More quietly.) You scream and choke and sink to your knees, but it doesn't bring death home to anyone-it doesn't catch them unawares and start the whisper in their skulls that says-"One day you are going to die." (He straightens up.) You die so many times; how can you expect them to believe in your death?

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Tom Stoppard

We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.

Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Tom Stoppard

newyorker

Cartoon by Carolita Johnson. For more: http://nyr.kr/Um4rBU

theexplorah-blog

Pretty much. Even though I don't listen to music at all while running I have found myself humming Starships (worst thing ever I know, but it's pretty inspirational when you need the energy for a final sprint or something)

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The following poem refers to this: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sati_(practice)

sati they hear the whispers of the flames, catch the quick flash of a sari hear her golden bangles as they hit the dusty ground and--lie there, languorously flashing back the glint of the sun, "Sati!" cries the fishmonger, so too cries the market woman, and the child, shaved head child, because he does not know what to do, and his mother, does she cry the same, her husband, does he whisper through the flames-- they think so. they think they know. Everything demands. The higher flames, the higher sun, the higher cries. She takes two steps, and like Shiva's dance in flames--is done--

From the Sandy Hook Elementary students' return to school and the death of a gang-rape victim in India to New Year's celebrations and a giant rubber duck in Darling Harbor, Australia, TIME presents the best images of the week.

Frost makes the common beautiful

diamondcat

bunnyfood

aww

theexplorah-blog

happy new year :)

poem from the 1st

Hattie would say those balloons sailing upwards

are going to pop and fall, trap

innocent marine life. Like unforgiving cages of plastic

sent down from the heavens--when they

are only the careless vertical throwaways of man;

I like to think the balloons go up and up and up.

And the lanterns they send off on New Year's, the ones that billow

in the wind, that illuminate with the flame inside--

maybe they stay up, those lights on high,

this wistful want of man, to put our own stars in the sky.

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poem from the 29th

I want to be

barely there,

light and wispy

as a hair,

floating, like

a butterfly

on wings that

bear me to the sky,

oh to be so far above.

to dance on peaks.

to lie on clouds.

unseen for weeks

till child points,

upward, says,

"who is that?"

we are alive; we are the dead.

listen to the angels sing,

and--watch what you wish for

when you wish for wings.

a-bstracto

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