He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.
Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Love in the Time of Cholera (via fuckyeahexistentialism)
Consider yourself lost.
You might as well, you know. Accept that you’ve traveled the globe, seen more sights than eyes were formed to handle, that you’ve found yourself as just as aimless, if not more, than the next. Anticipate the mixture of violence and danger and readiness that comes with your life, and then open yourself up to the antipathy of the modern life toward meaning and accept that you’re on your own, that words are just words, that conversations cannot help but be lacking, and that you’ll forever come to this silence in the dead of the the night when the wind blows and the sea hits the beach with eternal resonance and your schedule seems otherworldly in its efficiency. You are this pawn, this executor, a being helping brief the tides at the daily sync. You are the glue that keeps the crew together. So be it.
The years to come are in your head. The years spent are memories dissolving and changing with the blue of the water before you, already lost and shifting as the last storm being cleaned up before you on the beach meant for tourists. The moment before you is shifting back and forth, seeking a cure for the ocean, sure of the ridiculousness of searching for a cure for the ocean, dizzy with the possibilities of the now and the forever. Your view breezes between books that tell of meaning and the world that aches for a new myth to define it. Your gaze is met by others who recognize your melancholy and welcome it back to their island. You belong, as they do, and you begin to move together through life once more.
Where will you be in five years? What’s your plan, your career, your method of moving through the world? What’s that in your cup that inspires your speaking of truth and pain and suffering and release? What’s that on your lips that tells of experience and trials, of systems made important by the lives sacrificed to the pyres of their foundation? What’s that moment that you’ll hold to in the face of Heaven, in the face of Hell, that you can’t bear to part with?
I am a man on the move, beholden to nothing. I am a being with ache and suffering that writes only in the moment, unsure of anything other, who knows the past too well and gives premonitions of the future too much power. I am an audience eager for a play two thousand years gone.
Embrace me, and wish me well.

Consider yourself lost.

You might as well, you know. Accept that you’ve traveled the globe, seen more sights than eyes were formed to handle, that you’ve found yourself as just as aimless, if not more, than the next. Anticipate the mixture of violence and danger and readiness that comes with your life, and then open yourself up to the antipathy of the modern life toward meaning and accept that you’re on your own, that words are just words, that conversations cannot help but be lacking, and that you’ll forever come to this silence in the dead of the the night when the wind blows and the sea hits the beach with eternal resonance and your schedule seems otherworldly in its efficiency. You are this pawn, this executor, a being helping brief the tides at the daily sync. You are the glue that keeps the crew together. So be it.

The years to come are in your head. The years spent are memories dissolving and changing with the blue of the water before you, already lost and shifting as the last storm being cleaned up before you on the beach meant for tourists. The moment before you is shifting back and forth, seeking a cure for the ocean, sure of the ridiculousness of searching for a cure for the ocean, dizzy with the possibilities of the now and the forever. Your view breezes between books that tell of meaning and the world that aches for a new myth to define it. Your gaze is met by others who recognize your melancholy and welcome it back to their island. You belong, as they do, and you begin to move together through life once more.

Where will you be in five years? What’s your plan, your career, your method of moving through the world? What’s that in your cup that inspires your speaking of truth and pain and suffering and release? What’s that on your lips that tells of experience and trials, of systems made important by the lives sacrificed to the pyres of their foundation? What’s that moment that you’ll hold to in the face of Heaven, in the face of Hell, that you can’t bear to part with?

I am a man on the move, beholden to nothing. I am a being with ache and suffering that writes only in the moment, unsure of anything other, who knows the past too well and gives premonitions of the future too much power. I am an audience eager for a play two thousand years gone.

Embrace me, and wish me well.

It is the precise bit and feel and sound of every step that fills me with life.

Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard

For my father, on day 10 of the Camino de Santiago.

For better and for worse.

For better and for worse.

Cutie and the Boxer

Cutie and the Boxer

Very simple love that believes in words,
since I cannot do what I want to do,
can neither hug nor kiss you,
my pleasure lies in my words
and when I can I speak to you of love.
So, sitting with a drink in front of me,
the place filled with people,
if your forehead quickly creases
in the heat of the moment I speak too loudly
and you never say don’t be so loud,
let them think whatever they want
I draw closer melting with languor
and your eyes are so sweetly veiled
I don’t reach for you, no, not even the softest touch
but in your body I feel I am swimming,
and the couch in the bar’s lounge
when we get up looks like an unmade bed.

- Patrizia Cavalli (trans. by J.D. McClatchy)

A devilish grin of BVI delight, or in the anticipation of a terrible backflip, or both.

A devilish grin of BVI delight, or in the anticipation of a terrible backflip, or both.

In the silence of consciousness I asked myself:

why did I reject my life? And I answer
Die Erde überwältigt mich:
the earth defeats me.

I have tried to be accurate in this description
in case someone else should follow me. I can verify
that when the sun sets in winter it is
incomparably beautiful and the memory of it
lasts a long time. I think this means

there was no night.
The night was in my head.

—Louise Glück, from  “Landscape” in  Averno (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2006)

It wasn’t the cold I was escaping from, but I nevertheless ended up somewhere calm and warm.

It wasn’t the cold I was escaping from, but I nevertheless ended up somewhere calm and warm.

Astaire Swing Time Bojangels (by Thaofus)

Writing is, literally, brain surgery.
Mark Leyner

Feathers

If a lone feather fell from the sky,
like a paper plane wafting down
from a tree house where a quiet boy
has been known to hide,
you might think message or perhaps
mischief, not just some midair
molting of a bird.
But what if many feathers fell
from a place seemingly higher
than any boy could ever climb,
beyond the top of Savage Mountain
and obscured by clouds.
What might you think then?
A flock of birds smithereened
by hunters? By a jet?
And let’s say the feathers were large
and grayish, some of them bloody,
with signs of tendon and muscle
broken off, would you worry about
a resurgence of enormous raptors
only the air force knew about
and had decided to destroy?
For years now you’d heard rumors
of homeless gods in the vast emptiness.
And if they’d appear in your dreams,
as they sometimes did,
begging to believed in once again,
you’d feel this icy refusal hardening in you.
And when you woke you’d feel it, too.
Your better self wished to believe
the feathers signaled a parade, an occasion
of triumph, and what was falling
might be a new kind of confetti.
But what, really, was there to celebrate?
Was the world, as you knew it, simply over,
no more rain or snow? Would there always be
this strange detritus coming down,
covering what used to be the ground?

Stephen Dunn

The Wolf of Wall Street (2013)

brightwalldarkroom:

A WOLF AT THE DOOR.

by Edward Montgomery

image

“There’s no amount of poverty in your life that can make someone happy.” Jordan Belfort

The ideas we use to build the world can be the greatest love affairs that we will ever have. To suggest that an ideology is the same as a relationship may…

Back to work for BWDR.