- Record collecting -
- Stray poetry -
Seriously how I feel atm.
This is the room
This is the wall
This is the body
I’ve been hoping for
These are the words
I’ve been longing just to say
So this is my goal
The aim of my life
This is the feeling
They warned me about
Oh my God
What have I done this time
Oh my God
What have I done this time
The New Stone Age, by Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark.
Moon Flower and Hawk Moth, 1917
Alice Ravenel Huger Smith (American, 1876-1958)
I wish there was a girl, a girl who could never stop walking; without having to eat or sleep, she’d walk all day and all night. Her thoughts were always about her, like a breeze would move her hair, they would move her spirit, and haunt her perception. Like dryads among the trees, she’d hear her thoughts encircle her as she walked through the woods of her imagination.
“What… do.. you.. search… for?”, the words were hurled at her from amongst the leaves of an old oak. “Is it love, is it friendship?”
Indeed, her thoughts had begotten a live of their own, playing tricks on her, drowning her in desparating questions. “Is it bliss, or is it freedom?”
It was no use answering the old oak, as it would rouse the other trees into giving their opinion, resulting in the utter cacaphony that is the world. And thus, she walked.
Yesterday, she walked into a wall; not a bulwark of her own imagination, but a real wall, of such one would find circumferring an old hermitage, where each stone would tell its story, an where each brick would have had its days gone by. Indeed, each stone called out to her as she could do nothing but walk along the wall and try to find a way around it. Thus she walked, in between two walls of sound, on the one hand, her omnipresent projections of the mind, on the other hand, the faded bricks. Like the Israelites walking through an aquatic valley across the bottom of the Red Sea, she would walk amidst walls of voices, clattering down on either side of her, almost submerging her in their chatter. But it was a welcome change from the despotism of her own mind, which had surrounded her for so long.
Sadly, she did not have time to talk to the stones and hear their stories, as she had to walk on. And sad it was, for these stories where the marvels of time, the martyrdom of saints.
Yet there was none other than her, the firstborn of creation, no god of comfort, no Adam of companionship, and she walked, a rhythmic yet soothing pace. Her sole pleasure was the effect of a mantra, uttered by a pair of feet, aptly called Left and Right, Death and Life, for she was neither; unconceived, undead, unbiased. If there was sin, she would have been pure, lo! even if there was fallacy, she would have been perfect! But man had not yet fallen, and thus she walked.
Tomorrow, she would encounter a pair of footprints, approaching the wall along which she was walking. She started, as now a clear voice from the woods rang out. Thus it proclaimed: “Is there really another soul in the world? One like you, splendid and faultless?”
Now suddenly, all voices from both wall and woods, would swell, ten-fold, well beyond what words like cacaphony or even plain noise could describe. She would panic and start to run, not because she craved the heart of a companion, but because she would fear what was now behind her, vanity.
She would run, even though she had never done so before; natural instinct has power beyond reason. “Run.”, all the voices from both wall and woods would say, no they chant, no they scream: “Run!”
She would make it, catch up with what would be ahead: “There it is!” A vain shade appeared on the horizon as she picked up pace, now well beyond, even ten-fold of the fastest, that man today has ever ran. She could perceive it well now: a girl, running with an exhorbitant velocity along the stone wall, with solely her back being visible. Coming closer, her curiosity would start to grab hold of her - as it is curiosity that is one of the strongest forces in man - and she would run even faster, trying to reach the other girl with both hands.
For hours she would run, trying to grab on to her predecessor, yet it was all in vain, and in the end she would decide to take a leap of faith and jump for it. She would waste no time and instantly she would be mid-way through the air, easily overtaking the subject of her desire, yet whom would suddenly disappear, leaving her to land face-down in the dirt.
She had fallen! And all creation held its breath, while both the wall and the woods went quiet as if they had never existed.
Non Conformist Chair, by Eileen Gray.
Eileen Gray, Tubelight, 1927
Once, Picasso was asked what his paintings meant. He said, “Do you ever know what the birds are singing? You don’t. But you listen to them anyway.” So, sometimes with art, it is important just to look.
Marina Abramović (via ongezien)
Viking Eggeling, Etude pour ‘Horizontal-Vertical Orchestra III’, (Etude pour ‘horizontal-vertical orchestra,III’), 1920, Mine graphite et crayon gras sur papier, 33,5 x 68,5 cm, Centre POmpidou, © Georges Meguerditchian - Centre Pompidou, MNAM-CCI (diffusion RMN)
© domaine public