"NOT TO SAY YOU GAVE UP EVERYTHING AND NOW HAVE NOTHING,THERE NEVER WAS A BARGAIN, ONLY SALTY FAITH. ONLY THE POSSIBILITY OF FINDING SWEET WATER."- D. WAKOWSKI
I think of myself as perceptive but I miss the truth when it is too painful. I look into the mirror, thinking if I can understand myself, I can understand some of the world. What I want to see is the twin of myself, as a completion. But that is deceptive,too. Illusion replaces image.
How I have opened my hands filled with moonlight and found only human palms which stretch into a kind of longing...a winter love that wrestles with summer.....a spirit that wrestles with distance.....and flesh. Partnerships of spirit and flesh.
I wake up wanting to embrace him instead of thinking.
The rain that falls this morning, this summer, since last winter, is silver fish falling from the sky. Shimmering. Falling. Shimmering heaps on the ground. Sometimes I wonder if I remember who you are, except the world you live in comes into my head occasionally. Somehow it is my fault that love slapped me when it really wanted to touch me differently. Even in my head there is a conflict between loving and possessing, between love and sex. This morning you are the man I love most.
When you think you are looking into someone's eyes, are they really pushing you back into your own core where you recognize a message, always the same, ancient and within you? Light. Everything is made of light. We only imagine windows framing it.
I tell you....no sorcery will save you from the ancient fate, the ancient major rules we all are forced to play by, and, if it seems to, then you have only misread them, mis-heard them.
"Here is the pivot point around which my future will swivel. The change happens before my eyes. Now when I begin to obsessively gnaw on my fears, I try to wrestle them loose from myself the way you'd take a slipper from a doberman."(M.Karr) It is all in higher hands. In powers greater than I. It says..."more will be revealed, not more will be figured out." (M.Karr)
Now a wide sky span holds me. Some fist pounding on the center of my chest has unclasped itself. I've let go.
Who are these two selves within me, spirit and flesh, love and fear?
They didn't trust each other as much as they trusted the distances we'd grown up in?
-A re-working of ideas inspired in me by reading DW and MK and that after all the gambling with my life, I fell into the arms of Joao Pedro and how the love object becomes the art object's license to life. Another kind of song, another kind of music wrapped around and through the summer-leafed-infinity of loving him.
for Joao Pedro Placido.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
A Noite Do Meu Bem: Se Deus Quiser
SHE IS ONE OF THOSE WOMEN THAT MAKE A SEAPORT CITY'S HISTORY,
WAITING TO HEAR, TO GAZE UPON AGAIN, HER LOVER ACROSS THE SEA.
Elle est l'amour fou.
Sometimes she is all love. Sometimes she is all pain.
Sometimes she is bewildered, as well as fearful, self-doubting, self-loathing even, to be so in love with someone who shares a love and working relationship with another woman. She asks "What am I doing? Why is this love of mine for him so undeniably strong, powerful? How did this happen... that I am here and he is there?"
A voice deep within her repeats..."Je raffole d'amour"....a mantra...the love-spring of hope...the love-well.
"A noite do meu bem.......".
She throws herself into intense analysis again; her analyst stating that she needs to be reminded that it started in an exceptional way with two exceptional people. That HE was so exceptional that she has made exceptional allowances in an exceptional situation and have allowed herself to be involved in something she usually would not condone.
Exceptional people, exceptional circumstances, exceptional love.
Sometimes though she claims embarrassment, humiliation even by her own uncensored out-pouring of
emotion, vulnerability.
She then courts disillusion, she consumes disappointment, replete with doubt. She feels diminished in some unforgetting way. She is patient. She is placid. She is sad.
Elle ne peut pas oublier, elle ne sera pas oublier.
There is not enough wine, there are not enough pills. There are not enough excuses. There are not enough tears but there can be too many tears.
She was so shocked that he would make her cry. She was struck immobile.
Elle ne doit oublier, mais elle ne peut pas oublier.
She has poured out her heart to him, as he has written of her "magnificent words of love". Yes, to him, often, to him, who is not here.....the vastness of absence.
Those very magnificent words of love are also magnificent words of mourning.
She can shake her fists at the heavens, but God, like love, is a verb.
WAITING TO HEAR, TO GAZE UPON AGAIN, HER LOVER ACROSS THE SEA.
Elle est l'amour fou.
Sometimes she is all love. Sometimes she is all pain.
Sometimes she is bewildered, as well as fearful, self-doubting, self-loathing even, to be so in love with someone who shares a love and working relationship with another woman. She asks "What am I doing? Why is this love of mine for him so undeniably strong, powerful? How did this happen... that I am here and he is there?"
A voice deep within her repeats..."Je raffole d'amour"....a mantra...the love-spring of hope...the love-well.
"A noite do meu bem.......".
She throws herself into intense analysis again; her analyst stating that she needs to be reminded that it started in an exceptional way with two exceptional people. That HE was so exceptional that she has made exceptional allowances in an exceptional situation and have allowed herself to be involved in something she usually would not condone.
Exceptional people, exceptional circumstances, exceptional love.
Sometimes though she claims embarrassment, humiliation even by her own uncensored out-pouring of
emotion, vulnerability.
She then courts disillusion, she consumes disappointment, replete with doubt. She feels diminished in some unforgetting way. She is patient. She is placid. She is sad.
Elle ne peut pas oublier, elle ne sera pas oublier.
There is not enough wine, there are not enough pills. There are not enough excuses. There are not enough tears but there can be too many tears.
She was so shocked that he would make her cry. She was struck immobile.
Elle ne doit oublier, mais elle ne peut pas oublier.
She has poured out her heart to him, as he has written of her "magnificent words of love". Yes, to him, often, to him, who is not here.....the vastness of absence.
Those very magnificent words of love are also magnificent words of mourning.
She can shake her fists at the heavens, but God, like love, is a verb.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Vineyard Girlhood: Emotions Turned Me On....and 3 Lincoln Avenue was the Whole World
...And when I think of you,and all those to whom I sang,for whom I wrote songs and letters or acted out my life..if I can tell you my story perhaps something will change,not the past,but the future?
That summer I was almost 17. I was living on my own for the first time.I listened to Judy Collin’s album “Who Knows Where The Time Goes” and the wonderful song ‘My Father”. I think of my father.We were not close,my Dad and I. It was my first summer living alone on Marthas Vineyard and the little house I lived in on 3 Lincoln Avenue.I read Rod Mckuen like he was Beaudelaire.All summer long I played this Judy Collins album as I am playing it now….and Dusty Springfield’s “A Brand New Me” lp and Bobbie Gentry’s”Ode To Billie Joe”lp...and Laura Nyro,Joni Mitchell,Carole King. Though I was a late-comer to those albums (or at least Gentry and Collins)they were constant companions to the summer there.All the adults (at least the cool ones which were the ones I came in contact with) were hippies:anti-war,friendly,warm…it was a new world.There was a commune next door and on the other side a wonderful journalist who was also a master chef.There were record shops on Circuit Avenue,Head Shops,India Clothing stores;incense and tiger balm were necessities.I lived on Dannon Spice Apple Yogurt and occassionally fresh mussels.Phonograph records played in the upstairs apartments on the Avenue and their hallways smelled of old wood,incense and marijuana. We were all tanned and the bottoms of our feet were stained of beach tar. “First Boy I Ever Loved” plays. “Pretty Polly”.
The sun’s light relinquished its hold on the street.The breeze barely made its way room to room,breathful gasps in the heaviness of August.The ocean swell slowly heaved.
Mason Jars filled with gin and limes in a beach-house….sandy wood floors,sheer billowing white curtains at open windowsides…salt and dampness in the air,in the linen, in my hair,on my body.Memory. I was eclectic,insightful,sensitive,soulful. Emotions turned me on.
--As always, for JPP and his lovingly guiding the story out of me.
On Ne Badine Pas Avec l'Amour.......
My Springtime Boots and Pearls:My Barefoot Summer Hills and Fields
enthralled Summer is here.Green trees..blue sky. Robins flying,peep-toads singing,flowers growing. Balmy window screen breezes… birdsongs and sweet dreams of promise. April showers in June. Vicarige vampyre graves and angel climbing towers..My long-gone grandfather’s birthday. Springtime in Pomfret and Rice City.Sterling Hill….fields and lakes and ponds and forests. Highground and hollow turning from their gray and brown animal-fur coat to rolling light greens and yellow. Strolls. The fabled old man in the north wind relinquishing, giving a bright face to the clouds and sand of a hill watch beach..the female languid luxury of the southwest breeze. Wind,sky,sea and sand come alive…a spring dream in a cat’s eye. Brown Earth born again. Exeter and Canterbury. My eyes to the horizon as I waunder these ancient fields and hills in my boots and pearls and long black skirts…the smiles of lost love in the patterns of my hemline.The one in my rooftop eyes.The boy with the warm Portuguese heart became the Man who took me home.The dream of love as warm as the soul of my womb…my unbourne star,the colour of sweat..memory centuries old that spills from this mouth,these eyes,this heart and weaves a lovespell of timeless design,native-winged of a fashioned mind,slipping this dark kiss half-naked through rhyme and this blue note of mine in a waterfall yearn for the spring of lustcrime. I am. Daughter of the wind,homeless Indian.
Benidorm Journal: Waking and Walking
"It seemed as if someone sent you to me and as if you knew me we picked up where we left off in another life."
-"Ever Since" by Lesley Gore
.....(I found myself) walking down a narrow street where I heard someone playing Joni Mitchell's "A Case of You" on a sterio or cd player high above my head. That song, the memory of that song, the lyric "You are in my blood like holy wine, you taste so bitter and so sweet. I could drink a case of you and still be on my feet...I would still be on my feet." (J. Mitchell) haunted me and became an animated collage sequence in which I became the central walking figure in this surreal journey through the neighborhood, accompanied by warm, embracing spirits: warm, protective, ancient......
an active animated hallucination, another of my many deja-vus.
Reality/dream now blur but the feeling of a kind of holy communion with the elements of music, landscape, architecture, presence, history and great love continued to companion me.....waking and looking at the sea and feeling an ancient part of it all.
...and...once again I became clearer, more certain, of how deep, profound and what a blessing, this love I have shared with him has lifted me higher.
The strength, beauty of JPP and I together will never be diminished inside me.
Everyday I can keep loving him more than I did the day before.
My ultimate act of selflessness,unselfishness, in the name of loving...loving him.
I could begin to take it in, be present in his absence, really experience what he had taught me, experience love with him right there and then with me, walking my journey with me.
March.2011.
-"Ever Since" by Lesley Gore
.....(I found myself) walking down a narrow street where I heard someone playing Joni Mitchell's "A Case of You" on a sterio or cd player high above my head. That song, the memory of that song, the lyric "You are in my blood like holy wine, you taste so bitter and so sweet. I could drink a case of you and still be on my feet...I would still be on my feet." (J. Mitchell) haunted me and became an animated collage sequence in which I became the central walking figure in this surreal journey through the neighborhood, accompanied by warm, embracing spirits: warm, protective, ancient......
an active animated hallucination, another of my many deja-vus.
Reality/dream now blur but the feeling of a kind of holy communion with the elements of music, landscape, architecture, presence, history and great love continued to companion me.....waking and looking at the sea and feeling an ancient part of it all.
...and...once again I became clearer, more certain, of how deep, profound and what a blessing, this love I have shared with him has lifted me higher.
The strength, beauty of JPP and I together will never be diminished inside me.
Everyday I can keep loving him more than I did the day before.
My ultimate act of selflessness,unselfishness, in the name of loving...loving him.
I could begin to take it in, be present in his absence, really experience what he had taught me, experience love with him right there and then with me, walking my journey with me.
March.2011.
The Guesthouse Window Over The Irish Sea
"I am you and you are me; where you are ,I am. Whatever you find, it is me you are finding..and when you find me,you find yourself."
- from "What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire" by Antonio Lobo Antunes.
A wild, cold wind runs a bitter winter's havoc in the trees and wires,neighborhoods and streets this black night. People slam doors,noisey footsteps on the stairs.
I pile quilts,blankets over me.
I unpack the carefully wrapped photo of him from my suitcase.
I look at this photo of him and laugh and love and yearn and try to stop feeling, to cut quick that sob in my heart. Earlier,I stood in the cold confines of aeroports...with the phone in my hands. Lisbon,no... Germany?..Paris?..Cornwall?
A ceiling fan...I switch on to fill this room with a constant,comforting sound..a spinning humming....
a vibration out into the North Atlantic night from the Irish Sea to the Massachusetts and Buzzard Bays,from the Bay of Biscayne through the Channel to the North Sea.....through Marconian tunnels of long distance that echoe in voices that unite in words of love,in a history of ancient ocean winds, the music and sighs and screams of all lovers cascading into the endless unwritten pages of space and stars
.....the re-emerging, reincarnating life of a kiss.
- from "What Can I Do When Everything's On Fire" by Antonio Lobo Antunes.
A wild, cold wind runs a bitter winter's havoc in the trees and wires,neighborhoods and streets this black night. People slam doors,noisey footsteps on the stairs.
I pile quilts,blankets over me.
I unpack the carefully wrapped photo of him from my suitcase.
I look at this photo of him and laugh and love and yearn and try to stop feeling, to cut quick that sob in my heart. Earlier,I stood in the cold confines of aeroports...with the phone in my hands. Lisbon,no... Germany?..Paris?..Cornwall?
A ceiling fan...I switch on to fill this room with a constant,comforting sound..a spinning humming....
a vibration out into the North Atlantic night from the Irish Sea to the Massachusetts and Buzzard Bays,from the Bay of Biscayne through the Channel to the North Sea.....through Marconian tunnels of long distance that echoe in voices that unite in words of love,in a history of ancient ocean winds, the music and sighs and screams of all lovers cascading into the endless unwritten pages of space and stars
.....the re-emerging, reincarnating life of a kiss.
December's Boudoir
Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux
mais c'est notre amour a tous deux.
-Louis Aragon
December's Boudoir: La Femme Americaine
I am humbled by his love,
by the greatness of his spirit
and tenderness,thoughtfulness.
He is outrageous and crazy and fun
and laughing and dancing,
devouring and strong and willing.
In the width of a hushed word
curls around my longingness
and cradles me with kindness
and fierce love.
mais c'est notre amour a tous deux.
-Louis Aragon
December's Boudoir: La Femme Americaine
I am humbled by his love,
by the greatness of his spirit
and tenderness,thoughtfulness.
He is outrageous and crazy and fun
and laughing and dancing,
devouring and strong and willing.
In the width of a hushed word
curls around my longingness
and cradles me with kindness
and fierce love.
Friday, May 13, 2011
"My heart,we must abdicate this waiting....because to say I loved......,ah, there are tears in that." -Rilke
She who had known so many men of captivating beauty and impressive intelligence loved him; and he felt as if he had been placed on a very tall pedestal in the midst of his life.
Our loves are creations, our creations, we give our soul, our blood, our life to love, giving away the very best of ourselves.
Sex is the moment when the spirit rests and the beast inside us demands satisfaction.
She seemed to listen to him avidly, to thrill to each new confidence he made about his feelings, ideas and habits, always drawing him out. She wanted to know what time he got up, what books he read,which were his favourite songs, as if pushing open the closed doors of his soul, just a crack, but wanting to be shown the whole house; and her eyes never stopped scrutinizing and studying him.
He went to bed feeling that life was good; he at last knew, recognized, how to feel that ideal, noble, picturesque passion he pulled inside him from books and poems that had so enchanted him. And fortune had favoured him by giving that passion a pleasing wrapping, which seduced both his mind and his imagination.
She had had lovers but that simply made him appreciate her love all the more. To be able to interest a woman who knows men so profoundly, a woman whom repeated disappointments have made skeptical, who has grown weary of sensation. One would possess not merely a beautiful body, but a whole complex being. Each of her lovers, each of her relationships, had shaped her, leaving in her spirit or her sense of remorse, some part of their personality; holding her in one's arms, possessing her, would be like possessing the refinement of all the elegant people she had known, the wit of dramatists, the polished manners of diplomats, and all the civilizations of which they are a flower, the essence, the delicious, artificial epitome.
Now, her love had idealized him, ennobled him, lined his soul with sweetness and clothed it with glory outside. And he stretched out proudly on the bed, listening to the wind moaning and brushing against the walls of the house. He knew she would be listening to the wind in the same way as he was and that fact filled his soul with a fierce langour.
To her, this wind that seems to master is but a slave to his tenderness....just as she is.
Our loves are creations, our creations, we give our soul, our blood, our life to love, giving away the very best of ourselves.
Sex is the moment when the spirit rests and the beast inside us demands satisfaction.
She seemed to listen to him avidly, to thrill to each new confidence he made about his feelings, ideas and habits, always drawing him out. She wanted to know what time he got up, what books he read,which were his favourite songs, as if pushing open the closed doors of his soul, just a crack, but wanting to be shown the whole house; and her eyes never stopped scrutinizing and studying him.
He went to bed feeling that life was good; he at last knew, recognized, how to feel that ideal, noble, picturesque passion he pulled inside him from books and poems that had so enchanted him. And fortune had favoured him by giving that passion a pleasing wrapping, which seduced both his mind and his imagination.
She had had lovers but that simply made him appreciate her love all the more. To be able to interest a woman who knows men so profoundly, a woman whom repeated disappointments have made skeptical, who has grown weary of sensation. One would possess not merely a beautiful body, but a whole complex being. Each of her lovers, each of her relationships, had shaped her, leaving in her spirit or her sense of remorse, some part of their personality; holding her in one's arms, possessing her, would be like possessing the refinement of all the elegant people she had known, the wit of dramatists, the polished manners of diplomats, and all the civilizations of which they are a flower, the essence, the delicious, artificial epitome.
Now, her love had idealized him, ennobled him, lined his soul with sweetness and clothed it with glory outside. And he stretched out proudly on the bed, listening to the wind moaning and brushing against the walls of the house. He knew she would be listening to the wind in the same way as he was and that fact filled his soul with a fierce langour.
To her, this wind that seems to master is but a slave to his tenderness....just as she is.
Monday, March 21, 2011
In my heart there is a dark,stifling drunkeness,one could be silent here for years.
Over me is the waundering evening
and the earth's quiet breathing
but longing has drunk my blood.
In the forests and fields I became
a quiet girl.
with the voice of a dark city
I cry out for love.
When you are away, this bed becomes one large,empty boat I row each night across the sea..
for Joao Pedro.
"I waunder without you while you're in the world."-Bernie Taupin (Your Song)
and the earth's quiet breathing
but longing has drunk my blood.
In the forests and fields I became
a quiet girl.
with the voice of a dark city
I cry out for love.
When you are away, this bed becomes one large,empty boat I row each night across the sea..
for Joao Pedro.
"I waunder without you while you're in the world."-Bernie Taupin (Your Song)
By the moon's unfaithful light I entered the quiet house... lovesick and springblown.
In my inconsolable waundering I am living on the wild shore,like the smoke of a sacrifice that cannot fly up to the throne it exalts. I lean into an astonishing muteness and a fragrant,burning wind sears my consciousness....
"I may no longer smile awhile,
a freezing spring wind can chill my lips,
One less hope becomes
one more song.
And this song,against my will,
I devote to desecration, (discretion) and mockery,
Because it is unbearably painful
for the soul to love silently."
--Anna Akhmatova-April.1915 .........with my additions...
"I may no longer smile awhile,
a freezing spring wind can chill my lips,
One less hope becomes
one more song.
And this song,against my will,
I devote to desecration, (discretion) and mockery,
Because it is unbearably painful
for the soul to love silently."
--Anna Akhmatova-April.1915 .........with my additions...
"And it was impossible to believe that he would not be mine,when I walked up the mountain on a path of burning stones."-Anna Akhmatova
"Like a white stone in the depths of a well,
a certain memory lingers within me.
I can't and I don't want to struggle;
It is-joy and it is-agony.
I think that someone looking closely
into my eyes will see it immediately,
will become more sorrowful and pensive
than someone heeding a tale of grief.
I know that the gods transformed
humans into objects without killing their minds,
So that my amazing sorrows will live forever,
you've been transformed into this memory of mine."
----Anna Akhmatova--5 June 1916
a certain memory lingers within me.
I can't and I don't want to struggle;
It is-joy and it is-agony.
I think that someone looking closely
into my eyes will see it immediately,
will become more sorrowful and pensive
than someone heeding a tale of grief.
I know that the gods transformed
humans into objects without killing their minds,
So that my amazing sorrows will live forever,
you've been transformed into this memory of mine."
----Anna Akhmatova--5 June 1916
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Landing.
Hanging in the air
the end of something here
in the rain running
clear across the highway
cars and spray
spumed/sperm
like dice
strewn
electric my nerves
what do I do
with my heart?
These hours
water running in the bath
music background
making all modern life
a movie..
scenarios....
this moment
behind a closed door
much like the one that mileage
so easily constructs between
the two of us,between myself
and the world, my heart
at my bare birkenstocks.
Beat down that distance,
climb over that wall,that is
what I do with my heart.
This brave new world
for a not so always brave
girl/woman
at once exhilerated and
exhausted by the
infinite struggle
in such an easy love,
left-over food of an
unpartaken
feast./flight.
Everytime I see that face
it's like a warm embrace...
to me.
the end of something here
in the rain running
clear across the highway
cars and spray
spumed/sperm
like dice
strewn
electric my nerves
what do I do
with my heart?
These hours
water running in the bath
music background
making all modern life
a movie..
scenarios....
this moment
behind a closed door
much like the one that mileage
so easily constructs between
the two of us,between myself
and the world, my heart
at my bare birkenstocks.
Beat down that distance,
climb over that wall,that is
what I do with my heart.
This brave new world
for a not so always brave
girl/woman
at once exhilerated and
exhausted by the
infinite struggle
in such an easy love,
left-over food of an
unpartaken
feast./flight.
Everytime I see that face
it's like a warm embrace...
to me.
A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu.....
This flight/tonight.
His face/place
smile that surmounts
all the old languages
of the Gods
Apollo/calls/falls
forever into the
artery/artillery of our/my
his desire; full-blown
fleets of ancient dreams,
sweet-eyed and seduced
by whispers of a longing/lush
dialouge through tunnels of long distance
a husky voice
comes love.
His face/place
smile that surmounts
all the old languages
of the Gods
Apollo/calls/falls
forever into the
artery/artillery of our/my
his desire; full-blown
fleets of ancient dreams,
sweet-eyed and seduced
by whispers of a longing/lush
dialouge through tunnels of long distance
a husky voice
comes love.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Landscape is a state of mind, we see the outer landscape with our inner eye.- J. Saramago
From dreamland, I, half-awake, walk along streets littered with spectres of words left unspoken, kisses left unkissed......an invisible cemetery of all that was possible, half-reached syllables of speech fallen.
-reworking an idea inspired in me while reading "The Moon,Come to Earth" by Phillip Graham
-reworking an idea inspired in me while reading "The Moon,Come to Earth" by Phillip Graham
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Constant Companion.
When you are not here, I sleep on your side of the bed.....as if I could tumble into the ghost of your tenderness and smother the hole in my heart.
for Joao Pedro
for Joao Pedro
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
this is what it's all about......
Purchase Street.My best friend Ali and the love of my life Joao Pedro. I could not resist kissing his lovingness.....Ali is all about love and kindnesses.....Joao Pedro is my real thing,my real love.
RE:Duffy,Wilco,Belle and Sebastian,etc.....
Duffy's "Rockferry" is a trip into a true humanness,Memphis and all....that would be manchester and liverpool to the rest of you.....I am constantly beholden,besmitten to/with Dusty Springfield (on our knees in homage,folks...) whenever I say or think the words music and Memphis together (Dusty In Memphis is STILL my favourite record of all time.)
Wilco's "Sky Blue Sky" and all of Belle and Sebastian's work is where it's at .....
I listen to Everything But The Girl, Serge Gainsbourg,Salvatore Adamo,Bitter:Sweet,Brazilian Girls, Supreme Beings of Leisure,Camera Obscura....and,of course...I am very fond of Dimitri From Paris.....
I also think Emma Bunton's "Free Me" album is the best thing since a good Petula Clark record....
RE:five favourite films?
This is difficult, as for every one I recall,I can think of another.......I shall say that these were the "first favourites" to really effect me...humour, books, personality, LOVE. My netflix queue has 487 films in it, not including the 1021 I have already seen from the original queue...... books,records,films,kisses.....ahhhhhh......
French and Italian films really hold my interest,are my preference....that being said, I believe Almodovar to be the greatest contemporary film-maker....succeeding the earlier ranks of Truffaut,Fellini, and Pasolini,.............Antonioni,De Sica,Wertmuller,Allen,Bergman,etc..
French and Italian films really hold my interest,are my preference....that being said, I believe Almodovar to be the greatest contemporary film-maker....succeeding the earlier ranks of Truffaut,Fellini, and Pasolini,.............Antonioni,De Sica,Wertmuller,Allen,Bergman,etc..
hypocracy
Elayne Boosler joke: “The Vatican is against surrogate mothers. Good thing they didn't have that rule when Jesus was born.”
only human......another planet...but human.
There is a crack in everything,that's how the light gets in.-Cohen
E o sentimento interior de que tudo é real, mas um sonho.
To dream is to see from some vague distance shapes invisible,then with quickened motion of one's hope and will,to seek upon the cold horizon,tree and beach,flower,bird,and fountain-those kisses truth awards. -Fernando Pessoa
em Meu sangue
The act of writing is a desperate and hopeless attempt to recapture lost knowledge,forgotten sensation,a vanquished sensate language-to remember all that is irretrievably lost.-Sebastiao do Canto e Castro
o oceano não é larga o suficiente ou profundidade suficiente para parar a busca do amor
God gave the Portuguese a small country as cradle but all the world as their watery grave.-Padre Antonio Vieira
Eu também busca o mundo .... por amor
God is everywhere but the Portuguese were there first.-Portuguese proverb
l'amour vient une fois je me souviens
"Why do we feel we belong in one place and not another?Why do we take a sudden liking to someone or something and despise another? Why do we fall in love with this person as opposed to any one of thousands of others? Perhaps ten or a hundred generations ago one of our ancestors loved one of theirs."-Darrell Kastin.
Je me tu souviens.
Tu te souviens de ça ?
for Joao Pedro
Three rules....
"Three rules to follow in life: Be kind, Be kind, Be kind."-Henry James
Open your heart.
Highland Summer
Mountains,hills and fields,such beauty,peaceful in my soul......it's a highland love this summer through....
One of my songs is Highland Summer Love .....sort of a joyous hand-clapping Laura Nyro shuffle kind of thing......riding with a friend under July northwest Connecticut skies this summer (2010) we emerged from a dense verdant covering of trees,damp,balmy in the heat...to a corner in the road ..at which the landscape completely dropped off below us and into the distance....a brilliant world of sun,trees ,villages and endless sky below and beyond. I gasped,speechless,heart-full.....and I remembered this young girl once me with a melody and lyric that burst into my head two decades ago...a similar moment.....and at first chance, headed for my piano.
Many thanks and much love to Giuseppe.
merci Juillet .. mon mois préféré
I am embraced by the steamed languidness of a July evening. I am moved by the breeze on my shoulders,through my skirts. My essential lonliness,the route through my creativity,is overcome and pales before the overwhelming beauty of the great green wonder of it all. 27 .7.10
Emma Reed Dunham 1928-2010
Quelque lenteur qui traversait le jour,on auriat dit l'enterrement des reves..c'est le poete qui les rend a Dieu; sous un ciel sans fentes.-my thoughts inspired by an idea reading Rilke ....upon this mornings death of my dear Aunt Emmie 1928-2010.
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