hapticbackup: (knows itself)
Let's see what we can do with this
lovely, lovely thing that
past all racial conflict and all
kinds of

It's a reflective tune and
sometime in your life
you will have occasion to say what is this thing called time.
You know what what
is that.

The clock you
go to work by the clock you
get your martini in the afternoon by the clock
and your coffee by the clock
and you have to get on the plane at a certain time
and arrive at a certain...
it goes on and on and on and on.

Time is a dictator as we know it.
Where does it go? What does it do?
Most of all, is it alive? Is it a thing
that we cannot touch
and is it alive.

Then one day you look in the mirror.
How old.
You say
where did the time go.

One day you will look back on it.

-Nina Simone
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
"if blue
were not blue how could love be love."
-C.D. Wright

A Grave

Oct. 29th, 2015 01:51 pm
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
Man looking into the sea,
taking the view from those who have as much right to it as
             you have to it yourself,
it is human nature to stand in the middle of a thing,
but you cannot stand in the middle of this;
the sea has nothing to give but a well excavated grave.
The firs stand in a procession, each with an emerald turkey-
              foot at the top,
reserved as their contours, saying nothing;
repression, however, is not the most obvious characteristic of
              the sea;
the sea is a collector, quick to return a rapacious look.
There are others besides you who have worn that look --
whose expression is no longer a protest; the fish no longer
              investigate them
for their bones have not lasted:
men lower nets, unconscious of the fact that they are
              desecrating a grave,
and row quickly away -- the blades of the oars
moving together like the feet of water-spiders as if there were
              no such thing as death.
The wrinkles progress among themselves in a phalanx -- beautiful
              under networks of foam,
and fade breathlessly while the sea rustles in and out of the
the birds swim through the air at top speed, emitting cat-calls
                as heretofore --
the tortoise-shell scourges about the feet of the cliffs, in motion
                beneath them;
and the ocean, under the pulsation of lighthouses and noise of
advances as usual, looking as if it were not that ocean in which
                dropped things are bound to sink --
in which if they turn and twist, it is neither with volition nor

-Marianne Moore
hapticbackup: (knows itself)

Not all who howl
are wildbeasts. Some caress us
gently in our bones,
slip into our beds
and tear our hearts out.
In the best version
Little Red eats her grandmother
cubed and cooked in wicker
to pull out the toughness
seasoned appropriately. Maybe innocence
is a cloak–filtered through fur,
dragged through the woods–
that lets us pretend
a glass of blood is red wine.

-Janani Balasubramanian
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
"It is not your business to determine how good it is, nor how valuable it is, nor how it compares with other expressions. It is your business to keep it yours clearly and directly, to keep the channel open."
-Martha Graham
hapticbackup: (Armand Roulin)
"Why not have, in art, the largest mind available?"
-Saul Bellow
hapticbackup: (anais mitchell)
"Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts."

-Wendell Berry
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
"All tight and right in which condition it is to be hoped we shall all be this day 4 years"
-Emily Brontë
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
"Can I be alone in my longing for inarticulacy – for a cinema that refuses to join all the dots? For an a-rhythm in gesture, for a dissonance in shape? For the context of a cinematic frame, a frame that – in the end – only cinema can provide. For the full view, the long shot, the space between... the gaps... the pause... the lull... the grace of living..."
-Tilda Swinton

t.s. eliot

Oct. 21st, 2014 07:57 pm
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
3. Preludes

The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o’clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.

The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.

With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.

You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed’s edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.

His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.

I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.

Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
 photo 2014-08-10130628.jpg

"And so the great moon said, you should not distress, because everything is happening the way it should, and not the way it should not."


Jun. 22nd, 2014 08:39 pm
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
a satellite careering through they sky
this color....
this summer night....
it's your path, your heart
that gives me this western feeling


Jan. 10th, 2014 08:08 pm
hapticbackup: (knows itself)
Beloved, we are always in the wrong,
Handling so clumsily our stupid lives,
Suffering too little or too long,
Too careful even in our selfish loves:
The decorative manias we obey
Die in grimaces round us every day,
Yet through their tohu-bohu comes a voice
Which utters an absurd command--Rejoice.
hapticbackup: (Default)
"When in these past few years he found himself seeking the company of gulls and fish crows, young children, and the tolerant trees, he knew he did so not only for their indifference to his person, and their welcome unselfconsciousness in his presence, but also because he admired their own purities and solitudes under the thrashing skies--the birds' stepping into corpses, the pretty children's watchfulness, the humility and rigor of the trees."


hapticbackup: (Default)

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