When things happen, many parts come together – countless to those who dare figure out and succumb. We are sailors on boats of uncertainty. We take them as ships. It’s not a choice either. Life is when thoughts replicate and crystallize in realms of experience. You and I, in something as random as pure chance, see destinies more desperate than ourselves. It’s love.
When things happen, parts come together. I should always be more desperate for you.
Engorged, and large, like a serpent I am: I crave to grave in each pore of your skin. A finger on your belly spot, I rest in your lap. A drop on you that I see, I am luminous in its radiant glow. My brown meat crowned on your sun-lit thighs, there is a flood of fire I feel – a rally of questions that we do not have an answer to. What should happen? What will become of us? What will we do? I am inside, and outside of you now. You have eyes like daggers dipped in honey. I slip in between.
Image source: © M. Khalaf 2012, © Lucas Duret
A bird song, up above on top of a sunlit canopy at dawn, breaks through the murky and mundane. The lights spill down, the swell of life kisses the spell of silence. The earth is brooding rich. The night is buried blind. The decay is dust. The mist is everywhere. The rain forest observes.
Image source: Planet Earth [8] Jungles (David Attenborough ’06)
There is no such thing as a baby—meaning that if you set out to describe a baby, you will find you are describing a baby and someone. A baby cannot exist alone but is essentially part of a relationship.
– Through Paediatrics (1952/1958): D. W. Winnicott
Image source: Life [10] Primates (David Attenborough ‘09)
I mean, you could talk about me maybe. But nobody could say that it was me. I could be anybody. I think in times like these the less said the better. If something had happened and we were survivors and we met on the road then we’d have something to talk about. But we’re not. So we dont.
I’ve not seen a fire in a long time, that’s all. I live like an animal. You dont want to know the things I’ve eaten. When I saw that boy I thought that I had died. Where men cant live.. It’s better to be alone. Things will be better when everybody’s gone.
– The Road: Cormac McCarthy (p. 71-72)
Image source: Simulated Supernova Detonation
Image: Texas Medical Center ‘07
For instance? Well, for instance, what it means to be a man. In a city. In a century. In transition. In a mass. Transformed by science. Under organized power. Subject to tremendous controls. In a condition caused by mechanization. After the late failure of radical hopes. As megatons of water shape organisms on the ocean floor. As tides polish stones. As winds hollow cliffs.. You—you yourself are a child of this mass.. or else. There, (I), thought (I), since you ask for the instance, is the way it runs.
– Herzog (1964): Saul Bellow (random quotes from a select 2014 reading list)
Image source: Pyramidal Rat Neuron, NYC Flickr—Tweet Geodensity
A mist screams through some corridors at a run-down health facility at midnight – a mist, rainbow red. Pangs of silence are wheeled across a rural order of relentless pain, where finite lives and mortal dreams become white sheets and grim lights. A nocturnal tug between death and disease unfolds in desire – a reality, on each side of the hurt divide. The skin acts out, the serpent hides within – it’s happening. For as long as it’s happening, they say here, it’s alive.
In slits and steel, silver skill and slain solitude, life is poetic – an undoing, an addiction. A glass of light – manual, intuitive – the antithesis of malaise and malady. On shoulders of grit and grime, where breath and blood are one and more, the metaphor lives and molecule despairs: an incision metamorphs. The creeping bleed sprouts, and slips to float in gory, glistening, and beautiful.
The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening. Often he had to get up. No sound but the wind in the bare and blackened trees. He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out their reckonings. Eyes closed, arms oaring. Something nameless in the night, lode or matrix. To which he and the stars were common satellite.. the great pendulum in its rotunda scribing through the long day movements of the universe of which you may say it knows nothing and yet know it must.
– The Road: Cormac McCarthy (p. 10)
Image source: Life (David Attenborough)
