variations on a theme.

This photo was made by Kari Masterson, a fellow maker of books, in Siena, Italy.

Silhouettes might well become a new theme.

This photo was made by Megan Newell, also fellow maker of books, in San Gimignano, Italy.

gpoyw. {blue}

I wish I had time to tell a tale.

Something about la Méditerranée.

I would share a short story

Translated last year in a course taught by a good man

An inspiring man

A fellow wanderer

And poet and writer

Who someday wishes to sail away

And live on his boat

And settle for a moment

on

Corse. 

The story is called 

La Vague et Le Rocher

By

Hélé Béji

or

The Wave and The Rock.

I think it is about friendship

wish it were sold here

Everyday life

Interiors

Characters and personalities manifested

Fascinate me.

The worlds I perceive as charming enough to wish I were in them. 

Always that certain photographic quality that attracts. 

That gaze, that font, that layout. 

Merci Montmartre.

Apartamento.

gpoyw lust

If I could

I would. 

Via. 

not necessarily the light...

Feeling very calm today. I want to keep it for awhile, add up all the small things that moved me here, to rest if only for a moment. Perhaps it was this torte. Or this cake that indeed wins hearts and minds... and settled mine, and revealed a remembered sweet tooth. Perhaps it was an unexpected visit that took us to lunch here. And a mild, bright day where wandering produced contentment, simply. Or reconnecting with a friend and professor, who recently finished a book and never fails to bolster the present Self with her certainty in future possibility. 

Like

Life gets better, the older you get. It really does. 

All of this, perhaps, but not for sure and not necessary to reach such a state-of-mind. Only a shift in consciousness, only a widened vision, only some perspective. 

It has been days, now, since I was so moved as to fill this space with spirited effusions not satiated by telling those present around me. 

First two photos my own; third photo via here; fourth photo via here. 

again.

I can’t take the credit for coming across this song by Megan Washington, which contained the first harmonic notes to greet my ears upon settling down on my bedroom floor. They had grown used to the steady tread of tires flying 75 MPH down dampened highways, Seattle to Portland.

And I walked through the door of my childhood home... don’t know if I can say home without a qualifier right now.

I felt as if melting into the shadowy 7 pm wooden floors, yes, right on the Oriental rug. Smelling by breathing so deep as to full my whole self with the place that is care and comfort and the sort of love, elusive, mother and daughter. So I began to listen to this song and watch this story. I listened some more and then turned around, looking up for some air and some sky. It had, in fact, ruptured. The sun was leaving for some tomorrow elsewhere and night was rolling along. But in between was a sky left layered violet and fuchsia. And now it is so coal black that my city tamed eyes widen at the shock of suburban night.

So back to this song. It’s buoyant, so that through one’s eyes shapes melt into one another and so do people, because suddenly you’re smiling so. The stripped down singing to you quality is such a catalyst for this.

Plus, there is tilt-shift, which I first came across here. An unlikely combination of trippy and charming, which I've never seen in motion... until now. 

 

yes, please.

“Make the most of every molecule you’ve got, as long as you’ve got a second to go. That’s your charge.” 

- David Brower 

hier, it was a whole year of seasons in a day

photo I, via Lolita

photo II, we came home

monday morning.

Lately I’m finding inspiration in the simple words of other human beings, unguarded, off guard and generally observational. But the words are revelatory of the writer’s depth of thought and consciousness and ability to see a moment for more than just the physical actions being played out before them, while the figures of study unaware of their identity as actor in the everyday scene. For this everyday scene is suddenly a rupture from the mundane routine. And all that it takes is an Other, an observer, to feel the rupture. It becomes something else; or at least the false bottom drops away like one’s heart upon the decent of a rollercoaster, the future opens up and this gaping past-of-choices propels it. Like an hourglass where the sand slides through the narrow passage for but an instant, where above and below open wide like arms readying for an embrace, the moment slows for a point, just long enough to glimpse and maybe even to feel, before things change and the sands slide on.

A long way to reach something I look forward to every Monday: The Metropolitan Diary in the New York Times. I can’t get last Monday’s mention of stifled poetic possibility out of my head. And today, a whole bouquet of scenes to bloom all the week’s rest.

On tuning out {"On the L.I.R.R."}

On saving the world  and On the sweetness of New York, when all would seem bitter  {The first and the final letters}

a sense of place.

I only want to.

I see no problem with loosing 

oneself

often.

It builds humbleness 

and a stronger sense

of the power

of the personal narrative.

Freedom.

to meander down dusty roads

in thought and in body

turning eyes to the sun

and back to the dust.

to feel the beginnings of spring

forcing its wobbly, kinetic energy 

through layers of silent winter sun 

in spindly tendrils of molecules upon bare skinned faces. 

to let the place consume the Self

then realize it, murky thick air

through which the body moves

in the rush to orient the Self whilst separated into the Other. 

{first photo via ffound.

second and third photos via Joanna Goddard, by Linn Photography.} 

constant, i hope

and inescapably inspiring

what ever the recipient

or whom ever

and only defined

by the lover. 

Photo from The Selby. 

Poets Kiss from AV Photography.

Her shoe is charmed

And expressive

Like a smile. 

Thursday Breakfast

Squash harvest bread from Macrina Bakery via Stumptown. Pears of autumn. In the gray of early morning as the first October rains gently tease the misty morning air. And I peruse the Style section of a paper 2,412 miles away. 

Back to School

There is something about filling in the as yet blank pages of a red, Moleskine planner at the onset of autumn quarter, in the dark of the night... 

When Paths Cross...

Where is she and how can fall into such a “right place at the right time” trajectory? Two great photographers, two great design-minded eyes, two lucky girls. It’s fun to see how these two photographers captured the same girl... and amazing that their paths crossed on the same day.



Taken by Garance Doré



Taken by The Sartorialist



Taken by Garance Doré



Taken by The Sartorialist