When people die they don’t come back. We look for family among the scattered remnants of our wander, the long history that moved the bones, made prints in mud, turned this way or that. Somewhere words still resonate in sidewalk prayers for healing all that is sick in us. They litter gutters with useless beseeching gone unanswered. This is where street children of our lost Americas are sent to die out the rest of their days.
There may be a small notebook left by one, urbanized with crude drawings of houses in the margins, houses with rooms one might come to live in. In these rooms one may leave the things one leaves to the world when they at last are rendered unnecessary.
Grace is like this: a shroud worn when the hour is late and a desperate need cloaks one to stand naked under the stars. Is there anything more precious than a setting moon against the slow slippage of the star-wrenched night? What we pretend to live in life should not therein follow as pretense in death. These streets are the empty avenues of a soulscape. We are born with a map we cannot hold in our hands, a blank scrim of air that lives and dies with each exhalation promising justice in two places at once.
So we wear it like a jaundiced saint around our necks and pretend to believe it all. It may well leave bruises, but, like a thousand reasons, it bends to mask our stagger into the beaten days of our unenduring skin. Somewhere in this, conscience becomes an affliction. Somewhere in this, we find and lose what happiness we can.
wisdom is worth all we lose to attain it. ~aucassin verdé
i wonder if the artist ever lives his life-—he is so busy recreating it. only as i write do i realize myself. i don't know what that does to life. ~anne sexton
you must acquire the trick of ignoring those who do not like you. in my experience, those who do not like you fall into two categories: the stupid and the envious. the stupid will like you in five years time. the envious, never.~john wilmot, 2nd earl of rochester
art arises when the secret vision of the artist and the manifestation of nature agree to find new shapes. ~kahlil gibran
creativity is allowing yourself to make mistakes. art is knowing which ones to keep. ~scott adams
those who don't know how to weep with their whole heart, don't know how to laugh either. ~golda meir
i said to my soul, be still,
and wait without hope,
for hope would be hope
for the wrong thing.
wait without love,
for love would be love
of the wrong thing.
there is yet faith;
but the faith and the love
and the hope are all
in the waiting.
wait without thought,
for you are not ready for thought.
so the darkness shall be the light,
and the stillness the dancing.