swarms;

the butterflies in march. the premise is simple: every winter needs a silver lining. the powers that be conjure a summer and a nighttime within the grey cold months so that we may be reminded of “things to come”—hope springs eternal. swarms of people line up and congregate to admire the fluttering wings of creatures from warmer seasons. a classic orange in a christmas sock. but the wait is long and the cattle moos; the windows gather the mist of a thousand breaths. the greenhouses are populated by winter coats and heavy boots, rendering to naught any chance to disconnect.

i remember the excursion well. i was in line, waiting, alongside all the others. it was my idea. though i knew, just like the butterflies in march, that the premise was but a sad excuse, a reason for meaning in a void, i did it anyway. i always like to be proven wrong, especially when my right is sad. this was not one of those times. i left with a memory card full of wings and greens, but i was followed by the emptiness of a crowd i could never relate to, and the backache of an unsuccessful escape. still, i at least knew one thing—i knew where my “things to come” belonged.

not there.

hope springing eternal.

transience;

(it’s how you find your own.) the result of what you do not show, and what was not shown. you could easily make the link, but why give it away? i will tell you this, and it is not a riddle: we were walking home (“home”), from duluth up to gilford, after feasting on afghan food, and drinking all of the wine. it was a long summer night, with the sun scarcely not yet set. my fingers with the one-two-threes, the petals and the greens, painted a garden in the palm of my hand, gathering in a circle the line between A and B. until we reached the door, of course. it was all the sweet goodbyes, then. transient and true.

fittingly, today’s beautiful quote comes from a book that was lent to me; but it is no longer borrowed now, it is just ours.

“To disguise nothing, to conceal nothing, to write about those things that are closest to our pain, our happiness; to write about my sexual clumsiness, the agonies of Tantalus, the depths of my discouragement—I seem to glimpse it in my dreams—my despair. To write about the foolish agonies of anxiety, the refreshment of our strength when these are ended; to write about our painful search for self, jeopardized by a stranger in the post office, a half-seen face in a train window; to write about the continents and populations of our dreams, about love and death, good and evil, the end of the world.”

— john cheever, as quoted by geoff dyer, in otherwise known as the human condition

brume;

nous nous sommes assises, mon amie et moi, sur une pierre. ce n’était pas la mer devant nous, mais rien ne m’empêchait de prétendre le contraire—avec un calme de fantôme dans la ville lourde et grise, un horizon sans fin connue, un répit pour les pensées qui ne connaissaient pas encore leur destin.

peekaboo;

 

i just thought,
i would try,
an easy little peekaboo.

(parce que les murs ont des bouches.)