Schrödinger’s cat has far more than nine lives, and far fewer. All of us are unknowing cats, alive and dead at once, and of all the might-have-beens in between, we record only one”
— Yoon Ha Lee, The Black Abacus. From ‘Conservation of Shadows’. (via philipjfoster)
Everyone should have themselves regularly overwhelmed by Nature.”
— George Harrison (via creatingaquietmind)
“All day you watch a pear on the table. This pear is all you have today. You watch it ripen into bruises. The fruit is here but you can’t have it. If only you could catch that instant when ripening becomes a bruise, you could have known once and for all how we stop loving.”
— Kapka Kassabova, “Still Life,” in The Green Leaf.
By Kapka Kassabova
One day you’ll see:
you’ve been knocking on a door
without a house.
You’ve been waiting, shivering, yelling
words of daring and hope.
One day you’ll see:
there is no-one on the other side
except, as ever, the jubilant ocean
that won’t shatter ceramically like a dream
when you and I shatter.
But not yet. Now
you wait outside, watching
the blue arches of mornings
that will break
but are now perfect.
Underneath on tip-toe
pass the faces, speaking to you,
saying ‘you’, ‘you’, ‘you’,
smiling, waving, arriving
in unfailing chronology.
One day you’ll doubt your movements,
you will shudder
at the accuracy of your sudden age.
You will ache for slow beauty
to save you from your quick, quick life.
But not yet. Hope
fills the yawn of time.
Blue surrounds you. Now let’s say
you see a door and knock,
and wait for someone to hear.
You are so good. So good, you’re always feeling so much. And sometimes it feels like you’re gonna bust wide open from all the feeling, don’t it? People like you are the best in the world, but you sure do suffer for it.”
— Silas House, This is My Heart for You. (via stephaniesilver)
Of all the ghosts the ghosts of our old loves are the worst.”
— Arthur Conan Doyle
“Irony has become our marker of worldliness and maturity. The ironic individual practices a style of speech and behavior that avoids all appearance of naïveté—of naïve devotion, belief, or hope. He subtly protests the inadequacy of the things he says, the gestures he makes, the acts he performs… . Autonomous by virtue of his detachment, disloyal in a manner too vague to be mistaken for treachery, he is matchless in discerning the surfaces whose creature he is. The point of irony is a quiet refusal to belief in the depth of relationships, the sincerity of motivation, or the truth of speech—especially earnest speech.”
— Jedediah Purdy (For Common Things: Irony, Trust, and Commitment in America Today) … the ironist disowns his own words.
Everything we do
By Peter Meinke
Everything we do is for our first loves
whom we have lost irrevocably
who have married insurance salesmen
and moved to Topeka
and never think of us at all.
We fly planes & design buildings
and write poems
that all say Sally I love you
I’ll never love anyone else
Why didn’t you know I was going to be a poet?
The walks to school, the kisses in the snow
gather as we dream backwards, sweetness with age:
our legs are young again, our voices
strong and happy, we’re not afraid.
We don’t know enough to be afraid.
we hold (hidden, hopeless) the hope
that some day
she may fly in our plane
enter our building read our poem
And that night, deep in her dream,
Sally, far in darkness, in Topeka,
with the salesman lying beside her,
will cry out
our unfamiliar name.
— Friedrich Nietzsche