the little monster.
i do actually listen in church. this helps me focus.
i do actually listen in church. this helps me focus.
5 years ago
10.09.2009
le.petit.oiseau.
"Little bird, little bird, little bird, what do you hear?
What do you hear?
The clink of morning cheers
Orange juice concentrate
Crossword puzzles start to grade
One across
Four letter word, it's just not sitting"
(Imogen Heap, English singer and songwriter, b. 1977)
listen here
10.06.2009
les girafes sont oranges et brunes?
Here's an interesting site on which someone is attempting to collect one million created giraffes, simply to prove his friend Jørgen wrong, or something like that. It's fun to browse the artwork and see creativity from all over the world.
The girls that I nanny adored the entire concept, so they quickly created an entire herd of giraffes. It was a charming project to enjoy on a grey, rainy day. Too cute!
Julia, age 10---
Kate, age 6 (with a little help :)---
10.05.2009
saddest poem (?)
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
Pablo Neruda
(Chilean poet, 1904-1973)
(Chilean poet, 1904-1973)
unexpected order.
Perhaps this is odd...
Today I was struck by the discovery of water droplets on the counter, arranged in a near-perfect pattern.
The water fell through the holes of an airbake pizza pan.Dotted swiss on the countertop, how quaint.
too much caffeine & swirly stuff.
On the back of a Starbuck's receipt.
If I kept all of my receipts from that place, I could likely wallpaper a room in just a short time. This must be a bad thing.
If I kept all of my receipts from that place, I could likely wallpaper a room in just a short time. This must be a bad thing.
the edge of nothing.
This is my dream,
It is my own dream,
I dreamt it.
I dreamt that my hair was kempt.
Then I dreamt that my true love unkempt it.
I love Ogden Nash.
(American humorist and poet, 1902-1971)
the secret is out...
Recently I memorized this poem by W.H. Auden. Originally I was going to post only the text, but the three paintings do add to the meaning... and I simply cannot compete with Tom O'Bedlam's voice. I hope my voice sounds like that when I'm old.
10.04.2009
whoa.
it's been about 3 months since i last posted.
so i contemplated deleting everything
and starting fresh.
life needs that sometimes.
however
life is also messy and disorganized. this blog is a small glimpse of my life, so i'm leaving everything. in following this messy//raw trend, i'll probably post more process work than finished pieces. i can't seem to finish much lately anyway.
to close -- a napkin sketch i recently rediscovered
(sketches by me, text added by J.)
so i contemplated deleting everything
and starting fresh.
life needs that sometimes.
however
life is also messy and disorganized. this blog is a small glimpse of my life, so i'm leaving everything. in following this messy//raw trend, i'll probably post more process work than finished pieces. i can't seem to finish much lately anyway.
to close -- a napkin sketch i recently rediscovered
(sketches by me, text added by J.)
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