“I’m not living my own life… I feel refuted, abandoned, and above all threatened by a world ready to dissolve entire in such senseless disorder.”
(Rainer Maria Rilke, letter, 1917)
“Walking in my sleep
Like the naked trees
Will they wake up again?
Do they sleep, do they dream?
Feel it as the wind strokes my skin
I am moved by the chill
Hear the winter bird sing
My tears are always frozen
I can see the air I breathe
Got my fingers painting pictures
On the glass in front of me
Lay me by the frozen river
Where the boats have passed me by
All I need is to remember
How it was to feel alive”…
(Aurora Asknes, Winter Bird)
“The night surrounded me, a photograph unglued from its frame. The lining of a coat ripped open like the two shells of an oyster. The day and the night unglued, and I falling in between not knowing on which layer I was resting, whether it was the cold grey upper leaf of dawn or the dark layer of night.”
(Anaïs Nin, House of Incest)
“Life is an anarchy of light and dark: nothing is ever completely fulfilled in life, nothing ever quite ends; new, confusing voices always mingle with the chorus of those that have been heard before. Everything flows, everything merges into another thing, and the mixture is uncontrolled and impure; everything is destroyed, everything is smashed, nothing ever flowers into real life . . . Real life is always unreal, always impossible, in the midst of empirical life. But suddenly there is a gleam, a lightning that illumines the banal paths of empirical life; something disturbing and seductive, dangerous and surprising. The accident, the great moment, the miracle ; an enreachment and a confusion. It cannot last, no one would be able to bear it, no one could live at such heights – at the height of their own life and their own ultimate possibilities. One has to fall back into numbness. One has to deny life in order to live.”
(Lukacs, Metaphysics of Tragedy)
“Weakness is a great thing, and strength is nothing. When a man is just born, he is weak and flexible. When he dies, he is hard and insensitive. When a tree is growing, it’s tender and pliant. But when it’s dry and hard, it dies. Hardness and strength are death’s companions. Pliancy and weakness are expressions of the freshness of being. Because what has hardened will never win.”
“I was happy to be back in my same room on the second floor. Once I had imagined living in this room, cloaked in obscurity, writing detective stories. I opened the window and looked out at the long fishing pier with its lone café, a sight filling me with the pain of welcomed nostalgia. It was a bit windy and the sound of the waves seemed to amplify the call of somewhere else, more surreal than real.”
(Patti Smith, Year of the Monkey)
Inspired by poetry, art, life, imperfections, music, nature, dreams and antiques.
Believes that things should not be in small drawers inside large closets.
As we live our lives forwards, but understand them backwards (as Kierkegaard says).