Now I Become Myself

Now I become myself. It’s taken
Time, many years and places;
I have been dissolved and shaken,
Worn other people’s faces,
Run madly, as if Time were there,
Terribly old, crying a warning,
“Hurry, you will be dead before—”
(What? Before you reach the morning?
Or the end of the poem is clear?
Or love safe in the walled city?)
Now to stand still, to be here,
Feel my own weight and density!
The black shadow on the paper
Is my hand; the shadow of a word
As thought shapes the shaper
Falls heavy on the page, is heard.
All fuses now, falls into place
From wish to action, word to silence,
My work, my love, my time, my face
Gathered into one intense
Gesture of growing like a plant.
As slowly as the ripening fruit
Fertile, detached, and always spent,
Falls but does not exhaust the root,
So all the poem is, can give,
Grows in me to become the song,
Made so and rooted so by love.
Now there is time and Time is young.
O, in this single hour I live
All of myself and do not move.
I, the pursued, who madly ran,
Stand still, stand still, and stop the sun!


Source:

archives-dada:

Arnold Newman, Marcel Duchamp behind his installation of “sixteen miles of string" New York, 1942 © 1942 Arnold Newman / Getty Images
(Reblogged from darksilenceinsuburbia)

civilengineeringworld:

Can concrete be cozy? You decide.This brutalist cabin Is the ultimate summer architecture destination.

Cabins are the perfect summer retreat, whether in the lush green mountain pastures of Vermont or the deep woods of Minnesota. Their iconic shape and log-based architecture have become synonymous with the American Dream of one day owning an independent little homestead in the wild. We’ve all seen this classic wilderness imagery on maple syrup bottles, in children’s toys, even in cartoons….

Read more:http://architizer.com/blog/this-brutalist-cabin-is-the-ultimate-summer-architecture-destination/

(Reblogged from darksilenceinsuburbia)
(Reblogged from darksilenceinsuburbia)
(Reblogged from darksilenceinsuburbia)
(Reblogged from darksilenceinsuburbia)
Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don’t regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don’t bother remembering
any of it. Let’s stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
Dorianne Laux, “Antilamentation” (via words-in-lines)
(Reblogged from betterthandarkchocolate)

Living, Breathing and Reading the Rest of My Life


Today was a beautiful day, outside my house and inside my head. I have been trying to spend a bigger part of each day in reality, the physical world where you clean stuff and hug your dogs and sit outside under the trees and possibly even talk to another person, to be present for other people, rather than walking the labyrinth inside my head and on my computer screen all day and all night.

It feels good, it is good to be alive, to be at least a little more open to the whispers of infinity and completeness you can hear if you just stay still and listen. 

And I’m relearning how to read. I really thought I’d lost for good the ability to concentrate, and not stop after every word because I lost the thread or a thought or memory intruded. Maybe meds, maybe my bipolar brain, maybe age or loss of the ability to imagine someone else’s feelings and the structure of a text - maybe they explained why I couldn’t read anymore. 

But actually it’s still there. If I put down the Internet and open a book of printed paper instead of being willingly held hostage and bombarded with 15 second flashes of “information” for hours and hours every day - my captor having trained my brain to crave this passing show of images and uncrafted words - I can actually still read! I can engage with another mind, follow a long and curving train of thought, and see with my inner eye Keats’ “beauty that is truth.”

I’m alive in the world and I can read. With love surrounding me too, my life is full.


And now I’m going to walk my dogs and feel the moonlight.on my skin. Then I’ll read in bed with a fan turning over my head, and another day like this one will come tomorrow.

newyorker:

A cartoon by Emily Flake. For more cartoons from our Summer Fiction Issue: http://nyr.kr/1kxUOii

newyorker:

A cartoon by Emily Flake. For more cartoons from our Summer Fiction Issue: http://nyr.kr/1kxUOii

(Source: newyorker.com)

(Reblogged from darksilenceinsuburbia)
(Reblogged from darksilenceinsuburbia)