| wild fruits I have known, |
[Mar. 13th, 2012|11:22 pm] |
The Letters of Edward Gorey and Peter F. Neumeyer
The small tree in front of my little house has sprouted flowers. It is the only blossom so far in the garden. Spring has come cartwheeling towards me.
Along my arms are deep scratches without maps. They appeared while waiting for a pizza handmade at the front of the shop by an Italian man born from the centre of an oak tree.
Every time I arrive back here, I look forward to the sound of the pavement slabs moving underneath my tyres just as I approach home.
Each evening when I drink tea, Ian approaches me believing that he is invisible. I gaze straight at him as continues to creep. He would not fare well as a deer. |
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| vanishing, |
[Feb. 19th, 2012|02:55 am] |
Edison’s anti-gravitation under-clothing, 1879
And I feel I have something to say before my destruction,
- Kendall, letter to Anais Nin.
Impossible things refuse to jump out of my hat any more.
I pass much of the time, these days, inside of this hat speaking with a rabbit over tea and biscuits. And time constantly tumbling past me in a flurry. I hold onto it sometimes and it drags me, half dead to the sea. I rub my eyes, astonished to still be alive, perplexed that this is my life and that it is not full as it should be, it is not bursting with passion in this moment. The greatest crime I could ever commit - licking away at the sun and murmuring about forgotten days, wishes made in the wilderness.
In this time, I am not a magician.
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| me levanto, |
[Feb. 9th, 2012|03:07 am] |
Fritz Goro - Sooty tern chick standing forlornly as it waits for its parents from their daily hunting on the Great Barrier Reef, 1950.
/.
I felt I was myself a crawling insect doomed to perish, seized by destruction in the midst of a whole world ready to go to sleep.
-Knut Hamsun
I collected herbs from the mountains and dropped them into my breast pocket of my coat. Every time I put it on now, I am taken back.
Each morning I cycle to the sea and work on my Spanish for at least an hour. When Siberia leaves, I will begin to run again. And there are certain books that I pick up that remind me of heightened senses. I try my best to avoid them when the sinking days are around, as if drowning myself voluntarily.
The sacred white tea that was found behind a bakery in Denmark is with me here, six months on. It still clears my eyes, steadies my breaths. I drink it rarely, in the important times.
This is an important time. I am no longer headless but I wish the existential crises' would just shoo. There have been so many over the last couple of years. Does it matter what I'm doing with my life? Shoo, shoo. It does not help in the slightest that there is a dog across the road with exactly the same problem. He and I howl together often but he's far more persistent than me and rarely sleeps. |
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| Seek knowledge, even in China, |
[Jan. 18th, 2012|03:12 pm] |
Giambattista Piranesi: “Il Ponte Levatoio/The Drawbridge” (1761).
Suddenly, the temperature has dropped. Last night travelling back in the dark, a large boulder of a man picked me up and he looked at me and asked if he could dunk me in his tea as he did not have any biscuits.
I had two hundred and fifty grams of smoky tea from China in my bag, enough to last me until the summer and most of my hair swiped off like a goat by a man who once worked with Vidal Sassoon and in Hollywood. I didn't think that was so much to be proud of when he spoke of the glory and the celebrities but I like my ears just the way they are and his scissors were sharp. He was from Sicily and expressed dismay at my washing my hair with stinging nettles.
Off for the journey of two thousand kilometres where it will almost be thirty degrees warmer than here. A winter of tea and books and the sea. And a bicycle and a small house of my own. It doesn't feel real, right now, as if good things cannot come without great struggle and pain.
It has already been, I tell myself. Go towards good things.
[title - an old Chinese proverb]. |
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| to write means to give all, |
[Jan. 11th, 2012|03:49 am] |
Letters from a shipwreck - recovered and delivered [source unknown]
migration
some of my writing, hopes and attempts at clarity will be here now - http://birdsongsofpersia.tumblr.com/.
This journal will most likely stay in motion but within another form. It has been dear to me during these last near-on seven years. Thank you all for reading through these turbulent, passionate, sometimes ridiculous growth of times.
With warmth and the promise of hot steaming tea on long winter days,
Jass |
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