You will hear thunder and remember me,
And think: she wanted storms. The rim
Of the sky will be the colour of hard crimson,
And your heart, as it was then, will be on fire.
That day in Moscow, it will all come true,
when, for the last time, I take my leave,
And hasten to the heights that I have longed for,
Leaving my shadow still to be with you.
Andrew Carnegie built an impressive 2,509 libraries around the turn of the 20th century. Now Rick Brooks and Todd Bol are on a mission to top his total with their two-foot by two-foot Little Free Libraries.
The diminutive, birdhouse-like libraries, which Brooks and Bol began installing in Hudson and Madison, Wisconsin, in 2009, are typically made of wood and Plexiglas and are designed to hold about 20 books for community members to borrow and enjoy. Offerings include anything from Russian novels and gardening guides to French cookbooks and Dr. Seuss.
Well this is adorable.
Jacques Derrida, from “Envois,” The Post Card, as translated by Alan Bass (via miraging)
Art Student Hand-Illuminates, Binds a Copy of Tolkien’s Silmarillion
German art student Benjamin Harff decided for his exam at the Academy of Arts to do something only slightly ambitious — to hand-illuminate and bind a copy of J.R.R. Tolkien’s Silmarillion. It took him six months of work. In very 21st century elvish-monk style, he hand-illuminated the text which had been printed on his home Canon inkjet printer. He worked with a binder to assemble the resulting book. (Source)
I promised myself I would never read the Silmarillion again, but this is so beautiful I would sob tears of the sweetest Valar blood if only I could hold it’s finely crafted opulence in my unworthy hands.
More pictures here, but not nearly enough to make me happy. Can I just have all the pages so I can print them out and bind them, please?
stops the world. The clock
beside the bed reads a dazzle
of broken red lines, vying
for completion. The pillows
on the floor dare not settle,
their feathers suspend inside,
a bloat of anticipation. The phone
clenches the cradle, willing
itself not to ring, and the faucet
holds its single tear. Outside,
if a dog barks, the wind simply
swallows it until our bodies stop
and slide back to single selves.
Then, around us, the spinning
starts anew, as if the electricity,
suddenly restored, starts a record again,
the slurred sound of the world
gaining momentum until it sings and sings.
drawing my seed up into an abrupt tree.
(Inner spaciousness, feel in yourself the ice
of night in which it is mature.)
Now to the firmament it rose and grew,
a mirror-image resembling a tree.
O fell it, having turned unerringly
in your womb, it knows the counter-heaven anew,
in which it really towers and really races.
Daring landscape, such as an inner-seer
beholds in a crystal ball. That innerness here
in which the being-outside of stars chases.
There dawns death which shines outside like night.
And there, joined with all futures,
are all who once were, the finite,
crowds crowded round crowds for sure,
as the angel intends it outright.
and cries for help of storm to violate
that flesh your curiosity too late
has flushed. The stem your garter tongue would twist
has sunk upon the waveless bosom’s mist,
thigh of the city, apparition, hate,
and the tower whose doves have, delicate,
fled into my blood where they are not kissed.
You have left me to the sewer’s meanwhile,
and I have answered the sea’s open wish
to love me as a bonfire’s watchful hand
guards red the shore and guards the hairy strand,
our most elegant lascivious bile,
my ship sinking beneath the gutter’s fish.
I like to touch your tattoos in complete
darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of
where they are, know by heart the neat
lines of lightning pulsing just above
your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue
swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent
twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you
to me, taking you until we’re spent
and quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss
the pictures in your skin. They’ll last until
you’re seared to ashes; whatever persists
or turns to pain between us, they will still
be there. Such permanence is terrifying.
So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.
if of arrows the condition of if
if to say light to inhabit light if to speak if to live, so
if to say it is you if love is if your form is if your waist that
pictures the fluted stem if lavender
if in this field
if I were to say hummingbird it might behave as an
if not if the heart’s a flutter if nerves map a city if a city
if I say myself am I saying myself (if in this instant) as if
the object of your gaze if in a sentence about love you might
write if one day if you would, so
if to say myself if in this instance if to speak as
if only to render if in time and accept if to live now as if
disembodied from the actual handwritten letters m-y-s-e-l-f
if a creature if what you say if only to embroider—a
city that overtakes the city I write.
things in the night air. Because it seems everything
wants to camouflage us. Look, trees exist;
the houses we live in still hold up. But we
pass by all of it like an exchange of breath.
Everything conspires to ignore us, half out of shame,
perhaps, half out of some speechless hope.
Lovers, satisfied with each other, I’m asking you
about us. You hold each other. What’s your proof?
Look, sometimes it happens my hands become aware
of each other, or my worn out face seeks shelter
in them. Then I feel a slight sensation.
But who’d dare to exist just for that?
Yet you, who grow in the other’s ecstasy
until he’s overcome and begs: ‘No more!’;
you, who in one another’s hands grow
more abundant like grapes in a vintage year;
you, who sometimes disappear, but only when the other
takes over completely. I’m asking you about us.
Earthsea, created by Ursula K Le. Guin
Photo: Roald Dahl’s writing shed. Credit: Roald Dahl Museum and Story Centre / Associated Press
I accept the transformation submissively.
In the storehouse of my memory are
Your words, your smiles and gestures.
we beat the love
out of each other.