talented

she lives here

mais um dia que acaba

Portugal

(trabalho de Joana Vasconcelos)

straight, no chaser

more here

blue

tree

freak out

sadness

sadness is real, cold and dark as a cloudy sky, it dwarfs you like a tall, clean wall, stops you from seeing beyond and you know you have to run around it…

Sadness makes you very tired, is a river that carries you, little as an egg,

Sadness is a lesson you aren’t ready to learn yet, you sunk deep into its pit and only late you find it is bottomless

Sadness makes you sharp, attuned, but you have to sing its music with all your being

“She was gentle, shy, quiet and delicate. A little bit depressive”

they both live through dreamers eyes...

a tristeza

a tristeza é real, fria como o aço e sombria como um céu carregado, impõe-se-te como uma alta parede lisa, uma barreira que te impede de ver mais ou além, só sabes que tens de correr ao longo dela...

a tristeza é um cansaço, um rio de lágrimas dos teus olhos e tu ficas pequeno como um ovo, ofegando contra a muralha, ignorante dos seus limites

a tristeza é uma lição e tu não estás preparado para a aprender, vais bebendo da sua taça e tarde descobres que não tem fim

a tristeza exige táctica e alianças, a tristeza aguça-te e afina-te, mas para isso precisas de ser um com a tristeza, cantar a sua música com todo o teu ser

more true autumn

nice

re-blogging

beautiful lady with big sad eyes

Dora Maar

burning olive groves

jewish-settlers-destroy-over-80-olive.html

Time magazine can be trusted on this...

With so many atrocities going on, I just don't know why this one stroke me the most...

rouxinol e papoila

Joan Miró. The Lark's Wing, Encircled with Golden Blue, Rejoins the Heart of the Poppy Sleeping on a Diamond-Studded Meadow. 1967. Oil on canvas. 195 x 130 cm. 

nan nan nan nahhh

atmosphere

atmosphere

The Floating Man

by Katharine Towers

In this experiment of Ibn-Sina, I must float
for as long as it takes to forget the sweating desert
and the sifting streets of Hamadan.

No part of me may touch another body part.
My hands are spread so wide, each finger
thinks it is the only finger in the world.

My head is shaved, lest a stray hair
tickle my ear, or remind me that I'm beautiful.
I must take care not to hear my own heart beating.

When the time comes, you will ask me
who on earth I am. Shall I say a man or a thought,
or a man thinking about deserts and cities?

Sky folds me in. I'm as lonely as a spent star
calling into the darkness. Now ask again.

(From The Floating Man by Katharine Towers, published by Picador 

l'affaire Dreyfus

Max Ernst. The Garden of France. 1962. Oil on canvas. 114 x 168 cm. Musée National d'Art Moderne, Centre Georges Pompidou, Paris, France.

curta

tudo o que passa é relativo

cabe um mundo no intervalo entre o cais e a carruagem

passeias um cão alheio como se fosse teu, envelheces dentro do teu roupão grosso,
andas pela rua sem querer saber de nada, o pano defende-te do tempo que faz e dos olhares que te deitam
sais mesmo é pelo cão - para ele fazer as necessidades e arejar um pouco...espairecer

dias mais felizes, todos já tivemos dias mais felizes



(everything that vanishes is relative

a world fits in the gap between the carriage and the platform

you walk another person's dog as your own, getting older inside your thick robe,
you go through the streets not caring for a thing, the cloth hides you from the wheather and the staring
you are out only for the dog - for him to release his belly, take some air...relax

happier days, we all had happier days before)