Text

Most of all, perhaps, we need intimate knowledge of the past. Not that the past has any magic about it, but because we cannot study the future, and yet need something to set against the present, to remind us that the basic assumptions have been quite different in different periods and that much which seems certain to the uneducated is merely temporary fashion.

A man who has lived in many places is not likely to be deceived by the local errors of his native village; the scholar has lived in many times and is therefore in some degree immune from the great cataract of nonsense that pours from the press and the microphone of his own age.

Text

grey muted vowels 

sung over a blank face; thin

painted lips pressed carefully shut

to hide the lighted pearl within. 

.

her mother inconsolable 

grief of the deepest kind; undone

while her children stare out into the night

sky, the stars making space for yet another one.

.

fat wet tears fall upon 

the dog; startled, it jumps 

and paws at the various silent feet, all sad

a sea of toes that tells it to go or come.   

.

drink packets squeeze out their long sweet

sighs, as they sweat sweet tears in this dark;

brought up to salty lips, they nourish the senseless 

the only common thing left, is that breathless silence. 

Text

Setting fire to our insides for fun
If you’re still alive
You are the lucky one

Quote

"

Therefore the modern man in revolt has become practically useless for all purposes of revolt. By rebelling against everything he has lost his right to rebel against anything… There is a thought that stops thought. That is the only thought that ought to be stopped.

"

-

GK Chesterton

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I thought that
You had made a heart
out of pebbles

But gently you made me see
How they were holes
Precisely spaced

Out with your ski pole.
Spaces to host
Laughter, love

Those corrosive type things
That would melt mountains
Leaving us both together, standing

Clutching our bellies, mouths
open, in a gooey sweet puddle
As our ice age warms away.

Text

Philemon hangs the suit

upon the rack - 

its foreign threads pricking his screaming 

skin, his cold wife cast 

off in a corner, where

no forgiveness can touch.

He watches that grey wool sway, mock

truth, such strange and bitter fruit

that tastes like black cotton 

stuffed in his mouth. He cannot

weep - dry

clean only. That suit is cheap; 

hastily sewn, for summer days

where sweat and soiling mingle 

sighs that damn and dishevel 

Now she cries, but Philemon cannot

hear, she is far, far away.

He is dying to rip that lapel 

and make love to it, 

finger that lingering pleasure -

the stuff that gets torn and can’t ever be mended back together. 

Text

The unforced rhythms of grace.

Photo

designtank:

One of several Muslim prayer carpets created with a Bic ballpoint pen, they are French designer Jonathan Bréchignac’s response to the ephemerality of design comps, and a form of meditation. Read more at FastCo. Design.

Art with ink

Source: designtank
Text

You tilt your head
Like a puppy discovering
Its tail -

Gaze fixed but unseeing
Feeling its way in
The dark -

The huge leaves we left out
Waxy and wet in
Their secret longing -

Rain pelting as
You gasp, like an
Animal, drowning -

Our silence fills our eyes
Speaking only in sighs
Unuttered singing -

Text

Tell me that you have two hearts -
Like the bird who returns daily to his nest
At sunset dreaming of the cedar at noon.

Say that you have four eyes -
Two of which only have sight for the sighs
That pass between our parched lips in the rare moment of feeling.

Declare that there are two truths -
The one from our youth and
The other of our making.

But show me only one you -
In devastating completeness
Though it might kill me,
Though it must kill you.

Text

The catastrophe of choice

Photo

eatsleepdraw:

It would mean so much to me if you featured my work - hope you like my collage xx

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Braid

Source: eatsleepdraw
Photo
endlesstoil:

Michael Donovan for Vision

endlesstoil:

Michael Donovan for Vision

Source: endlesstoil

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Text

The imaginary, is neither unreal nor real.

Text

When we think of history, we do not often think of history as an exercise of the imagination. And yet, the practice of history, or historiography, is in some sense, fundamentally connected to the imagination.

History might be meant to be the truthful record of the past. But even if the historian has all the facts, does that necessarily mean that the historian’s output is a perfect reconstruction of the past? The answer is unequivocally, no.

How does one reconstruct a thought? How does one even begin to understand a motivation or a belief set in an entirely different context? At such a point, can the historian do anything but imagine?