Blue.

It had been a long time since I'd seen the dawn. At one end of the skya line of blue appeared, and like blue ink on a piece of paper it spread slowly across the horizon. If you gathered together all of the shades of blue in the world and picked the bluest, the epitome of blue, this was the colour you would choose. I rested my elbows on the table and looked at that scene, my mind blank. When the sun showed itself over the horizon, that blue was swallowed up by ordinary sunlight. A single cloud floated above the cemetery, a pure white cloud, its edges distinct. A cloud so sharply edged you could write on it. A new day had begun. But what this day would bring, I had no idea.

-Haruki Murakami, South of the Border, West of the Sun.

That One Poem.

Daydream delusion, limousine eyelash / Oh baby with your pretty face / Drop a tear in my wineglass / Look at those big eyes / See what you mean to me / Sweet-cakes and milkshakes / I'm a delusion angel / I'm a fantasy parade / I want you to know what I think / Don't want you to guess anymore / You have no idea where I came from / We have no idea where we're going / Lodged in life / Like branches in a river/ Flowing downstream / Caught in the current / I carry you / You'll carry me / That's how it could be / Don't you know me? / Don't you know me by now? -Street Poet from Before Sunrise.

Imaginary Plans.

Carta-ficción #7: Homecoming.

kaleidoscopic dreams.
kaleidoscopic dreams at 10 am. at 10 am on a Saturday morning.
our kaleidoscopic dreams ensemble.
kaleidoscopic dreams bringing hope. bring me hope.
we share them with each other, right after we wake up, only to find out they are quite similar.
and beautiful.
then there's the sun. showing up at my window.
and the midnight sun, or just the hope to see a midnight sun.
yes, watching the midnight sun in the land of baby deer.
maybe we'll watch it together.
maybe not. because maybe you won't care for it.
the light is getting us soaked. we’re soaking in it. it’s pouring all over us.
i can hear you breathing.
or maybe it's just the earth.
it could be nothing. it's 3 am.
the sun is still up. and our happiness is wonderfully textured.
like silk or sand. or sugar, honey, lime droplets. i've missed you so much.
but i don't have to tell you that.
my tears do all the talking.
you insist on saving them.
you watch them carefully.
are they tears of joy? some. are they tears of sadness? some are too.
they contain all these words i've been keeping away.
because there was no time or place for you to hear them.
let's just watch the midnight sun for now.
Or the moon or the stars. Let's be quiet and just look into our eyes.
we'll try to understand the rest in the morning.

 

notre histoire.

La Jetée II.

“Vers le cinquantième jour, ils se rencontrent dans un musée plein de bêtes éternelles.”

Carta-ficción #36

Dearest,

I’m bathing myself in the sand of your eyes.

Overwhelmed by nothingness. I’m sitting in a bench I

used to know perfectly well. And then walking fast,

faster and faster until I run right into you.

I fall. I fall in love, I'm going to fall into pieces,

I fall, ache afterwards.

Now I’m bathing myself in the coldness of the sea.

It’s soothing and I think I like it.

Text-île.

My brother bought a textile art book for me last month. Since then I’ve been looking at it and getting excited about pretty much anything in it. Today I found something that made me fall in love with the textile universe in an even stronger way than I already was. And I guess he’ll love it too since it’s all NYC inspired (you can tell, right?). The name of the artist is Clare Tough and her work is simply amazing.

Franny Moments #5 & 6

La Jetée I.

"Ceci est l'histoire d'un homme marqué par une image d'enfance.”

Postcard.

I’d like to write a postcard for each and every person I’ve ever loved. Just so they know.

Yes, Please!: Inspiration Source #700

By Limedrop.

I had a dream no longer to be free…

Deerhunter. Day III – Coachella ‘10.

I want your picture but not your words…

Beach House. Day II – Coachella ‘10.

…higher and higher and higher…

Passion Pit. Day I - Coachella ‘10.

Under The Coachella Sky.

Dancing and singing really softly.

I grow inspired with these sounds.
I grow insecure and flexible and then they can make me feel whatever, think whatever.
I listen to your weak guitar and all those synthesized sequences
and then I find myself dreaming your body is expulsing them as you dance, your organs working on every rhythm, every sad note, every twinkling beat.
And my ears are the wheels to every place in your mind, you say this is a gift to me. It is.
A song, a song with no words, my name is the only thing that matches, like a Sunday tablecloth scrap to your picnic universe.
Show me how love sounds, guide me to your head, drive me with your music.

If I find myself deaf one day
will you think of me as dead?

A life is worth living.

Dis moi ce que tu écoutes…

Blue House.

Well tell me if it is,/ Is it tearing you apart?/ You run by the law but at the end of the day/ The law can’t catch you if you run/ Run faster than her.

We sat and stared at pretty windows,/ Pretty eyes,/ You must be solitude in disguise.

I’m no sure if you’re like me but you make me feel vulnerable./ Let’s burn every park down/ Until you feel safe, again…/ Ask me to do it,/ I promise you I will.

Night Song.

just because it is the night doesn't mean you have to go now baby, you could stay and make it right or we could run away now maybe,

just because it is the night why should it be us to feel so lonely, with the shimmer of the light comes the flicker of the heartbeat faster than your heartbeat, quicker than my heartbeat..

hold me tight.