not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Friday, May 24, 2013

from the crypt





i come home to you, the dying world that doesn't know it's dying, too busy being preoccupied with pushing flowers up through slots in the floorboards.

11 comments:

  1. we try and try to push through. it's difficult to stop trying. but, really, flowers through the floorboards is enough. all that trying is extra. it has nothing to do with flowers through the floorboards.

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  2. "it has nothing to do with flowers through the floorboards."

    nothing?

    ok.

    but what are we? why the trying? why can't we just be flowers or floorboards? what and why? (i don't ask for much, only answers:)

    xo
    erin

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    Replies
    1. It has everything to do with flowers through the floorboards.

      Let's try again...

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    2. you rascal!!!!!!!!!!!!

      xo
      erin

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    3. Ha, yes, well I often get nothing and everything confused. And the confusion seems to be getting worse.

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  3. there is life...everywhere. there is life even with our eyes closed and with lights out. there is life and there is hope. there is love.

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    Replies
    1. there is aimee, and a whole complexity of other things:)) life implies all those things, good and bad, although good and bad are misnomers, i think, abbreviations for all of those complexities:)

      but thank god for the love.

      xo
      erin

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  4. Everytime i'm here i feel in peace with my body. And sometimes i feel one with this force who does not know that is dying. Presence is felt, presence is somatic. It is a blessing.


    Makis

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    Replies
    1. arnaud)) truly? you truly feel this? well then, we are beginning to get somewhere. what do we do next? where do we go? how do we manage to get closer to the place of body and spirit, to life and what is beyond?

      we push. we push. we must, mustn't we?

      please))

      xo
      erin

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  5. jeg liker det siste godt, det er et lite kunstverk.
    hilsen dirk

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  6. I relate to the last photo, in a way that feels like understanding. I resist writing something along the condensation, leaving a mark. But I want to be inside the condensation, and something in me wants to leave a mark!

    But the trying I do is for the mark to disappear as I leave it ...

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"Words at the limit of hearing, attributable to no one, received in the conch of the ear like dew by a leaf." (philippe jaccottet) or even a quiet presence is appreciated))