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

Thursday, October 10, 2013

a place where we aren't



  1. ironically, for me, those places where we aren't are those places which invite me to be.


  2. This is a beautiful photo. It's looks like a painting but it makes me "feel" fall, not just see it.

  3. and... ironically... we live in a place that would probably be better off without us.

  4. wonderful pic wonderful notion this is inspirational
    gracias mi amiga

  5. Il nous faudrait deux vie, trois, vies, mille vies, pour être où nous ne sommes pas mais cela suffirait-il à combler notre soif de l'inconnu. Par exemple, j'aimerai te rencontrer dans ce lieu, mais je sais qu'il me manque l'autre vie pour le faire. Il me reste à le rêver , à t'inviter dans ce rêve, à venir vers toi pour me rendre compte que ta présence n'était que virtuelle, et puis ensuite à recommencer à courir après ces lieux de rêve et de rencontre, jusqu'à ce que l'impossible....
    Je t'embrasse bien amicalement.



  6. Places like paintings. Beautiful ones.

    · greetings

    · CR · & · LMA ·

  7. I couldn't agree with you more.

    The color, light, contrast ... the dance among them ... call to me.

    I have to also agree with Steven Cain, though I wish to blend with the scene as much as humanly possible.

  8. Blue trees, fiery leaves. Beautiful.

  9. well shit... I want to be right there

  10. sitting near a pine forest the other day I read this mary oliver poem, Five A.M. in the Pinewoods

    I'd seen
    their hoofprints in the deep
    needles and knew
    they ended the long night

    under the pines, walking
    like two mute
    and beautiful women toward
    the deeper woods, so I

    got up in the dark and
    went there. They came
    slowly down the hill
    and looked at me sitting under

    the blue trees, shyly
    they stepped
    closer and stared
    from under their thick lashes and even

    nibbled some damp
    tassels of weeds. This
    is not a poem about a dream,
    though it could be.

    This is a poem about the world
    that is ours, or could be.
    one of them--I swear it!--
    would have come to my arms.
    But the other
    stamped sharp hoof in the
    pine needles like

    the tap of sanity,
    and they went off together through the trees. When I woke
    I was alone,

    I was thinking:
    so this is how you swim inward,
    so this is how you flow outward,
    so this is how you pray.


    I continue to wonder on the nature of man, knowing that it is our job to curb what is easy gluttony in us and instead sharpen in us what is our barest of needs steeped in attention and gratitude. I don't know if we have the capacity for enough gratitude, enough. I don't know that we care to have the endurance to be mindful of our needs.


  11. if those were Pine tree,,,reckon?


"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))