sparrownotes
681 posts
· Berry, 22 · Profile pic by @solavey
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https://emergencemagazine.org/essay/navigating-the-mysteries/
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‘Love is an organic thing. It rots and softens.’
Words by Clementine Von Radics
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All praise to the inexhaustible labyrinth of cause and effect which, before unveiling to me the mirror where I shall see no one or some other self, has granted me this perfect contemplation of a language at its dawn.
Jorge Luis Borges, "Embarking on the Study of Anglo-Saxon Grammar," from Selected Poems
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try to praise the mutilated world by adam zagajewski tr. clare cavanagh
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Maggie Smith, "Poem with a Line from Bluets," Good Bones
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“I’m just, you know, kind of happy in the doing of things. Even just having a great cup of coffee is happiness. Getting an idea, or realizing an idea. Working on a painting…working on a piece of sculpture, working on a film. One thing I noticed is that many of us, we do what we call work for a goal. For a result. And in the doing, it’s not that much happiness. And yet that’s our life going by. If you’re transcending every day, building up that happiness, it eventually comes to: it doesn’t matter what your work is. You just get happy in the work. You get happy in the little things and the big things. And if the result isn’t what you dreamed of, it doesn’t kill you, if you enjoyed the doing of it. It’s important that we enjoy the doing of our life.”
— David Lynch
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MY FAVORITE PEOPLE ARE THOSE DEEPLY IN LOVE WITH THE WORLD DESPITE KNOWING THEY'RE NOT EXEMPT FROM ITS CRUELTY
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If you persevere, in time you will have an entirely different problem – not that life is meaningless, but rather that life has almost too much meaning. As the scales fall from your eyes the world rushes into focus, presenting itself with a kind of vibrational eloquence that can, at first, be almost overwhelming. Everything shimmers, everything clarifies, everything wrestles for your attention. Trees feel super-real, their roots plunged into the earth, their branches stretching to the sky, birds are flesh and blood souls, fragile with life, the sky unfolds and rolls, the ocean crashes, people fascinate, books are beautiful, children are whirling dynamos of chaos, dogs bark and cats meow, flowers shout, your neighbour glows, and God runs like a helix through all things. The world awaits you, humming with meaning. You are alive with potential. You are not dead.
— Nick Cave on getting clean, Red Hand Files #258
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When I thought it was right to name my desires, what I wanted of life, they seemed to turn like bleating sheep, not to me, who could have been a caring, if unskilled, shepherd, but to the boxed-in hills beyond which the blue mountains sloped down with poppies orange as crayfish all the way to the Pacific seas in which the hulls of whales steered them in search of a mate for whom they bellowed in a new, highly particular song we might call the most ardent articulation of love, the pin at the tip of evolution, modestly shining. In the middle of my life it was right to say my desires but they went away. I couldn’t even make them out, not even as dots now in the distance. Yet I see the small lights of winter campfires in the hills— teenagers in love often go there for their first nights—and each yellow-white glow tells me what I can know and admit to knowing, that all I ever wanted was to sit by a fire with someone who wanted me in measure the same to my wanting. To want to make a fire with someone, with you, was all.
All I Ever Wanted, Katie Ford
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marie howe, in an interview with krista tippett of on being
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The world outside is too horrible to contemplate. The news is one long endless horror story. Outside it is all brutality, sadism, carnage, madness and treachery. At least the personal world contains a few moments of union, tenderness, creation. The savagery of the world outside is too great for me to bear. We all feel a part of what is being destroyed. Every bomb falls on a house we lived in, on a human being we love. And what can one do? Are we needed in this new world, can we create a new world here?
Anaïs Nin, The Diary of Anaïs Nin, Vol. III: 1939-1944
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There can be no perfection or rising above all that is natural, only endless cycles of accumulation and erosion, disappearances and emergences played out on every conceivable scale. It is not our job to transcend our troubles and vulnerabilities, but to let the waters run through and over, and do their work. When something falls apart, another thing opens. We cannot know what will be better or worse, only that it will be different.
Weathering
Ruth Allen
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“Between my sleeping and dreaming, Between me and the one in me Who I suppose I am, A river flows without end.”
— Fernando Pessoa (1880-1935), from “Autopsychography“ (11 September, 1933) in “Fernando Pessoa. A Little Larger Than the Entire Universe”, selected poems Edited and Translated by Richard Zenith
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jennifer willoughby, the sun is still a part of me
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"It is all a question of sensitiveness. Brute force and overbearing may make a terrific effect. But in the end, that which lives lives by delicate sensitiveness. If it were a question of brute force, not a single human baby would survive for a fortnight. It is the grass of the field, most frail of all things, that supports all life all the time. But for the green grass, no empire would rise, no man would eat bread: for grain is grass; and Hercules or Napoleon or Henry Ford would alike be denied existence. Brute force crushes many plants. Yet the plants rise again. The Pyramids will not last a moment compared with the daisy. And before Buddha or Jesus spoke the nightingale sang, and long after the words of Jesus and Buddha are gone into oblivion the nightingale still will sing. Because it is neither preaching nor teaching nor commanding nor urging. It is just singing. And in the beginning was not a Word, but a chirrup."
D. H. Lawrence, Etruscan Places
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kind of weird how parts of your soul are left in various locations without any warning… like yes i’m always at the top of that hill, sitting at the bus stop, in the cool light of the Japanese restaurant, standing at the pier etc etc
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