clockworkheartbeehiveheart

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

(pic by me, quote from Brian Selznick’s The Marvels)

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

Pic from Lago Maggiore, Italy

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

I’m not the type to get burned out or depressed.

I’m the type that hobbles through Hell on one leg, with hair on fire, and emerges from the other side complaining why it had to be so friggin hot in there.

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

Bukowski or Fall Out Boy?

I have a little game for you! Are these titles for a.) Charles Bukowski's poetry collections OR b.) Fall Out Boy songs? I promise you there's five of each on the list: 

Love Is a Dog from Hell

Disloyal Order of Water Buffaloes 

The People Look Like Flowers At Last

Of All the Gin Joints in All the World

You're Crashing, but You're No Wave

My Heart Is the Worst Kind of Weapon

The Days Run Away Like Wild Horses Over the Hills

You Get So Alone at Times That It Just Makes Sense

I've Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea That Says You Should Shut Your Mouth 

Play the Piano Drunk Like a Percussion Instrument Until the Fingers Begin to Bleed a Bit

You CANNOT tell me they don't have the same exact energy.

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

I’m one of these characters.

Character dynamic concept: It's hard to tell whether they're fighting or flirting. Probably both. Neither of them knows, either. Because despite of being brilliant, they're both very stupid.

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

Weird shit that I do, part XYZ: Been re-reading the Secret History, but in sync with the seasons. So I’ve referred to April as “finally murder time”.

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

And even though I’d lived more than 30 winters, I always seemed to forget how much I loved the evening light stretching on and on already in May; the buds on the tips of branches, so solitary, yet so innumerable; and that first bite of a fresh strawberry that bursts through your chest like a childhood memory.

I have never liked spring per se. The sudden sun is merciless on all the dust and dried skin. Melting snow leaves in its wake rifts of gravel, candy papers and shit, and my throat is sore all the time. But I like the feeling of life moving forward. It’s like the end of April always pries my chilled fingers off everything I’ve held onto for too long and pushes me back-first into the green miracle of summer. “See?” it says with the kind of coldness only beautiful women can master, “”There was life here all along. You tend to forget.”

It was in April I’d once read for my university entrance exams. In April my lover of ten years left me for his new acquaintance. In April I defended my doctoral dissertation and booked one-way tickets to the other side of the world. April, for me, always ends in an emptiness that is at once vast and miraculous and terrifying like the sea or the sky. And there is nothing I can say to refuse it.

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

(Pic by me from Trang An, Vietnam)

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

The echo is neverending

My heart is a cathedral. Widows, ghosts and lovers sit and sing in the dark, arched marrow of me.

-Segovia Amil

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

I’ve always wished to meet someone

Who likes sharp edges

For I am a starfruit

An agave plant, an ice crystal

All corners

I’ll cut them.

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

Blue Night by Mika Waltari

(I woke up translating this poem in some part of my brain, so here goes:)

In the dim blue night With rain singing against the asphalt I wake to such burning yearning I wish I was dead, when everything in me howls what could have been and the princely nights of life, slip by me, empty: The train shivers under my feet, flames burning on the glistening surface of the street, a shadow of a camel drawn against the wasteland skies, the taste of salt etched on my lips, and I know my only home is the rumbling railway yard just before an express train departs, and I’m expected by the sun and the sea there, where I am not. Always there, where I'm not. Original text: “Sininen yö” by Finnish author Mika Waltari; pic by me

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

Person, jokingly: who hurt you?
Me, dead serious: who THE FUCK didn’t?!? (pic from Tübingen, Germany)

[clockworkheartbeehiveheart]

What a happy thing it would be if we could settle our thoughts, make our minds up on any matter in five minutes and remain content – that is to build a sort of mental Cottage of feelings quiet and pleasant – to have a sort of Philosophical Back Garden, and cheerful holiday-keeping front one – but alas! this can never be: for as the material Cottager knows there are such places as France and Italy and the Andes and the Burning Mountains – so the spiritual Cottager has knowledge of Terra semi-incognita of things unearthly; and cannot for his life keep in the check rein – or I should stop here quiet and comfortable in my theory of Nettles.

John Keats in a letter to James Rice on 24 March 1818