cmayk-blog

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I am digging you into this pillow with phantom needles. It’s taking a long time.

But though I have often quit I have not quit and it’s been years now since I drew my ghost sword and the shape of you is almost here, much like mine.

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When you see them, love life in a form that is not your own

Rainer Maria Rilke

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She does not walk. Cowered in his room like coffee grinds in the bottom of a cup, she imagines herself as the cool steady spoon bisecting the coffee. But she doesn’t want to be a spoon, she wants to walk, and can’t, for the life of her, think which kitchen utensil is analogous to that. Maybe tongs.

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‘From the soul’s proper loneliness love and affection seem part substance and part dream held in the mouth in that same way the snake carries its egg - if gripped too hard they break leaving a few grains of dust and a heart crippled by its weight of lust.’

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But outside, there is no end to it... There it arises, there it passes over you, rising higher than your breath to which you have fled as if to your final resting place. Ah, but where will you go from there, where? Your heart is driving you out of yourself, your heart is after you, and you are almost beside yourself and you can't go back. Like a beetle stepped on, you ooze out of yourself, and your little scrap of carapace and adaptability is meaningless.

The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge, Rainer Maria Rilke

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What do a torturer and the tortured say to each other after their climax has passed? I did not know, but as I sat watching him from my bamboo chair, still bisected into myself and another, I detected a similar division in him, in the horrible void where a face had been… Some might say I was seeing things, but the true optical illusion was in seeing others and oneself as undivided and whole, as if being in focus was more real than being out of focus.

The Sympathiser, Viet Thanh Nguyen

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Our eyes meet and I lay down my arms to handle it

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Your gift to me

Steeple chase eyebrows down by the old canal - roughage which brought dawn to my waste paper basket.

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At the bottom of everything there is the hallelujah.

Clarice Lispector, Agua Viva

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Ask me about peace. I would describe it as chaotic silence. Every human is a mess. Scattered in different places to create a canvas displaying all our sins and desires. And we wonder whether we could grab hold of it and dip it in black, for black diminishes the darkest of colors.

S.S. (via valartowritethis)

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Patrícia Pereira

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“You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - over and over announcing your place in the family of things. -Mary Oliver, “Wild Geese”

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Bandcamp Weekly Illustration for Via Tania

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Partnered

we suck up stories like raindrops,

open-mouthed eye-splashed co-mingling;

the point of coalescence between departure and arrival.

(Hurried footsteps seek shuffling slippers

and in the eyes of the blind there’s music.)

Rainshowers puncturing drought,

friendship living in the wasteland between birth and death,

reaching a point of no return (one hopes);

satiating such-and-suches, we pirouette

               and miss - in the rain - the other face from time to time.