cuttingcatfacesintopines

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Wikipedia / Image from pinterest / Machiavelli / George Santayana / Thucydides / Image from pinterest / Abba - Waterloo / J. M. Barrie - Peter Pan / Fibonacci spiral / Catherynne M. Valente

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My five year plan is to just see what happens

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“I should say: the house shelters day-dreaming, the house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace.”

~ Gaston Bachelard , The Poetics of Space

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“And all the spaces of our past moments of solitude, the spaces in which we have suffered from solitude, enjoyed, desired, and compromised solitude, remain indelible within us and precisely because the human being wants them to remain so. He knows instinctively that this space identified with his solitude is creative; that even when it is forever expunged from the present, when, henceforth, it is alien to all the promises of the future, even when we no longer have a garret, when the attic room is lost and gone, there remains the fact that we once loved a garret, once lived in an attic. We return to them in our night dreams. These retreats have the value of a shell. And when we reach the very end of the labyrinths of sleep, when we attain to the regions of deep slumber, we may perhaps experience a type of repose that is pre-human; pre-human, in this case, approaching the immemorial. But in the daydream itself, the recollection of moments of confined, simple, shut-in space are experiences of heartwarming space, of a space that does not seek to become extended, but would like above all still to be possessed. In the past, the attic may have seemed too small, it may have seemed cold in winter and hot in summer. Now, however, in memory recaptured through daydreams, it is hard to say through what syncretism the attic is at once small and large, warm and cool, always comforting.” ― Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space

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Fake Angel by Kevan Goy

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turns out I’ll always carry my 15 year old self. silly me

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良いお年を。

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waxing gibbous moon at dusk

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“I find myself only by losing myself.”

— Paul Ricoeur

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Sometimes there is this enduring ache beneath life's layers, it reveals itself when it's quiet enough. Is it me? The aversion to receiving, the pull into old orbits, what is habituated, a draw to familiarity and what is wanted with an urgency or a directness? The difficulty in discerning which is which. The ghosts that haunt peripheral vision, the past superimposed onto the now. I dreamed a cat with blurry eyes, following me. I had to nurse it back to health.

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My focus is still scattered, strewn like bits of glass after something is shattered. But I did read a good portion of Water and Dreams, cried, selected quotes, bookmarked pieces. Reviewed dates and deadlines, sections for my thesis. Started drafting an email, downloading consent forms and attaching dream documents. I reviewed a big chunk of what I'd done and added to it. Checked all of my emails. Finished my Diana Beresford Kroeger book. Thought more about dreams, metaphor, image, Bachelard. Ate soup. Revisited some playlists, favourite music. Spent time dream journalling and talking with friends. Drinking chamomile tea. It's as though I struggle to stare straight ahead, eyes constantly darting to the periphery in these ways. There are flickers of hope lately but I don't want them to become the luminary. They can be little stars. Not the sun. I think I'll sleep now, wake up early, wash my hair, walk to the mailbox, pick up a coffee, begin anew now that I've paved the path. Remember to go gently.

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She was so pretty tonight 🌙🤍

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Vallage is 18 leagues long and 12 wide. It is therefore a world. I do not know it in its entirety. I have not followed all its streams.

-Gaston Bachelard, Water and Dreams