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I imagined

a bolt of pink waterstained silk

in place of me, being

loved. I imagined

loving.

I used all

of myself up

in imagining.

— Molly Brodak, from “Conversation,” published in The Volta

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Saw the town with new eyes last night.

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12.28.18

Living in thought is living in solitude. I have watched the world from a window, always, and a window is not a door. It shows the outside, but is not a portal there.

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Interior domestic eclipse  -  Luisa Albert, 2019. Italian, b. 1969-

Oil on canvas, 40 x 60 cm.

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There was a dangerously electrical quality about Louise. I worried that the steady flame she offered might be fed by a current far more volatile. Superficially she seemed serene, but beneath her control was a crackling power of the kind that makes me nervous when I pass pylons. She was more of a Victorian heroine than a modern woman. A heroine from a Gothic novel, mistress of her house, yet capable of setting fire to it and fleeing in the night with one bag. I always expected her to wear her keys at her waist. She was compressed, stoked down, a volcano dormant but not dead.

—Jeannette Winterson, Written on the Body

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“I came to poetry because I felt I couldn’t live properly in the real world.” (Lucie Brock-Broido)

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Finding is losing something else. I think about, perhaps even mourn, what I lost to find this.

Richard Brautigan, Finding is Losing Something Else (via deeplystained)

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Other worlds than this - Elena Fontany - 1930 (possibly still in copyright) - via Internet Archive

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From Caveat Emptor, 1974.

UFOs, aliens, and things that go gzpxllztt in the night: this vintage UFO gallery is worth an encounter. (For the meaning of “gzpxllztt,” see the dictionary of all-consonant words.)

Shiver in wonderment: Weblog ◆ Books ◆ Videos ◆ Music ◆ Etsy

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There are so many better things for you than to see your feelings sold as magic lanterns to somebody whose body casts no light.

Richard Brautigan, from ‘Love’s Not the Way to Treat a Friend’ (via soracities)

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… untitled (1940)

Gelatin silver print

© Josef Sudek

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Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting.

Virginia Woolf (A Haunted House)

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beauty is but the beginning of terror.  We can barely endure it and are awed when it declines to destroy us.

Rainer Maria Rilke, “The First Elegy,” from Duino Elegies (via shitiunderline)

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Mary Ellen Bute, Rhythm in Light, 1934

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Sandra Cisneros, from My Wicked Wicked Ways: Poems; “One Last Poem for Richard,” (x)

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3 nightly dimensions… an architectural explanation…