Sunday, November 22, 2009
Saturday, November 21, 2009
this is how i feel at this moment
Although I am completely still, I feel as if my body is twisting
Starting at my ankles pulling tighter, as if I am being invisibly bound.
My vision is hazy, my head is spinning, I am not dizzy.
I am slipping, slipping, slipping.
…….it aches.
Starting at my ankles pulling tighter, as if I am being invisibly bound.
My vision is hazy, my head is spinning, I am not dizzy.
I am slipping, slipping, slipping.
…….it aches.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
picasso's, death of casagemas
Apparently Casagemas (a close friend of Picasso) committed suicide because he was refused by the woman he loved. This act was the reason for the start of Picasso’s blue period, he even said that the moment he learned of his friends death, he began painting with the blue paint. At this point he was unknown and living in poverty, his blue period was what launched the career that led to his worldwide fame.
I can't look away, the hole in the head, the glow of the candlelight.
Incredible
Monday, November 9, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Bad bad bird
Sunday, November 1, 2009
lines in the sand
The chill in the air is unmistakable, the snow is coming soon.
I stand on the beach tracing spirals in the sand with a spindly piece of driftwood.
My ears ache and lungs burn from the cold.
In the sand I draw my eye, the another, my nose, my lips pouting, a tear.
The setting suns rays blanket the smooth surface causing my indentations to come alive.
I am alone, he is walking too briskly and doesn’t notice that I am no longer trailing behind.
The seabirds call and salty wind whips through my hair.
He sees me now and is moving in my direction.
He steps gingerly on my forehead and walks down the bridge of my nose, chuckling at the tear.
I feel the pressure of his step and the laughter stings.
But this is not me, it is just lines in the sand.
I stand on the beach tracing spirals in the sand with a spindly piece of driftwood.
My ears ache and lungs burn from the cold.
In the sand I draw my eye, the another, my nose, my lips pouting, a tear.
The setting suns rays blanket the smooth surface causing my indentations to come alive.
I am alone, he is walking too briskly and doesn’t notice that I am no longer trailing behind.
The seabirds call and salty wind whips through my hair.
He sees me now and is moving in my direction.
He steps gingerly on my forehead and walks down the bridge of my nose, chuckling at the tear.
I feel the pressure of his step and the laughter stings.
But this is not me, it is just lines in the sand.
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