Painting is silent poetry, and poetry is painting that speaks.
The poem ought to be a magic spell.
happy one-year, new orleans. thanks for everything. see you soon.
There are periods in growing up that seem to be like sleep. The sleeper dreams and tosses but remains in place, lodged in a continuum that’s later hard to remember.
— Joyce Johnson, Minor Characters
tell me, why should the paint be subjected to the image?
the paint should speak,
tell it’s own story too.
“I believe in a God beyond God.”
Your sacred space is where you can find yourself again and again.
When a reader falls in love with a book, it leaves its essence inside him, like radioactive fallout in an arable field, and after that there are certain crops that will no longer grow in him, while other, stranger, more fantastic growths may occasionally be produced.
“I am lonely, yet not everybody will do. I don’t know why, some people fill the gaps and others emphasize my loneliness.”
I was reading a book about pleasure,
how you have to glide through it
like an arrow
passing through a target,
coming out the other side and going on.
— Tony Hoagland
, from “What Narcissism Means to Me,” in Impossible Dream
, (Graywolf Press 2009)
as much as possible, try to make everything an adventure