Saturday, January 10, 2009

Eudora Welty and William Faulkner, 1962, New York

“It was the same Depression we were feeling here in Mississippi, but evident in such another way in the city: lines of people waiting for food and people selling apples and sitting there in Union Square, all reading the daily paper’s want ads.”From one photograph to the next we sense a young artist and writer honing her eye and voice.

“Making pictures of people in all sorts of situations, I learned that every feeling waits upon its gesture, and I had to be prepared to recognize this moment when I saw it,” she later wrote in the memoir “One Writer’s Beginnings.” “These were things a story writer needed to know.”

:Bridgman Pottery
: New York Times

"Nothing that is"

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is

Wallace Stevens

To read: Hibernation Blues.

:emilie79* Bancs publics, sans amoureux

Friday, January 9, 2009

Her Song Was Never a Nightingale

she stood on his balcony
he asked her if she was
in the movie.i do what i can
to survive she said, balancing
the candles glued in her hair.

he kissed her.a mouth filled
with paper stars. teeth for
the archeologists to find.

the sun was sliced orange
against the sky. a veiled lady
in the garden held shears.
off with their heads, she screamed
at the flowers.

Zoe Miller

© All rights reserved mllemathilde

Thursday, January 8, 2009

The Studio

In the end
it was an act of conscience
that ended it.
I fell in love with your colors
and you were entertained by my innocence.
It was only a moment and
seldom do I remember the smell of paints
and the warm, city night.
I was not the young girl you thought me to be.

K. Pilapovich

Wednesday, January 7, 2009


I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way

Pablo Neruda

:O segredo da quimera's

Characters: Unstrung Hero

In Clean Start, an article in the NY Times, September 24, 2000, Arthur Lidz is interviewed by his nephew, Franz Lidz.
Since I was 15, I've saved all kinds of stuff: bureau handles, small bottles, marbles, mirrors, nuts, screws, wire, cord, bathtub stoppers, mothballs, empty cigarette packs, frying pans, pencils that say different things on them, trusses, parking tickets. In 1997, my brother Harry, with whom I lived, slipped on some of my papers and got brought to a nursing home. The social worker wouldn't let him come back unless I got rid of my collections. So I bought a bus pass and visited him once a week. He died last year at 85. If he'd had a hobby like me, he might have lived longer. I liked living in my junk, and I always knew where everything was. In the living room, the junk came up to about my chest. In the bedroom, it wasn't too bad; it just came up to my knees. I made paths to get around. It made me feel important. But I guess I overdid it. The landlord wanted me to get rid of my junk. A third of my neighbors wouldn't talk to me. I suspected I might get evicted. So this summer I had to let my junk go.

My nephew cleaned it out with some friends of his. It took 10 days. I wasn't there. When I came back, I was disappointed. I thought more stuff would be saved. I had an empty feeling, like I was robbed. I lost memories of my four brothers and my mother. But things happen -- what can you do? I'm too old to worry anymore. All that's left is my necktie collection and my cat, Wagging. The emptiness is a little hard to get used to. For one thing, the traffic noise is very loud now. And I feel hollow. My junk was sort of a freedom. I put so much work into saving -- years and years -- and it's suddenly gone. It's like somebody had died, a fire or an earthquake. It's like the change from hot to cold water. I may start saving certain things, like books, but I don't go out as much as I used to, so I can't collect as much. From now on, I'll have fewer hobbies.

"Samuel Beckett said art's purpose was to fill an empty space. I guess that was Uncle Arthur's purpose, too." When writer Franz Lidz cleared out his Uncle Arthur's one-bedroom home in New York a year ago, he filled 417 large rubbish bags on the first day. It took four men six days to clear the rest, and four days to fumigate the place. For the first time in 20 years, the bedroom was accessible. "They threw away my stuff!" says Uncle Arthur Lidz, 86 years old and 5ft tall. "I'm still mad at them."

Tuesday, January 6, 2009


I put my head down and waited for sleep
and waited.....
Wishing for dreams to reveal the answer
But sleep did not come
Only fitful tossing and the dreams
Had monster heads
And luggage to be packed before moving on
I thought I had let go and sleep would finally come
but the monster had a different name and spoke my fears.

K. Pilapovich

: magpie-moon

Sunday, January 4, 2009

Lost Mittens

My voice was not strong
Perhaps that is why you did not hear
I called your name but it was so cold that winter
I remember I wore mittens but chose to forgo the hat
We didn’t speak much after that
a word or two, some written cards
and you were gone
I don’t remember much more
except the color of the mittens.

K. Pilapovich
via: flickr