(I love the way that he has made his art his life.)

"I really love the way Wes writes with his collaborators, I like the way he shoots, and I like HIM. I've become so fond of him. I love the way that he has made his art his life. And you know, it's a lesson to all of us, to take what you love and make it the way you live your life, and that way you bring love into the world."

-- Bill Murray on Wes Anderson, reddit AMA

(at such times there is a song going on within us)

There are moments in our lives, there are moments in a day, when we seem to see beyond the usual-- become clairvoyant. We reach then into reality. Such are the moments of our greatest happiness. Such are the moments of our greatest vision.

At such times there is a song going on within us, a song to which we listen. It fills us with surprise. We marvel at it. We would continue to hear it. But few are capable of holding themselves in the state of listening to their song. Intellectuality steps in and as the song within us is of the utmost sensitiveness, it retires in the presence of the cold, material intellect. It is aristocratic and will not associate itself with the commonplace--and we fall back and become our ordinary selves. Yet we live in the memory of these songs which in moments of intellectual inadvertence have been possible to us. They are the pinnacles of our experience and it is the desire to express these intimate sensations, this song from within, which motivates the masters of all art.


-- Robert Henri, The Art Spirit&nbsp

(who is this creature, pathetic)

(December, 2013)

Her fire reminds me of when I felt powerful. Who is this creature, pathetic, curled into bedclothes and crying?

I drink moonshine with cranberries outside I watch the moon
shine I slide my fingers down his back. He gifts coffee into my curled palms I drink it.
ask for more and more almond milk, willing it to be
not bitter.

today I will hold the baby, maybe shower, maybe eat some gluten-free cranberry bread. that my life is this simple, this privileged, this miraculous. and that I still press the palms of my hands into my eyes
and weep. he tugs at my forearms pleads speak, speak

I look to the ceiling. This is the diagnosis. I refuse to let the words enter my life.