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Скорее выздоровливайте! O city of kempt and unkempt faces.
How are these rivers not mirrors enough?
lady of the swamp, twice built,
and when will your festering scars heal?
Where has your aged grace gone?
crystal-crested queen of the frozen moment,
and what has this melting to do with you?
Why won’t your children stop building?
babushka of borrowed, bought, and bottled water,
Зачем внуки твои еще рисуют?
Two months and three days
passed away as easily as I’ll forget
this gray day’s final attempt at rain,
the ephemeral stain of this fleeting christening
baptizing me slightly darker than before
But I’ll not forget this cold shore,
the ceaseless downpour of moments puddling into hours
collected in the streams of repetitive days
washed away to the cold sea bordering this city
leaving me a little cleaner than before
Soon I’ll stand motionless in one moment,
these movements, frozen by winter’s arrival
The bright white illusion of time’s relief,
of my belief in the beautiful singularity slowly drifting towards me
making me a little colder than before
9:00 am Once Alice told me how the sculptor and painter Alberto Giacometti said that sometimes just to paint a head you have to give up the whole figure.
9:10 am I told her instead that to paint a leaf, you have to sacrifice the whole landscape and it might seem like you are limiting yourself at first, but after a while I realized that in having a quarter-of-an-inch of something I have a better chance of holding on to a certain feeling of the universe, than if I pretended to be doing the whole sky.
9:25 am She laughed and told me of a mother she didn’t know, but knew of, who believed that too.
9:33 am Only this mother did not choose a leaf or a head. She chose her lover, and to hold on to a certain feeling, she sacrificed the world.
9:45 am Then I remembered that my mother did not sacrifice her world but had saved it and watched her lover leave it.
9:46 am Now I am not sure who is right but I’ve come closer to understanding the sadness of [looking] like or unlike one’s parent.
~The Herstory of Love, as told by Nicole Krauss as told by Alice as told by me
Having loved the inexpressibility of the rain
she patters now, not outside my door.
The priest lost the pear he had kept on a silver chain and
his face reddened as the metal clinked on the floor
below the podium where he stood.
Finally windows failed to fill his upcast glance as he sat
back down, blood-flushed and pearless,
his eye sparkling behind the absence of his monocle.
The purpose of this blog is to create a place where I can share the things that force me into life’s beauty and meaning. Or, the purpose of this blog is the revelation of the triteness in beauty and the banality of meaning.
Usually these aren’t whole things, but parts of things. Thus, this blog is a pastiche.
Eventually I would like this to be collaborative effort with multiple contributers, but for now I will begin. Hopefully you will come to understand me in the process, as I understand myself as being made up of these things. Or, hopefully, you will come to understand eachother in the process, as I understand myself as being made up of these things.
Everyone's Philosophy 
