Source: Paper Ghosts
Source: Paper Ghosts
It soared, a bird, it held its flight, a swift pure cry, soar silver orb it leaped serene, speeding, sustained, to come, don’t spin it out too long long breath he breath long life, soaring high, high resplendent, aflame, crowned, high in the effulgence symbolistic, high, of the ethereal bosom, high, of the high vast irradiation everywhere all soaring all around about the all, the endlessnessnessness…”
– James Joyce, Ulysses
Kent Nerburn, The Gift of Clouds, Small Graces: The Quiet Gifts of Everyday Life:
Years ago I used to drive a cab for a living. There was a blind woman I used pick up at one of the local universities. She was taciturn, proper, almost British in her sense of propriety and reserve. And though she seldom talked, we gradually became friends. One day I asked her what one thing she would wish to see if, for only one minute, she could have the gift of sight. She smiled and thought a moment. Then, she said, “Clouds.” The answer surprised me. Of all the choices in the wide breadth of the world, she had chosen one that would never have crossed my mind. “Why clouds?” I asked. “Because I can’t imagine them,” she said. “People have tried to explain them to me. They tell me they are like cotton. The tell me they look like fog feels. They spray whipped cream in my hand. They move my fingers over paintings of skies and let me feel the shapes of clouds painted on canvas. But I am still no closer to an understanding. Yes, it would be clouds.” […]
As I drove along I pondered her words. I, who saw clearly, spent each day wishing for some distant object — a place, a person, some prize of life I hoped to win. But one who valued sight the most — one to whom it was denied — knew that the greatest gift her eyesight could bestow was before me, unnoticed and unhallowed, at that very moment.
“Clouds,” I thought. Of course. What else in this great universe so eludes description, so fills the spirit with wonder? What else floats gossamer and ethereal above our lives, never touching down but always present with us, a reminder of the majesty of an unseen God? As a child we are alive to their magic. We lie on our backs on summer hillsides, make up stories, find giants and dragons in their forms. They are God’s sketchbook, the measure of our capacity to dream. But as we grow, they fall victim to numbing familiarity. Their poetry and majesty, though still alive in our hearts, is easily overlooked, easily ignored.
“Now, let me ask you,” she was saying, “What is a cloud like?” I returned from my reverie. The traffic was churning angrily on the rush-hour streets. Far above, the clouds were moving slowly, like horses, like carriages, like elephants holding each other’s tails. “They’re like God’s dreams,” I said. “Thank you,” she responded. She did not speak again. But her still, small smile filled the cab with the eloquence of peace.
Designer Nick Barclay, takes some of our favorite films, like The Matrix, The Lord of the Rings, and Forrest Gump, and turns them into clever works of art. Check out his other movie posters here: My Modern Met.
The poster above is for the movie Forrest Gump. If you need some help to understand what it represents, the answer is here: Forrest Gump.
You MUST check out more at Seth Globalpainter’s website at GlobalPainter. (Especially “Walls”).
“Julien Seth Malland’s murals revive crumbling walls with vibrant images of children immersed in galaxies of color. The Paris-based artist, who also goes by the pseudonym Seth Globepainter, adds depth to flat, brick-and-plaster walls with a palette of vibrant hues that seem inspired by a crayon box.” (Source: mymodernmet)
The dirt resists you. It is very hard to make the earth your own. I’ve done much less to try to make it mine. All my association with it is a kind of freedom. Yet it’s hard to live at the ranch. When I first came here I had to go 70 miles on a dirt road for supplies. Nobody would go by in two weeks. I thought the ranch would be good for me because nothing can grow here and I wouldn’t be able to use up my time gardening. But I got tired of canned vegetables so now I grow everything I need for the year at Abiquiu. I like to get up when the dawn comes. The dogs start talking to me and I like to make a fire and maybe some tea and then sit in bed and watch the sun come up. The morning is the best time, there are no people around. My pleasant disposition likes the world with nobody in it.
~ Georgia O’Keeffe
The mercury tipped 27° F.
It’s the fifth day of Spring. Spring. Right.
It was one of those March days when the sun shines hot and the wind blows cold: when it is summer in the light, and winter in the shade. (Dickens)
The only thing Dickens got right in this passage was the book title: Great Expectations, and mine for the weather.
It was one of those March days when the sun doesn’t shine at all and the wind blows cold: when it is winter in the light, it is winter in the dark and it is winter in the shade. (DK)
It’s 5:45 am. I’m standing on the platform with a handful of others. The remaining commuters wait for the 5:57 train in the warming station.
But not me. No Sir. I refuse to cede my place at the front of the not-yet-formed line. Close to memory are my last two rides — unable to find a seat, I stood the entire 55 minute ride. Technical correction: there was an unwillingness, a steadfast refusal to sit in the middle seat. Just not an option. I need my space.
I board the train. I’m the first on, my wait paying off. I find an empty two-seater and sit next to the window. I settle in and start into the morning papers. The warm air from a vent caresses my feet and legs. It’s going to be a good day. [Read more…]
It’s 27° F. I’m fast stepping to catch the 6:16 am train to Grand Central. My soles are snapping the rock salt crystals. The eyes are scanning the sidewalk on the look out for black ice. It’s March. It’s damn cold. I shiver. It’s over. It’s over soon.
I review my notes for my 8:30 am presentation. And then shift to the morning papers. I scan my calendar. I complete the Morning rituals. I’m done early.
The gear box is misfiring. Where’s the pre-game anxiety? Where’s the morning email missives? Where’s the pullin’ Locomotive?
The noise-canceling earphones and the music player are dialed up. I’ve encased Myself inside Myself. Myself and Bob Seger, Against the Wind.
My phone vibrates signaling a text from Rachel — she’s two trains behind me. Hi Daddy! I send her a link in reply: FDA Panel Backs Kythera Double-Chin Treatment. Thanks Dad. Another genetic beauty mark that you’ve passed down to me. I chuckle. She’s mine. Not yet 7 am and she’s counterpunching. That’s My Girl.
The train enters a long, slow curve into Manhattan. Rachel is leaning into the curve, behind but with me — her electronic Hi Daddy, Oliver’s soft wind, like a belt of silk, wraps the house.
We’re in the tunnels. The normal pulse escalation zone. I’m watching the Commuters scrambling to gather their bags to prepare for ejection. I’m watching. Sitting. At Peace, Calm and Centered – with Seger crooning in the background. Damn de-stabilizing. Mad-Man turned Zen.
I let the masses pour out of the train and clear. I follow behind the herd.
I exit out onto 42nd Street and Vanderbilt, and she catches me catch her eye.
I’m OFF. Again. FAIL! Commuters Creed: Avoid eye contact. [Read more…]