Saturday Morning

foot-sculpture-eve-at-the-fountain

I uncross my legs
to find, with a bare foot,
that sun has warmed the stone.
I partake of the sun.
*
And the stone.

— Rebecca Lindenberg, excerpt of Dispatches from an Unfinished World


Credits:

 

Hot Tea @ – 40°F

tundra-tea-toss

“Michael H. Davies took this photo on the tundra outside Pangnirtung, Nunavut, a community of about 1,400 just a few kilometres south of the Arctic circle.  The photo shows local resident Markus Siivola throwing hot tea into the air as he bends backwards. In the –40 C weather, the tea freezes as soon as it’s tossed.  Davies, originally from Pontypool, Ont., is a trained painter, photographer and glass blower. He has lived in Pangnirtung for about 10 years with his wife and, now, two young children.”

Source: CBC News – Nunavut tea toss photo at – 40 C proves internet gold

 

Who’s with me?

Kuoni_3


Artist: Malika Favre, a French artist based in London. “Her unmistakable style has established her as one of the UK’s most sought after graphic artists. Malika’s clients include The New Yorker, Vogue, BAFTA, Sephora and Penguin Books.” Check out her work here: Malika Favre, and on Instagram here.

 

Saturday Morning

fence, fence posts, posts,

Even through curtains,
the sun will assert itself enough to soften a candle,
its warmth insistent as a kiss till the candle bends back.
We all fall under the spell of the sun
and are all at the end bent and consumed.
See how a long row of fence posts
leans over a deeply cut road
as if they’d been pushed by the light.

~ Ted Kooser, November. The Wheeling Year: A Poet’s Field Book


Photo: Beechwood by Heiko Fritz

Not a single feather trembles

egret

Everything around it moves, as if just this one time and one time only, as if the message of Heraclitus has arrived here through some deep current, from the distance of an entire universe, in spite of all the senseless obstacles, because the water moves, it flows, it arrives, and cascades; now and then the silken breeze sways, the mountains quiver in the scourging heat, but this heat itself also moves, trembles, and vibrates in the land, as do the tall scattered grass-islands, the grass, blade by blade, in the riverbed; each individual shallow wave, as it falls, tumbles over the low weirs, and then, every inconceivable fleeting element of this subsiding wave, and all the individual glitterings of light flashing on the surface of this fleeting element, this surface suddenly emerging and just as quickly collapsing, with its drops of light dying down, scintillating, and then reeling in all directions, inexpressible in words; clouds are gathering; the restless, jarring blue sky high above; the sun is concentrated with horrific strength, yet still indescribable, extending onto the entire momentary creation, maddeningly brilliant, blindingly radiant.
[…]
There it is, in the middle of the Kamo, the water largely reaching up to its knees, hence the truly quite shallow weir, interspersed with small grassy enclaves, hence truly peculiar, if not the most bizarre river upon the globe, and the bird just stands, without a single movement, its body strained forward, waiting staggeringly long minutes for the day’s quarry, now already ten minutes, then a half-hour passes as well; in this waiting and attentiveness and motionlessness, time is cruelly long, and still it does not move, standing exactly the same, in exactly the same pose, not a single feather trembles, it stands, leaning forward, its beak bent at an acute angle over the mirror of the gurgling water; no one is looking, no one sees it, and if it’s not seen today then it is not seen for all eternity, the inexpressible beauty with which it stands shall remain concealed, the unique enchantment of its regal stillness shall remain unperceived: here with it, in the middle of the Kamo, in this motionlessness, in recognition that it is the one that gives meaning to everything around it, gives meaning to the spinning churning world of movement, to the dry parching heat, the vibrations, every whirling sound, scent, and picture, because it is a completely unique feature of this land, the unyielding artist of this landscape, who in its aesthetic of unparalleled motionlessness, as the fulfillment of unswerving artistic observation, rises once and for all above that to which it gives meaning, rises above it, above the frantic cavalcade of all the surrounding things, and introduces a kind of aimlessness — beautiful as well — above the local meaning permeating everything, as well as above that of its own actual activity, because what is the point of being beautiful, especially when it is just a white bird standing and waiting for something.

~ László Krasznahorkai, “Kamo-Hunter” from Seiobo There Below


Notes:

Just do it.

sun-light-positive-negative-clouds-gif-illustration


Source: mennyfox55

 

The light or lack of light is running you. You are the animal, moving and being moved.

moon-miracle-earth-man-insignificant

Sometimes the natural world takes your power, as it does deep in February, when every fiber of your being wants to hibernate. Sometimes it bestows you with power you never imagined you could possess, as it does during the peak of summer, when you don’t need much sleep, and you feel like you’re riding along with all of the motions of the universe. Sometimes it terrifies you with its awesome brutality, as when you are driving alone on a mountain pass and encounter a blustery springtime blizzard. Just as there are receptors in the brain for drugs—like THC and psilocybin—I like to think we have receptors for nature as well. We may believe we are run by our thoughts and anxieties, our urges and our choices, but come to a place like Montana and you will be reminded that the moon is running you. The sun is running you. The light or lack of light is running you. You are the full moon. You are the rushing river. You are the animal, moving and being moved.

Amanda Fortini, The Great Surrender


Image via Your Eyes Blaze Out

 

What are these words worth?

September, October,

What are these words worth?
Who else would believe
these trees &
this sun &
this Aeolian gust?
Amen again.

~ Nate Pritts, “Feelings, Associated,” Right Now More Than Ever: Poems


Credits: Poem – the distance between two doors. Photo: We Heart It.  Bio/website: Natt Pritts

90° F, and simmering. That in earth, on leaf, in air, seethed.

heat-wave-sun

Around us in our shade and hush
Roared summer’s fierce fecundity,
And the sun struck down,
In blare and dazzle, on the myth of the world, but we
Safe in the bourne of distance and shade,
Sat so silent that, from woods coming down
To the whitewashed fence but yards behind me,
I heard the secret murmur and hum
That in earth, on leaf, in air, seethed.

~ Robert Penn Warren, from “Safe in Shade,” Being Here: Poems 1977-1980


Credits:

The early morning sun

photography-orange

“I have always loved photography. These days I spend very little time in my art studio, my passion for photography having completely taken over. With macro photography I escape to another little world. I love exploring the tiny details in nature that often get over looked. I love finding beautiful colours and abstract compositions within nature and can even get passionate about photographing moss or a blade of grass. I think I am at my happiest when I am crawling around on my hands and knees exploring a small patch of moss dripping with sparkling dew in the early morning sun.”

See Sharon’s website and her other work here: Sharon Johnstone, Fine Art Photography


Image Source: Mennyfox55

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