So there you have it: two things and I can’t bring them together, and they are wrenching me apart. These two feelings, this knowledge of a world so awful, this sense of a life so extraordinary – how am I to resolve them?

[…] A cold paralyzing horror: a glimpse into the subhuman… the sickness of life beginning again: the exhausting awareness of every ache. What the hand does in reaching, a misery of awareness; loss of memory in small things; hatred of necessary routines; hatred but not fear of dark; watching the skin, the fingers; overeating; a full preoccupation with unnecessary tasks; weakness in the morning; fear of headlights; distrust of children; a tide of loss.

(Theodore Roethke, notebooks)


Recalling those gone times, old memories lit by the fire of the new, I did not this time wonder how long it would last; I was too smart for that now. Take what you get, and don’t think. Of course it could never be that easy, but there were moments, like now, that I could successfully pretend that it was, and I had no inclination to try to peer past those moments. I’m not one who wants to know the future: at the best it spoils the present, with longing or dismay, and at the worst, well. Who really wants to find out how tight the sling is, for your own very personal ass, who wants to know how deep the shit will really be? Not you. Not me either. Because it’s rarely bliss saved up, is it, when you finally get there. I’ll take my now, waking with a lover’s scent on me, around me, take my hopes before they’re maybe tragedy. A good morning is a good morning, even if it leads to apocalypse at night.

Kathe Koja

“Underwater Girl”  |  Photo Series by Jacob Sutton

Posted by: Jussara



You think it’s a day like any other. What you don’t realize is that anything can happen. And then it does, it happens and there’s so much left unsaid. And it was all just wasted time.

(Six Feet Under – TV series)


Posted by: Jussara



at the edge there is nothing but

music (we don’t

know whether it’s a local
fly or an infinite

In order to reveal itself to us
the music must talk
with itself alone.

It hovers and crosses over
the continent of the table over

the mounds of bread, orchards of parsley, furrows of celery
wine valley and cascades of honey.

And if the measure is filled with joy, we know
there is nothing greater than this

(Israel Eliraz)




speaking of a thirst that grows stronger
until I can’t imagine
it anymore except

as the real thing which can’t
be other than itself.

Beyond the kitchen wall, over there, in the world
things happen that are

the strong material reality woven of wild
lines, which are a sort of
urgency, of happenstance.

The music like a bright hand scatters slips of paper:
to the sun!

There is a parking space next to the gaze, we’ll set out
from one material reality
to another

(Israel Eliraz)