oh, she knows. What an honor to love and be loved by you, @mishalmoore. You made everything and everyone better in every way. Yet, it will never be better without you. My dearest friend. I miss you. Always.
oh, she knows. What an honor to love and be loved by you, @mishalmoore. You made everything and everyone better in every way. Yet, it will never be better without you. My dearest friend. I miss you. Always.
oh, she knows. What an honor to love and be loved by you, @mishalmoore. You made everything and everyone better in every way. Yet, it will never be better without you. My dearest friend. I miss you. Always.
oh, she knows. What an honor to love and be loved by you, @mishalmoore. You made everything and everyone better in every way. Yet, it will never be better without you. My dearest friend. I miss you. Always.
oh, she knows. What an honor to love and be loved by you, @mishalmoore. You made everything and everyone better in every way. Yet, it will never be better without you. My dearest friend. I miss you. Always.
You sent me this voicenote last month. I’ve been listening to it every morning.
a one take from the voicenote vault. •lyrics• (chorus) I’m the one for you We don’t say, but we know it’s true And I know that I’m not your kind But I’m meaning to make you mine Oh, you hate to see me go But, you love to watch me walk away Here’s your line Funny I don’t know what I’m trying to say At the end of the night as I’m headed to leave Yeah, you pull me in tight And, we don’t say a thing I’m not made for the line I’m not staying to see But, my heart it betrays me with every beat (chorus) Tell me all your thoughts on God Nah, I’m kidding Just tell me your sign Better yet when tomorrow comes What are you scared that you’ll find? I can hardly remember the way that we met Or the moment I saw it I’m willing to bet I could stay here forever I could tell you I’m fine I could say that she’s something But, you hate when I lie (chorus) I know I’ve been patient I know I’ve been kind But my heart is breaking most every night Maybe I’m reckless call it in time that you’ll see Will you stay with me? I’m the one for you We don’t say, but we know it’s true And I know that I’m on your mind So I’m ready So I’m ready
happy Mother’s Day ✨
‘dumb silence of apathy, the sober silence of solemnity, the fertile silence of awareness, the active silence of perception, the baffled silence of confusion, the uneasy silence of impasse, the muzzled silence of outrage, the expectant silence of wait-ing, the reproachful silence of censure, the tacit silence of approval, the vituperative silence of accusation, the eloquent silence of awe, the unnerving silence of menace, the peaceful silence of communion, and the irrevocable silence of death illustrated by their unspoken response to speech that experiences exist for which we lack the word.’ • This awareness of silence is peculiarly human; many animals live in a more or less silent world, without themselves making much sound, and most tend to run away from noise. We can learn a lot from watching animals, especially cats, leading their mostly silent lives. As the philosopher John Gray wrote, “Humans seek silence because they seek redemption from themselves; other animals live in silence because they do not need redeeming.” • Howard tells his pupils that the silence is as important as the notes, and the discipline of this often surprises them. But while the left hand is playing the silence between the notes, the right hand can be on top of this silence. The tiny silences are the key to articulation, the parameter that determines how a note is sounded. • But maybe, as my friend Richard Philp wrote, “You need silence to think deeply and meaningfully. … The state of silence becomes a springboard for creativity… It is not ster-ile, it’s not a vacuum, it’s not black outer space-it’s a position of clearing out the unnecessary, of wiping the slate clean so that you are then able and free to respond to sounds that have personal meaning for you.”
winter hours – mary oliver #readinglist #maryoliver #winterhours #literature
winter hours – mary oliver #readinglist #maryoliver #winterhours #literature
winter hours – mary oliver #readinglist #maryoliver #winterhours #literature
some notable passages: Joan Didion has praised the kind of home in which “you can close the door and cry until dinner,” which is to say, an architecture not so enamored by openness that it has failed to involve rooms. I kept this in mind as my husband and I were house shopping a few years ago. “Is this a house I can cry alone in?” I asked over and over. There was a house we rather liked. “But I don’t know,” my husband said, genuinely concerned. “Is there a room for crying?” – How much of the burden is in the way we watch ourselves? In the early years of the twenty-first century, everyone is amassing digital information but no one knows how to sort through it. Closets are stacked with old computers. It would be better, of course, to go through all of one’s photos and keep only those worth keeping, but the thought of this induces paralyzing exhaustion. This would involve decision-making, which is cognitively taxing. This would involve delving deep into our personal histories, our pasts, which may involve feelings we don’t feel like feeling. It’s best to just take another photograph. Keep building up the database. Throw it into the cloud, whatever that is. It’s slightly stressful to know that one’s personal database is bloated and disorganized, but you can’t see my cloud. It’s my burden to bear, my weight to carry. – We want to believe we exist in what we choose to say, but this overstates our autonomy; we are at least as realized in our connections to other people. “A man,” wrote sociologist Charles Cooley in 1901, “may be regarded as the point of intersection of an indefinite number of circles.” To make themselves real, children invent imaginary friends. It’s too late, of course; you are already known, though the you that is known is not the you that you are. Willingly you have surrendered many bits of information that, taken together, form a sclerotic social identity with a strange relation to the real. Surveillance finds truths, and surveillance serves the creation of elaborate untruths. – (continued in comments)
a retraction an unboxing
a retraction an unboxing
this book felt like something you’d read aloud, passed back and forth between you and a lover, during a cabin weekend some notable passages: The nights are cool now. The ground is glistening, and the night is glistening too, just beginning to lighten. With every step, I leave footprints in the dew. It is early, and chill. Creatures of the diurnal world are still seeping, and creatures of the nocturnal world are looking for a safe place to sleep. I have abandoned all hope of sleeping and have crept outside to watch the bumblebees sleep instead. As night comes on, they crawl into the balsam flowers, those colorful bells of red and purple and pink. I love to see them sheltering from the rain beneath a giant canna leaf, but I especially love to see them sleep, their fuzzy bumblebutts poking out of the blossoms. It comforts me to know my garden is full of sleeping bees. I brush the edge of a flower-barely touching it, an innocent accident—but the bee is angry, unforgiving. She backs out of her bed and rears back. She waves her bumblebee arms and buzzes at me. I squat to look at her, careful not to touch, but she does not trust me. She knows I belong to the lumbering kind, the true bumbling trouble at the heart of the world. • Now that the leaves have dropped from the hardwood trees and the fallen needles have made a golden ring beneath the pines; now that the migrating songbirds have passed us in the night, and the park turtles have hidden themselves in their loamy chambers, and the rattlesnakes on the bluff have found the crevices in the rock where they will sleep through the cold; now that the exaltation of autumn is gone for another year, and the darkness is visibly deeper with every passing afternoon— now is when I begin to yearn for the solstice. I am yearning for the light. • The world does not proceed according to our plans. The world is an old dog, following us around the kitchen with its eyes. The world understands us. We understand nothing, control less. •
