My bookshelf

Yes, these friends are finally being packed away. Today. Suffocating, perhaps. I like to think i am giving them a break. And me too. Its been a few years since I read them, but before I stack them, lovingly put aside, i extract a few thoughts to pass your way…

I never promised you a rose garden. But dear, my promise garden flourishes. Even, dead of winter, a bleak despair, seeds believe in miracles.

“Beauty has no obvious use; nor is there any clear cultural necessity for it. Yet civilization could not do without it.”

“My love is something valuable to me which I ought not to throw away without reflection.”

Freud Civilization and Its Discontents

“we are all murderers and prostitutes – no matter to what culture, society, class, nation one belongs, no matter how normal, moral, or mature, one takes oneself to be.”

“Whether life is worth living depends on whether there is love in life.”

r. d. laing

Like old friends, we will meet again. In a new town, the words will take on new meanings.

I actually wrote this a week ago. Its like a memory. I suppose it is memory. Feels a dream I want to wake up from. But the possibility of living in Boston is intriguing. Closer to my love of Monhegan Island and Maine. I can hear the loons call and follow the moose tracks… that is what life exists for me.

masquerade

There is happiness
it shows up
and greets the unbeknownst
with inspiration.
Mistress caught, bestoweth unto me.

Reading at a Table

Picasso

Surrealist Theory was based on a simplistic understanding of the writings of Sigmund Freud re-crafted for the use of poets and visual artists. The canvas, one of several similar compositions Picasso painted of his mistress, is a poem by a man in love.