but the eyes are blind.. one must look with the heart..
Category Archives: Copenhagen
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(milan fashion week. thesartoralist.)
here’s what I think, mr. wind-up bird,” said may kasahara. “everybody’s born with some different thing at the core of their existence. and that thing, whatever it is, becomes like a heat source that runs each person from the inside. i have one too, of course. like everybody else. but sometimes it gets out of hand. it swells or shrinks inside me, and it shakes me up. what i’d really like to do is find a way to communicate that feeling to another person. but I can’t seem to do it. they just don’t get it. of course, the problem could be that i’m not explaining it very well, but i think it’s because they’re not listening very well. they pretend to be listening, but they’re not, really.
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niseko, japan.
‘ you see, the point is that the strongest man in the world is he who stands most alone. ‘ – henrik ibsen.
the pursuit of happy-ness
(sunset #1, route; copenhagen to stockholm)
dear you,
there are some mornings when i get out of bed thinking to myself; ‘i’m not gonna make it.’ but often find myself laughing inside. i guess i do remember all the times i have felt this way. well.. evidently of course, i am still around aren’t i?
i recall the nuances of each transpiring events and how they would habitually root out at various intensity. i do suspect that there is a gap between what drives our passion, love and how we reciprocate towards them. the idea of an emotion and logic, perhaps skittishly speaking to these passions would bridge the mutual balance of the two. one can only understand so much in life. there are many observations i aspire to understand, but i failed to be everywhere at once, and can only witness myself stumbling at best.
happiness, it happens to be an intangible noun. modern discourse refers it to a state of pleasant contentment or being swell. its etymological roots derive from the idea of ‘chance’ and ‘fortune’ or in more abstract materiality; ‘wealth & riches’. i’ve read in a book somewhere that the idea of material happiness is a very dangerous notion. one must be wary of its parasitic nature, and in life’s firsthand shows, witness it’s degradation on the soul.
i wouldn’t like to define it, but i believe you would come to realise its affliction with time. one could only envision that the grass is not always greener on the other side of the field, which of course embodies with it a sense of truism. but this is how i find myself these days, in pursuit of something i’ve not yet managed to grasp,as i listen attentively with generous admiration for the most soul-soothing travel stories of my peers.
it is not in the pursuit of happiness that we find happiness. but rather in the pursuit that happiness finds us. now then perhaps it would be most apt to pause in this endless pursuit and just be happy. don’t you think so too?
whether you’re presently filled with ample confidence or despair over your respective pursuits, fear not for the unknown because one finds him/herself in advance with each pace forward. i would like to end on a stronger note from the perforated pages of ‘factotum’ by charles bukowski.
‘ if you’re going to try, go all the way. otherwise, don’t even start. this could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. it could mean not eating for three or four days. it could mean freezing on a park bench. it could mean jail. it could mean derision. it could mean mockery, isolation. isolation is the gift. all the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. and, you’ll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. and it will be better than anything else you can imagine. if you’re going to try, go all the way. there is no other feeling like that. you will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. you will ride life straight to perfect laughter. it’s the only good fight there is. ‘
i would rather muse over the sunsets because i refuse to live along the lines of ‘once upon a time’.
a.
even as a child, she had preferred night to day, had enjoyed sitting out in the yard after sunset, under the star-speckled sky listening to frogs and crickets. darkness soothed. it softened the sharp edges of the world, toned down the too-harsh colors. with the coming of twilight, the sky seemed to recede; the universe expanded. the night was bigger than the day, and in its realm, life seemed to have more possibilities. – midnight
Oops, I Accidentally Wasted My Entire 20s (And I Feel Fine)
There may come a time, in the near future, when you begin to fear that you have accidentally wasted your entire 20s.
This revelation may be arrived at in a dramatic fashion -- say, just for fun, that you woke up the day after your 30th birthday with toothpaste in your hair, inside an empty apartment that you don’t recognize, which the note on the front table suggests is owned by someone who calls himself “Waxy Dave.” That could lead to some self-evaluation.
here's a pretty re-assuring read i had this afternoon over lunch.
i would love to elaborate more about this, but i am currently rushing to complete some set drawings for tomorrow's critique session at the university, i will continue this draft soon. meanwhile, enjoy the bits of rain.
a.
through the looking glass_
(15 grønnegårdsvej frederiksberg, københavns.)
truly a home far far away from home. a very warm place in a very cold environment, quite the opposite to the the rather cold place set in a very warm environment. mmm.. go figure.
a.
room of davids.
Den Kongelige Afstøbningssamling/ Københavns
‘ there once was a boy, whom once came into possession of a canvas, a sizable canvas,
of which be positioned to capture the bits and the pieces if the big picture were to fall. ‘
what would your canvas capture? would it be worthwhile?
a.
colors + texture
source: thesartorialist (anna sui) 013 fall/winter collection i have to say.. what a beautiful color palette with a hint of the 70s vintage flair. beautiful collection.
today.
‘ i have very joyful dreams which i cannot bring to paper, much less to any approach to practice, & i blame myself not at all for my reveries, but that they have not yet got possession of my house and barn. ‘ ralph waldo emerson
at glance
In the morning mice scamper
over the head
over the floor of the head
shreds of conversations
scraps of a poem
the room’s muse
enters
in a blue apron
sweeps
such important guests
visit my master
well Heraclitus the Ephesian for example
or the prophet Isaiah
today no one rings
the master paces about impatiently
talks to himself
tears up innocent papers
in the evening goes out in an unknown direction
the muse unties her blue apron
rests her elbows on the window sill
leans out
waits
for her sergeant
with the red mustaches
- zbigniew herbert/ ‘ordinariness of the soul’
13 ways of looking at a black bird.
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.
II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.
III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.
V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.
VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.
VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?
VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.
IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.
X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.
XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.
XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.
XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.
13 ways; i am not sure which to prefer really. these days i find myself working endlessly.. it’s rather perplexing to even think that i might find time for myself, to do the things i would very much have loved to; (for instance, spend a lovely weekend by the lake reading, have a nice uninterrupted picnic at the lawn.. visit a used bookstore.. and the list goes on..) well.. not till next week or so i keep telling myself that. procrastination, please you old sport, just go away already.
till then,
a.
null.
sunset on the Seine_
le pont Mirabeau
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu’il m’en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine
Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en vont je demeure
Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l’onde si lasse
Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en vont je demeure
L’amour s’en va comme cette eau courante
L’amour s’en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l’Espérance est violente
Vienne la nuit sonne l’heure
Les jours s’en vont je demeure
Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
