The Scientist

11/11/08
Nobody said it was easy

"Hell is a place, a time, a consciousness, in which there is no love.” Richard Bach



"I feel outcast on a cold star ..." Sylvia Plath

12/11/08

13/11/08

14/11/08
infiltrates the light greatly

Never expected

15/11/08

Untitled (I have been to hell and back) 1996, Embroidered handkerchief by Louise Bourgeois

Open up your heart, what do you feel

Open up your heart, what do you feel is real

The big bang may be a million years away

But I can't think of  a better time to say

World, hold on

Instead of messing with our future, open up inside

World, hold on

One day you will have to answer to the children of the sky

Children of the sky

Children of the sky

Look inside, you'll find a deeper love

The kind that only comes from high above

If you ever meet your inner child, don't cry

Tell them everything is gonna be all right

World, hold on

Instead of messing with our future, open up inside

World, hold on

One day you will have to answer to the children of the sky

World, hold on

Come on, everybody in the universe, come on

World, hold on

One day you will have to answer to the children of the sky

Children of the sky all right

Open up your heart

Tell me, how do you feel

Listen now, tell them everything, right here right now

All right, everybody, here in the world

You are the children, all right

Together now, unite, and fight oooh

Open up your heart, no, peace love for everyone

Oh, no no no no no, all right, to the four corners of the world

Sing it loud, sing it loud, sing it loud loud loud

World hold on

Sing it loud, sing it proud,

Everybody yeah yeah yeah yeah oooh

Don't take no for an answer, no no, not today

Right here, spread love, everybody join together now

One, one heart, love and unity, everybody sing

Yeah!

World, hold on

Come on, everybody in the universe, come on

World, hold on

One day you will have to answer to the children of the sky

16/11/08

World Hold On

17/11/08

.

18/11/08

I don't know why

Detail from The Jewish Bride by Rembrandt

19/11/08

Googled images for your name

Scared little Rabbit ...

Please drop your fright

Running doesn't stop the pain

Or turn the dark to light

20/11/08

Rabbit from Medicine Cards by Jamie Sams & David Carson

Tenderesse (PHOTO: Harissiadis)

"Damage to his brain was so severe that death would have been instantaneous and he would have experienced no pain whatsoever."

21/11/08

22/11/08

The one I forgot.

Stoan Francesca Woodman

23/11/08
Party list

24/11/08
Nesting Doll (Small Deer) Stephen Bishop

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep… tired… or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor
And this, and so much more?
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old… I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

25/11/08
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock T.S. Eliot

26/11/08
salt.
thistle.

27/11/08

Darkness overcomes you

28/11/08

29/11/08

you make me feel (mighty real)

Still from Why I Never Became A Dancer Tracey Emin

30/11/08

that was kind.

She saw her past compressed into a single stroke of colour that made a bridge for her, not out of time, but through it.  She did not drop, she crossed herself, and in the moment of crossing herself she was freed.

Free. Free from the outcrop where she had been marooned.  The rocky place of thistle and salt.  The heart beat back so many times that it finds its only home in isolation.  The isolated heart, that in protecting itself from pain, loses so much of beauty and buys its survival at the cost of life.

Better to go forward than to retreat.  Better to fight the hurt than to flee from it.  She did not know this until the quick second of her fall and as she fell she prayed for wings.  She prayed not out of self-pity nor regret, but out of recognition.  She need not die.  She could fight.  Too late?  No.  Not for her it was not too late.

01/12/08

Art and Lies Jeanette Winterson

02/12/08

Il y a longtemps que je t'aime

All these traces of his old life seemed to seize hold of him and say, 'No, you will not escape us and will not be different, but will remain such as you have been: full of doubts; full of dissatisfaction with yourself, and of vain attempts at improvement followed by failures, and continual hopes of happiness which has escaped you and is impossible for you.'

03/12/08

Levin in Anna Karenina Leo Tolstoy

04/12/08

Stuck