cagedbirdsing:

Sometimes you can almost forget about a person. Then you get a reminder — a song or a name or a vague resemblance — and the good memories fill you up with light for a few sweet seconds before all the hurt comes rushing back, all the achy empty loss, and it takes every scrap of willpower you have not to go beg them to let you back in. 

Beg for a second chance, beg for them to love you again, beg for everything to be back the way it was. 

Sometimes you just have to wipe away your tears and resolve to bury everything deeper this time. 

I’m so terrified for the death of eras, things, people. We can’t ever wish to be reborn while we’re already here; we’re here to be worn, to wear all of these stratified experiences, to remember, to forget, and to try to forget what we remember. I feel so scared, and alone, and wondering how I’ll ever be able to deal with all of this loss through time. There’s no foresight, no preparation. I guess my courage lies in positivity, in love.
The future has an ancient heart. Everything to come, composed of everything before. Our own timelines could stretch back past memory.

Maybe our hearts are bigger than we can ever know.

Maybe it’s one of their many designs: to be able to fly over hollows of emptyness, to cast the pain into them, and to ignite new life on the other side..

-
Tuesday, 30th September

She’s laying down at a high altitude, on a bed by a window, awake, watching the light move outside. There’s the fresh cold smell of pine forest and lulls in rain, and she has a fold of a soft blanket lightly centered between her lips. She’s listening to a song that sounds like new love; synthesizing peace under currents of unknowing and anxiety. Thinking of the people up here; “they’re not out to get you, let them in.” And they come in, shift things around, fill it all up with glorious noise, then take off with heavy gifts. Now it’s all silent. She regrets giving. Maybe they were out to get her.

And so fall arrives now in similar cold, higher air, and she realizes that she has been looking into centerless voids not made for her.

She makes the turn to rip her attention away from the edge of the earth and rest it upon the soft lines of mountains in the distance. “They’re not out to get you.

Go get them.”

-
Monday, 29th September

why are some people so mean?

I’m pretty much ready to disappear into the woods and just do art for a long while

-
Friday, 26th September

3/2/13

I’ve always known that things erode.
Now as I get older,
it’s just a matter of watching, of feeling
how they go.

4/13/13

I could have just said her name happily a few times, because that would always make her tail wag and she’d light up. But I just held on to her paw, looking into her eyes, and not being able to stop crying. Until Mom called her out the door. [I couldn’t come, so far I’ve avoided ever going there.] And that was a last.
And the next day I just went and laid in bed next to Mom. Wondering where I would be going. Wondering if I could ever change the way I say goodbye to love.
Alive but colder in the afternoon light, thinking of the ways in which things are so violent. And thinking of how I learn increasingly each time
that there’s really no way to prepare yourself before a fall.

last moments:
let them bury me
in the river,
to the sea

-
Thursday, 25th September
I made a music mix in anticipation of Fall. Find it at http://www.mixcloud.com/Marilee22/fall/

I made a music mix in anticipation of Fall. Find it at http://www.mixcloud.com/Marilee22/fall/

what is this thing that eats away at people? makes my close friends become strangers.
or is it me? is it me denying the distance they’re making, a conscious move away from me? away for a reason?
is any of it for any reason

-
Tuesday, 23rd September

"Dear diary,
Today I existed.”
I’m tired of being scared, nervous, distant. It gets old pretty fast. And I’ve been really impatient lately.
Funny I write all the stuff I do out here for anyone to see. I don’t know who reads it.
What if we could all crack open eachothers’ diaries to read.. Yea, maybe there are secrets worth keeping- but I can’t say I have any. They all tend to bubble up to the surface anyway, like some volcanic landscape.
Anyway, what I wanted to write here is a consolation to myself, and to the artist:
If it has come from your heart, it’s a certain kind of purity; never allow yourself to be embarrassed of it. We’re socialized to belittle or hide it all. Stop it.
Artist! Person! Whatever you decide to act upon, create, express- if it comes from love (the unselfish, positive, expansive kind),

it can’t be bad, it can’t be wrong.

I break down sometimes thinking, “all the love in the world can never be enough, can never alter this reality, can never change this; or what has happened, or is to happen..”
Some things won’t ever be alright. But here it is..
My own and very best truths echo from the most mysterious core of a thing that keeps me alive.. The ways I’m drawn to beauty as if it were a vortex.. Moved by a progression of chords.. Happy, however momentarily, by simply being here.

A few of my greatest purposes:
-remind people to stop and smell the roses
-long term exposure to starlight
-expressing myself alongside this whole trajectory
-love,
-M

-
Sunday, 21st September

"You’ve got your passion, you’ve got your pride
But don’t you know that only fools are satisfied?
Dream on, but don’t imagine they’ll all come true
When will you realize, Vienna waits for you?”

-
Friday, 19th September
John Steinbeck on Falling in Love: A 1958 Letter
-
Friday, 19th September

forgive me for feeling like nothing I could ever begin to create can compare with the immense beauty of the natural world, and the night sky. nothing I could ever do could be as monumentous in meaning. who am I to want to replicate anything from it, to try to emote from it?
I could just lay down facing up and let the corners of my eyes find little invisible ties with the ground, and let my whole self sink inwards. it will be my thing. my eyes are going to get really heavy. you might notice.

and I’ve been thinking more often, “this is it, this is all.”
waking up in the morning to familiar sensations- “this is it, this is all”
driving at night, passing streetlamps moving striped shadows- “this is it, this is all”
some window seat flying into golden clouds- “this is it, this is all”

up ahead and behind and inside,
a sky full of time and time past.
and all of time’s light:
it is it, it is all

-
Wednesday, 17th September

This concept of being able to be at peace without passion-
It’s a consoling way to explain the ‘from the void’ feelings at the back of my mind all the time: feeling directionless, loveless, lazy, empty, mediocre..
But maybe these absences are proof of a greater presence. Things that want to drive me. Rivers of passions that want to erode away weaker states. I was never meant to be a static landscape.

In creation there is no peace,
there is no place for stillness.


[“It hurts to become” -Andrea Gibson]

-
Wednesday, 17th September
still a bit rusty with drawing faces
-Anni from Gute-Zeiten-Schlechte-Zeiten

still a bit rusty with drawing faces

-Anni from Gute-Zeiten-Schlechte-Zeiten

-
Thursday, 11th September
thefightinglife:

A timid finger pokes through the horizon
As it points out to an evaporating sea.
"I know her," he says,
But the ocean blends with the sky,
and only blue remains.

thefightinglife:


A timid finger pokes through the horizon

As it points out to an evaporating sea.

"I know her," he says,

But the ocean blends with the sky,

and only blue remains.

-
Thursday, 11th September

and when it gets silent
she can’t ignore all the little truths collecting like stones undersea.
one: she always pretends she’s in love.
and in synthetic invention she can feel the weight of an ocean full of meaning
when maybe there is none

-
Wednesday, 10th September