Reading just now…

February 28, 2015


Altered Fates…

February 28, 2015



February 27, 2015



Do you have a pet cat…?

February 27, 2015


Hunting you…

February 27, 2015


“Hunting you, I can smell you – alive
Your heart pounding in my head”

(track 2 on album Anywhere But Home; written by Hill, Edward Monroe / Rochelle, Karyn.)


Give me a cubic centimeter of your flesh and I could give you pain that would swallow you as the ocean swallows a grain of salt. And you would always be ripe for it, from before the time of your birth to the moment of your death, we are always in season for the embrace of pain. To experience pain requires no intelligence, no maturity, no wisdom, no slow working of the hormones in the moist midnight of our innards. We are always ripe for it. All life is ripe for it. Always.

Jesus I. Aldapuerta
The Eyes: Emetic Fables from the Andalusian de Sade


Books have their idiosyncrasies as well as people, and will not show me their full beauties unless the place and time in which they are read suits them. If, for instance, I cannot read Thoreau in a drawing-room, how much less would I ever dream of reading Boswell in the grass by a pond! Imagine carrying him off in company with his great friend to a lonely dell in a rye-field, and expecting them to be entertaining. ‘Nay, my dear lady,’ the great man would say in mighty tones of rebuke, ‘this will never do. Lie in a rye-field? What folly is that? And who would converse in a damp hollow that can help it?’ So I read and laugh over Boswell in the library when the lamps are lit, buried in cushions and surrounded by every sign of civilisation, with the drawn curtains shutting out the garden and the country solitude so much disliked by both sage and disciple.

Elizabeth von Arnim
The Solitary Summer

My idea of perfection….

February 27, 2015