I believe you are not happy I believe you have gone to the edges of yourself, and what is in the centre is anyone's guess: nothing -- that is one answer -- or, nothing much I believe peace, disappointed in you, has long left your side I believe loneliness is your most faithful companion I believe connection is never a game you can play without stumbling I believe fake riches are as woeful as the people they seduce I believe you are a fugitive of reality I believe distractions and delusion are staples in your daily diet I believe at dawn you cannot face yourself in the shaving mirror I believe at night you lie down none the wiser and unassuaged Superficial, Synthetic, Scared
The rouge of leaves and trees so voluptuous as if this autumn the first autumn The wind blows making gathers on the lake this day the first day A pair of green birds so happy and so in love lift off a bough soaring toward the sky everywhere orange, blue, green, red, purple, yellow all at once This sunset the first sunset
This morning the sun strokes me with the back of his fingers and I open -- a spread of folds, blushing pink -- and all day butterflies land on me burrowing through curves and creases into my deepest universe as they lust after the sweet juice, then carry away with them, in their quest for world domination, and all day with the playful wind like a candle flame at dusk I curl and lean my slender body of stem that holds all that wetness and adventure gently and softly. So, here I am: un-shy, unclosed, honest. And you? Do you love yourself? Do you embrace your simple life and its impulses to be untamed and sublime for a while before nothingness keeps its due appointment?
What could be better than delighting in a handful of nature's sweet largesse -- rasp and straw and blue -- as the sky writes in their voluptuous colours
Rose petals diffuse in hot water, and the air wafts with a garden at springtime; sipping on its sweetness is like the gentle touch of your lips
Today at daybreak walking on the footpath the air brisk upon my face, first across the quiet road, down the avenue stepping on young-autumn leaves, past a cat on a roof, then round a corner I gaze forth toward the sky. The moon -- wide, generous, exuberant, so large and so low I could touch it, like a window opened in the dark expanse to reveal your face. I pause in this moment of my strides, and I say a prayer of gratitude, of affection, and good wishes: May you be happy, may you be free from fear May you be healthy, may you be safe
He bends and places a bottle of booze On the ground. Dirty pants sag To expose a white, resigned bum. He sits his fat body down. When I come back round the same corner A woman drops a coin Into his blackened hands. The alcohol is Half-drunk. "Spare change?" he looks up, Not at me But into the distance beyond, His eyes, red, with vague rage. I move away, ashamed But frightened, and his voice Retreats, before being swallowed up In another draught of memory and pain.
“I am house-less, not home-less,” says the main character near the beginning of the film, in response to a well-meaning probe. The notion that one’s home is something you carry with you — and in this case, metaphysically and literally — shapes the transcendental heart of Nomadland, a serenely visceral work based on a novel by Jessica Bruder.
Set in post-Global-Financial-Crisis America, this third feature by Chloe Zhao records Fern’s (Frances McDormand) induction into and experience of an itinerant life. With the demise of her husband, and the town in which they lived, the stoical, middle-aged former teacher decides to be a van-dwelling working nomad, as she sets off criss-crossing the harsh, arid landscape of the United States. It is a choice that invests its tenability not only on one’s health but that of the vehicle.
While sustaining this lifestyle through odd jobs, Fern finds friendships that lead her to a community of simpatico people at an annual gathering organised by Bob Wells, the famous wayfarer whose writings and Youtube channel have inspired thousands. Amongst the cast of non-professional performers who are genuine nomads (the magnificent Linda May and Swankie, and the charismatic Wells) is the other fictional role, Dave (David Strathairn), with whom Fern contemplates a deeper connection, in a gentle scenario that acutely depicts the conflict between complex bonds we forge with others and with ourselves.
Beautifully photographed by Joshua James Richards, Nomadland is a movie that discovers enormous humanity in bleak, washed-out colours and inhospitable contours — a tender, unflinching inquiry into the real world by a formidably talented actor.
Is there any question the carpet of leaves on the grass, on the path has heaps to teach us about spiritual generosity? Would you ever doubt the great, beautiful elm senses your presence from vibrations you make in the air? I walk like this each morning, around the reserve, across the bridge, over the lake, feeling my heart open from her clasp, thinking: if I do not see this again I would surely die. And look! how the magpie cracks the darkness and tears up the sky -- as if last night he had dreamed of blazing his own path, and is now determined to make it real
Six o'clock, upon rising, You put the music on: Meditative beats, spiritual mantras, Classical tunes. It is not to fill the space; There are voices of crickets, Early taxis, the whistling wind. Even the resident bird has woken up To take its place at the corner Of the parapet. No -- You put the music on because Your mind is already busy crowding the day With this and that, and the melody Weaving its way about the hour is The soul, with her patient nudging, Calling out to you To sit in her gentle presence While the air outside quietly sheds its satin darkness. You know she is always there, Loving you more than anything else In the world. A tireless guardian, again And again, bringing you back to Your sacred truth.
I read between the lines of my heart While a red leaf floats like whisper upon my lap. And is there any more clarity than before? Only more conflict, more questions, more uncertainties. Nothing like the delicate truth of trees, through time. Dense, tedious heart, too many layers, too many possibilities. Tome of inanity, I turn back the cover and close you up. Leaf, teach me, teach me To change colour, then just fall.
At Alexandra Gardens the fog hangs like drapes from blushing trees. I walk into its folds. I breathe in a long time. It smells of stone, stillness, mystery. It draws deep into my belly, spreading the bones. Letting go, I hear them whisper: Who was that? in her luxurious dress of silk