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Showing posts from January, 2016

Photography: Bliss-hard

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The Day Bowie Died (A Poem)

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The Day Bowie Died
     After The Day Lady Died

It was one of those Sunday nights
when tiredness is mental
and the calm reaches inside to
massage away the aching.

For distraction I
scrolled through the New Yorker 
and paused to read,
"The Beautiful Meaninglessness of David Bowie."

Style: More Colors Under Gray

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Winter Diary: January

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January feels raw. It is the one month of the year that one cannot escape from one's self. Also the unnaturalness of man-made time is most prominent and feels unsympathetic. The calendar seems robotic and therefore heartless. For it appears to lack an understanding of humanity (or perhaps just me)! That one cannot just say goodbye to a whole year within a couple of hours or days. That a good time is required for reflection and the sort of thing needs genuine effort––things subdued in the subconscious cannot just stream into the consciousness in a blink of an eye. For years now the first month of the year often brought me to a state of melancholia and I was uncertain why. Now I believe this crazy rush from December is a bigger part of the trigger. Everything happens too quickly and one really needs to say goodbye and hello independent of the other. So I am going to make future efforts to make the first month of the year something akin to limbo. To suck my teeth and throw a healthy…

Poetry: A Garden by H.P. Lovecraft

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A Garden

There’s an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,
Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;
Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,
And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.
There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there’s moss about the pool,
And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:
In the silent sunken pathways springs an herbage sparse and spare,
Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.
There is not a living creature in the lonely space around,
And the hedge-encompass’d quiet never echoes to a sound.
As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find
When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;
I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,
As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.
Then a sadness settles o’er me, and a tremor seems to start:
For I know the flow’rs are shrivell’d hopes––the g…

Photography: Winter Garden

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An Encounter: The Bent Old Man

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Around 8pm on the night of Thanksgiving, a very gorgeous night––full moon and all––I went for a purposeful two-hour walk in very good mood. It was a curious feeling, spying into warm lit homes and hearing conversations slipping through curtained windows, and bursting out, every now and then, choruses of rich laughter. I spotted a couple hidden in the shadows, in front of a garage, trying to swallow each other alive and that took my mind off him. He was doubled over wobbling softly on when I first saw him. I felt fear and could not explain why. It felt strange that he could walk in that manner. How could he see where he was going. Surely it hurt him to walk in that manner. What brings one to that state? Would not a walking stick be of some help? He was an old man in jackets that seemed too warm for the night.  He was going the opposite way and I had to walk past him. I felt such fear when he drew nearer. That instant when I walked by him I was only conscious of him and my over-hyped i…

Style: Printextured

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