the sourcerer: Life Vest Under Seat.

Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Life Vest Under Seat.

A final glimpse of the Bosphorus. I cried all the way to the airport. The taxi driver tried to teach me some last minute Turkish. In the plane to Abu Dhabi the sweet mother and daughter next to me offered light touches with henna-dipped fingers. They offered cologne for my temples, pistachios, chocolate... and finally the mother just looked at me and put her hand over her heart.

At home nothing has changed. The milk in the refrigerator has not yet turned. But I feel different.

I'm not ready to be back and I'm packing my car. I need sand between my toes.

5 comments:

ckzero said...: Go man, go!; December 27, 2011 at 5:55 PM
tanjawilmot said...: some bohemians arrived in my hallway today. the message from them is that one can go a-wanderin' any time the heart feels inclined to. soft landings...; December 28, 2011 at 3:29 PM
Marie said...: That holiday aftwr the holiday has saved many of us.; December 29, 2011 at 10:57 AM
the sourcerer said...: yup. with a gentle thud at the seaside. thank you.
x; December 31, 2011 at 10:37 AM
arcadia said...: Hmmm. Die reaksies wat mens kry by vreemdelinge as mens so hartgebroke terugvlieg is altyd vir my interessant. Ek huil gewoonlik soveel niemand kan 'n woord inkry nie.; January 16, 2012 at 6:04 PM

Post a Comment

You could tend a garden at night, only at night, pouring dark water onto leaves, and into the earth, like pouring midnight onto midnight. You could hold your soil-stained hands up to the moon. The stars would gleam on the bottom of the shovel. It would smell the same as a daytime garden - it would smell green, violet, red, white. But come back, in daylight. Come back, to see the colours without closing your eyes.
- Sean Michaels. Accompaniment to the song "Immune" by LOW. Said the Gramophone

Nothing is original. Steal from anywhere that resonates with inspiration or fuels your imagination. Devour old films, new films, music, books, paintings, photographs, poems, dreams, random conversations, architecture, bridges, street signs, trees, clouds, bodies of water, light and shadows. Select only things to steal from that speak directly to your soul. If you do this, your work (and theft) will be authentic. Authenticity is invaluable; originality is non-existent. And don't bother concealing your thievery - celebrate it if you feel like it. In any case, always remember what Jean-Luc Godard said: "It's not where you take things from - it's where you take them to."
Jim Jarmusch (1953- )

You got very hungry when you did not eat enough in Paris because all the bakery shops had such good things in the windows and people ate outside at tables on the sidewalk so that you saw and smelled the food. When you had given up journalism and were writing nothing that anyone in America would buy, explaining at home that you were lunching out with someone, the best place to go was the Luxembourg gardens where you smelled and saw nothing to eat all the way from the Place de l'Observatoire to the rue de Vaugirard. There you could always go into the Luxembourg museum and all the paintings were sharpened and clearer and more beautiful if you were belly-empty, hollow-hungry. I learned to understand Cézanne much better and to see truly how he made landscapes when I was hungry. I used to wonder if he were hungry too when he painted; but I thought possibly it was only that he had forgotten to eat. It was one of those unsound but illuminating thoughts you have when you have been sleepless or hungry. Later I thought that Cézanne was probably hungry in a different way.
Ernest Hemingway (1899-1961) - from A Moveable Feast.