let us lose ourselves 

 
Are they a shadow now? Can they hear your thoughts now that they’re ether, a chimera, soon to be dust? What becomes of love when you lose the object behind it?

To think you will join them one day; older, wiser, less you than they remember.

Your dust will never become theirs. There is no map to follow, no compass, no ship or footpath to take, no direction to fly in except to fling oneself back into space.

The will of love, the struggle, the battle for tender ownership is gone. They have vanished, you will vanish, it appears life is lived to once more succumb.


What are subterraneans to each other but cells divided once more and spread through the earth? That cold science of it, when emotions which once ran hot have now ended.

What is love but a bargain with a dream to not yet wake up?

You love your visceral charge, the pulp and sponge of brains and bodies mingling, the clawed caress of longing. The rush of losing. The falling. A little pain goes a long way towards desire, toward the fumbling of the living.

You like your love laced with sadness, no, you like your misery traced with desire, you like the reaching out to hold onto another who turns and looks and then really sees you. No motherly embrace, no fatherly pat on the hand, no lone anchor inside yourself compares with the mirrored eyes of a lover.

To know the unknowable, to reach the unreachable, to fold into a future grief as though the stars made a gift for only you. The pulse means more when there is someone else to listen to it. The ticking clock of your life suddenly speeds up… Every bell once a death knell has become a hallelujah.

The blush of love is the breaking of sun through the tops of trees, the breaking of the waves, the sky after the storm, the first cry at birth, the first hint of pain that can be sweet. To become alive in another’s eyes and heart, to ignite a mind, to wish for them more than you wish yourself.

—An excerpt from one of my pieces in the ongoing writing and audio installation series “Let Me Lose Myself” in Skogskyrkogården in Stockholm, Sweden, 2016 — for ccseven.

Advertisements

Naples, Italy; seducing and fascinating me

 
    
    
   
    
    
    
   
    
    
   
Sorrento, Capri, and Napoli… The dreamlike beauties and chaotic back alleys of the Campania… Southern Italy… Always I hear the sirens call. Ruins, art, the pastoral by the sea, sweeping views, intense, looming cities and everything in between.
There were some days I had to dedicate to love and experience (so I took spontaneous shots with my iPhone) because if I don’t check myself I live, sleep, eat & breathe my cameras and film. (And men like attention sometimes)

Rome in October


I caught a ridiculously photogenic couple in Rome taking a selfie together on the pincian hill at sunset, with cupolas and Saint Peter’s behind them. Oh, to be young and beautiful and in love in Roma, what many in this world wouldn’t give for it. If only, I think to myself…
romeprsimmon

Persimmon trees bearing fruit with a view.

autruin

A little ruin and a little Renaissance (and rococo).

dance

Dance of the tourists on the Villa Borghese’s Pincio overlooking the Piazza del Popolo.

doves

A kissing dove and pigeon. White doves always strike me as a symbol of Ancient Rome, much like olive trees.

woman

I like watching the beauty of Rome unfold before other people.

aut
Down the Pincio, on the way to the Spanish Steps, there are views everywhere of cupolas up close and far away.

water

The endless flow of Roman water over stone and newly fallen leaves.

bust

There’s always a sense of play and humor in the Villa Borghese park, especially in the Pincian hill section.

caes

Walking along the Appian Way one is reminded why Rome will always be the eternal city, winter, spring, summer or autumn.

western civ


“There is no culture whatsoever in western culture” and “western civilization has contributed absolutely nothing to history ” are basically code for ‘I’m a philistine.’

It’s a comment on the loud and proud philistines who don’t do their research and remain ignorant by choice of the history of art, literature, philosophy, music, science, and more.We’re living in an era that is essentially the Age of the Philistine, where anti-culture is a populist trend, and comforts the often rabid fans of groupthink.

We’re dealing with the kind of masses who pride themselves on not self-educating beyond their own lifespans unless it’s a clickbait article they skimmed one time or a hashtag that instantly outrages them until the next hashtag and the next and the next.
Reading anything of depth or substance is so passé now that the most staunchly opinionated, reactionary and inflexible have never even tried it.

Sometimes I feel like we are along for the ride of other people’s drives off a cliff, their cold comfort hostage to our murder-suicide.


It is fitting somehow, dare I say even Romantic, that death cults now rise in Europe, and soon enough in America,  as culture itself breathes her very last.