boy meets girl, by i enrapture on Flikr (via 32flavors-.tumblr.com)

this brought me to tears

Leo Hart from The Panic Room Videos on Vimeo.

“Life’s but a walking shadow”

My grandmother died a week ago, November 23, 2009.

She was a special woman, a survivor. We began cleaning out her apartment two days ago, unlocking memories, touching her clothing, rediscovering  dolls, jewelry and pictures I treasured as a child.

We leave this world alone, just our souls and deeds, without the stuff we work so hard to acquire.

May her memory be a blessing unto us, Syma daughter of Shmuel.

Love words.

Save the Words

Does creativity make a difference?

H/T to CK.

T’is a Happy Day

Mazal Tov to dear friends.

Blessings as their lives continue to unfold.

Amedeo Modigliani. Study for The Cellist. 1909. Oil on canvas. Private collection

 

Rebbe: 3 Tammuz.

Rabbi Menachem Mendel Schneerson, the Lubavitcher Rebbe

This is a difficult day for me. We commemorate the Rebbe’s passing fifteen years ago. I am at once struck with shame, sense of inertia (and guilt), and also deep longing for someone I never truly knew. I am humbled and overwhelmed. I can only ask that we spend a few moments in reflection. May we foster the ability to overcome ourselves, and learn to give fully. May our days be filled with meaning — a result of effort — and kindness unto others. This is part of the Rebbe’s legacy.

Blessings to all.

But. What. Yes. No?

These are strange days in my life. The world is at my feet. I can become whoever I care to, I can drastically alter my life course by deciding so. I can break away; I can settle down (OK, in theory). But this limbo space is crushing and brutal. It awakens every insecurity I’ve ever conceived; it challenges my faith in human will.

I watch others. I am mesmerized. The artist in me wants to capture the  moment and movement in poignant representation (a photo, a painting, a word, a sweep of emotion), while the cynic, the small voice, the lost child wants to disengage, and if not that —  because humanity rushes like torrential waters, drenching me with sound and smell, sight and taste — then merge, embrace, become one with the energy. They seem committed, rushing to school to work to psychotherapy to farmer’s markets, devoted to a cause. Their steps, oh-so-directed, shout, “I belong here. I have purpose. I have somewhere to go.” I know this is a delusion, provoked by my (again) insecurity; we all struggle for space and air.

But, but. Where am I? Who am I? Oh, how I’ve wanted to avoid those words, as difficult to utter as “I love you.” They upstage the search, perhaps trivialize the experience. There is clarity ahead, somewhere. I await it. I will search for it; I will try.

(Now I feel I’ve officially joined the ranks of bloggers spewing stuff, psychobabble, dull ramblings. They [bloggers, that is] come in two kinds: politically outspoken warriors or internally gutted self-effacing Generation Y’ers. I hope I’ve gotten it out of my system, though I suspect not.)

But it’s mine. I want it back.

Corot, The Letter

I need it.

If only.

Love After Love

The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.

— Derek Walcott

Memories

Gotta love that soulful screech.

Observer

Cezanne, Peasant (Le Paysan), 1891

Watch what people are cynical about, and one can often discover what they lack.

— Harry Emerson Fosdick

Quivering.

Filled with doubt about the future.

At what point do we become adults, capable of mimicking the madness?

I’m afraid they’ll all see through it, and chide me, anxious and fearful.

Space

Gustave Caillebotte, Floor Scrapers, 1875

They are so endearing.

Hard at work.

Space, light, wood, sweat.

Life with U.C.

Munch, The Scream

Sometimes it feels this way.

Trapped in Reflection

Not Forgotten

Rainy Day

Copyright CL

At about 3am, I had all kinds of profundities forming in my mind. They’re quite gone now.

Today was terribly… wonderfully… strangely…. mixed. I met with some childhood friends (we used to be part of a secret society called “The Foursome,” way back in 5th grade); two are married now. We evolve, but always share  sincerest friendship. We have the most wonderful (and fun) memories.

I also did something extraordinarily difficult today (the secret is mine).

Life changes quickly.

Hello.

If you’re wondering why I refrain from posting my own writing, allow me to clarify. I’ve a need for emotional honesty, honesty of all kinds… and I fear… in the fogginess of my thoughts and words, I’ll lose the truth. Somehow the words and voices of smart people (intimidate and) encapsulate what I’m trying to impress.

Do forgive.
Perhaps with time.

Out, out, brief candle

“A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;
But were we burdened with like weight of pain,
As much or more we should ourselves complain.”

———–

“To-morrow, and to-torrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.”

— William Shakespeare