And it starts in my soul
And I lose all control
When you kiss my nose
The feeling shows
‘Cause you make me smile, baby
— Colbie Caillat, “Bubbly”
http://youtu.be/AWGqoCNbsvM
“I beg you to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”
—Rainer Marie Rielke, “Letters To A Young Poet”
http://soundcloud.com/the-redfords/make-you-feel-my-love
When the evening shadows
And the stars appear
And there is no - one there
To dry your tears
I could hold you
For a million years
To make you feel my love
“Photography is all about secrets. The secrets we all have and will never tell.”
— Kim Edwards, “The Memory Keeper’s Daughter”
For your cactus thorns, I offer a home of rose petals and light. Rest with me, my love. My faith in you is eternal.
If light is in your heart,
you will find your way home.
— Rumi
I wanted you to know
I love the way you laugh
I wanna hold you high and steal your pain away
I keep your photograph;
I know it serves me well
I wanna hold you high and steal your pain
http://youtu.be/hPC2Fp7IT7o
Walking Around
by Pablo Neruda
As it happens, I am tired of being a man.
As it happens, I go to the tailor and to the cinema
shriveled, impervious, like a swan made of felt
flowing on the waters of origin and ash.
The smell of the barber shop makes me sob.
I want a break from stone and wool.
I want to stop seeing institutions and gardens,
commodities, eyeglasses, elevators.
As it happens, I am tired of my feet and my nails,
my hair and my shadow.
As it happens, I am tired of being a man.
Nonetheless, it would be delicious
to frighten a notary with a fresh-cut lily,
or mortify a nun with a smack on the ear.
It would be lovely
to roam the streets with a green knife
yelling until I froze to death.
I do not want to go on like a root in the dark,
wavering, stretched out, shivering with a dream,
down, into the moist guts of the earth,
absorbing and thinking, consuming daily.
I do not want such misfortunes.
I do not want to continue rooting to the tomb,
alone underground with a cellar full of corpses
frozen solid, killing me with sorrow.
This is why Monday burns like gasoline
when I show up with my jailbird face,
and howls on its way like a wounded wheel
and takes hot-blooded steps into the night.
It pushes me to familiar corners, damp houses,
hospitals where the bones fly out the windows,
to cobbler shops that smell of vinegar,
terrible, cavernous streets.
There are sulfur-colored birds, and foul intestines
hanging over the doors of these houses,
false teeth misplaced in a cafeteria,
there are mirrors
that should be crying with shame and horror,
everywhere umbrellas, poisons, umbilical cords.
I walk calmly, with eyes, shoes,
rage and oblivion,
step through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards where washing hangs from the line:
underwear, towels, and shirts that weep
slow filthy tears.