D.H

The fault lay there, out there, in those evil electric lights and diabolical rattlings of engines. There, in the world of the mechanical greedy, greedy mechanism and mechanized greed, sparkling with lights and gushing hot metal and roaring with traffic, there lay the vast evil thing, ready to destroy whatever did not conform. Soon it would destroy the wood, and the bluebells would spring no more. All vulnerable things must perish under the rolling and running of iron.

He thought with infinite tenderness of the woman. Poor forlorn thing, she was nicer than she knew, and oh! so much too nice for the tough lot she was in contact with. Poor thing, she too had some of the vulnerability of the wild hyacinths, she wasn't all tough rubber-goods and platinum, like the modern girl. And they would do her in! As sure as life, they would do her in, as they do in all naturally tender life. Tender! Somewhere she was tender, tender with a tenderness of the growing hyacinths, something that has gone out of the celluloid women of today. But he would protect her with his heart for a little while. For a little while, before the insentient iron world and the Mammon of mechanized greed did them both in, her as well as him.

rat.cat.dog.

fashion show.

fashion show

John Donne-Death Be Not Proud

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,	5
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,	10
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

henryton.

water drop.

a thousand tomorrows so that the world of today looks more hopeful than monotonous. rolling the weight of the heaviest rock as we perpetually spend our years climbing and re-climbing the same mountain. maybe we'll see the other side eventually?

round and round we go on the existentialist merry-go-round. if we do wake up today, eat, drink, sleep, it is inevitable that the same will come for our tomorrows.

circles. planets. orbits. the life cycle. time the snake that eats it's own tail.

"I can negate everything of that part of me that lives on vague nostalgias, except this desire for unity, this longing to solve, this need for clarity and cohesion. I can refute everything in this world surrounding me that offends or enraptures me, except this chaos, this sovereign chance and this divine equivalence which springs from anarchy. I don't know whether this world has meaning that transcends it. But I know that I do not know that meaning and that it is impossible for me just now to know it. What can a meaning outside my condition mean to me? I can understand only in human terms."
~ Albert Camus, 1955, The Myth of Sisyphus: And Other Essays, p. 51

the fan spins in a continuous cycle, carrying my tired eyes in its' wake. my body feels as though it is glued to the bed as my skin perspires from the heavy heat. i lift my hand slowly and follow the circular motion of the fan with my index finger. around. around. around. and back again. i debate rolling over and attempting some form of work but i am far too engrossed by my current boredom. the pit of my stomach twists and pulls heeding a warning, reminding me of the ever piling 'responsibilities.' i enjoy the dull nausea of it, thankful that i still feel a sense of indefinite obligation.. no matter how estranged from it i have become.

deming.

deming.

getting back in touch.