Dr. Sky Li

Tinkerbell's Boudoir

Light

Oranges are not the only fruit

I have a theory that every time you make an important choice, the part of you left behind continues the other life you could have had. Some people’s emanations are very strong, some people create themselves afresh outside of their own body. This is not fancy. If a potter has an idea, she makes it into a pot, and it exists beyond her, beyond its own separate life. She uses a physical substance to display her thoughts. If I use a metaphysical substance to display my thoughts, I might be anywhere at one time, influencing a number of different things, just as the potter and her pottery can exert influence in different places. There’s a chance that I’m not here at all, that all the parts of me, running along all the choices I did and didn’t make, for a moment brush against each other.

Patrizio Di Renzo

Annie Owens

Anais Nin

I am the most tired woman in the world. I am tired when I get up. Life requires an effort which I cannot make. Please give me that heavy book. I need to put something heavy like that on top of my head. I have to place my feet under the pillows always, so as to be able to stay on earth. Otherwise I feel myself going away, going away at a tremendous speed, on account of my lightness. I know that I am dead. As soon as I utter a phrase my sincerity dies, becomes a lie whose coldness chills me. Don’t say anything, because I see that you understand me, and I am afraid of your understanding. I have such a fear of finding another like myself, and such a desire to find one! I am so utterly lonely, but I also have such a fear that my isolation be broken through, and I no longer be the head and the ruler of my universe. I am in great terror of your understanding by which you penetrate into my world, and then I stand revealed and I have to share my kingdom with you.

Coma

Self-image for sale

Hindsight and Heartbreak

Before my eyes;
my heart finally saw what truth there lies.
It peered out of my spirit,
gazed long and hard at the sights laid before it.
And all the alibis and excuses-
the subtle attempts will not cover the view.
Reality, most painfully, peels it away
exposing its fragile chambers.
It seems my heart desires the blindness
so often succumbing to those lovely secrets;
whispers in the dark and those gentle caresses
which I feel so distinctly, but cannot clearly see
inside misty passion that appears with the dawn.
But as the lingering fog rises, honesty
glares into the valley where reason steady beats
carrying its trusted lifeblood to the core;
fantasy overflowing, bleeds no more.
And the once soft, pliable center of me
is rendered brittle within new vision
Despising the wisdom that clear sight reveals,
my heart, now hardened and cold and foolish
curses all sweet illusions and desperate lies,
as it shatters in pieces
before my eyes.

Midnight

Moon pulls

Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing

I couldn't sleep last night.

Dawson

when i go for a drive i like to pull off to the side of the road, turn out the lights, get out, and look up at the sky. and i do this to remind me that i'm really, really tiny in the grand scheme of things and sometimes this terrifies me. but it's only really scary 'cause it makes me feel serene, in a way i never thought i'd be because i've never been so grounded and so humbled and so one with everything. i am grounded, i am humbled, i am one with everything. rock and roll is fun but if you ever hear someone say you are huge, look at the moon, look at the stars, look at the sun. look at the ocean and the desert and the mountains and the sky. say i am just a speck of dust inside a giant's eye. i am just a speck of dust inside a giant's eye.

Agent Provocateur

Takahiro Kimura

Ashes

Look, the eucalyptus, the Atlas pine,
the yellowing ash, all the trees
are gone, and I was older than
all of them. I am older than the moon,
than the stars that fill my plate,
than the unseen planets that huddle
together here at the end of a year
no one wanted. A year more than a year,
in which the sparrows learned
to fly backwards into eternity.
Their brothers and sisters saw this
and refuse to build nests. Before
the week is over they will all
have gone, and the chorus of love
that filled my yard and spilled
into my kitchen each evening
will be gone. I will have to learn
to sing in the voices of pure joy
and pure pain. I will have to forget
my name, my childhood, the years
under the cold dominion of the clock
so that this voice, torn and cracked,
can reach the low hills that shielded
the orange trees once. I will stand
on the back porch as the cold
drifts in, and sing, not for joy,
not for love, not even to be heard.
I will sing so that the darkness
can take hold and whatever
is left, the fallen fruit, the last
leaf, the puzzled squirrel, the child
far from home, lost, will believe
this could be any night. That boy,
walking alone, thinking of nothing
or reciting his favorite names
to the moon and stars, let him
find the home he left this morning,
let him hear a prayer out
of the raging mouth of the wind.
Let him repeat that prayer,
the prayer that night follows day,
that life follows death, that in time
we find our lives. Don't let him see
all that has gone. Let him love
the darkness. Look, he's running
and singing too. He could be happy.

Gospel

The new grass rising in the hills,
the cows loitering in the morning chill,
a dozen or more old browns hidden
in the shadows of the cottonwoods
beside the streambed. I go higher
to where the road gives up and there's
only a faint path strewn with lupine
between the mountain oaks. I don't
ask myself what I'm looking for.
I didn't come for answers
to a place like this, I came to walk
on the earth, still cold, still silent.
Still ungiving, I've said to myself,
although it greets me with last year's
dead thistles and this year's
hard spines, early blooming
wild onions, the curling remains
of spider's cloth. What did I bring
to the dance? In my back pocket
a crushed letter from a woman
I've never met bearing bad news
I can do nothing about. So I wander
these woods half sightless while
a west wind picks up in the trees
clustered above. The pines make
a music like no other, rising and
falling like a distant surf at night
that calms the darkness before
first light. "Soughing" we call it, from
Old English, no less. How weightless
words are when nothing will do.

Rumi

God made the illusion look real and the real an illusion. He concealed the sea and made the foam visible, the wind invisible, and the dust manifest. You see the dust whirling, but how can the dust rise by itself? You see the foam, but not the ocean. Invoke him with deeds, not words, for deeds are real and will save you in the afterlife.

Finally, to take a step without feet.

Everyone stands alone at the heart of the world, pierced by a ray of sunlight, and suddenly it is evening.

Faulkner

What else can I think about? What else have I thought about... I can't even cry. I died last year. I told you I had, but I didn't know then what I meant. I didn't know what I was saying. Some days in late August at home are like this, the air thin and eager like this, with something in it sad and nostalgic and familiar. "Man the sum of his climatic experiences," father said. Man the sum of what have you. A problem in impure properties carried tediously to an unvarying nil: stalemate of dust and desire. But now I know I'm dead I tell you.

These dark trees...

who would have thought it could all come crashing in a matter of days. but with the minutes and hours swollen with tension, how could it have not? screeches and crashes erupting from within and while trying to find the beauty in this cacophony, i've been rendered mad because the hardest part is balancing heart and mind. it's a never ending battle to neutralize these acidic antics.

all i can say for now is this is all so bittersweet.

Eugenio Recuenco

Philip Levine

Lately the wind burns
the last leaves and evening
comes too late to be
of use, lately I learned
that the year has turned
its face to winter
and nothing I say or do
can change anything.
So I sleep late and waken
long after the sun has risen
in an empty house and walk
the dusty halls or sit
and listen to the wind
creak in the eaves and struts
of this old house. I say
tomorrow will be different
but I know it won't.
I know the days are shortening
and when the sun pools
at my feet I can reach
into that magic circle
and not be burned. So
I take the few things
that matter, my book,
my glasses, my father's ring,
my brush, and put them aside
in a brown sack and wait --
someone is coming for me.
A voice I've never heard
will speak my name
or a face press to the window
as mine once pressed
when the world held me out.
I had to see what it was
it loved so much. Nothing
had time to show me
how a leaf spun itself
from water or water cried
itself to sleep for
every human thirst. Now
I must wait and be still
and say nothing I don't know,
nothing I haven't lived
over and over,
and that's everything.