I didn’t post anything yesterday, because it was my lovely best friend’s birthday. I was too busy partying it up at a place with incredible views. Like this:
Pretty Party View
“Don’t walk behind me; I may not lead. Don’t walk in front of me; I may not follow. Just walk beside me and be my friend.”-Albert Camus
My newest bookish treasures…three volumes of The World’s 1000 Best Poems. They cost .75 each from Out of the Closet.
The World’s 1000 Best Poems (1929).
[This originally appeared on the blog one year ago.]
Oh, Jean-Louis. You problematic, magnetic SOB. Ninety-two years to the day after your birth, and we-the writers, readers, and open souls of the world-still cannot escape your torturous orbit. As for me: my heart is willing, but my mind is not quite able to sprint the final few yards into your embrace. I promise to try again, like I always do. You know how it goes. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s not me, it’s you. It’s the two of us, together. I love you and hate you and love-hate-hate-love you. This dance we do will never end; the steps and the rhythm will change, but the tune will echo to eternity. Until next time.
Love and kisses and shrugs,
Maedez
On the Road
“I was surprised, as always, by how easy the act of leaving was, and how good it felt. The world was suddenly rich with possibility.”-Jack Kerouac
Out of town. Away. Other. Somewhere else. Anywhere else. New, old sights and sounds. Anything but the daily, same old same old mind-trap. A new view. A new view, even if it’s one you’ve seen before.
Partial City Skyline at Sunset. Hometown. It’s always good to see you.
Books. Borrowed books. A new rhythm, a new attitude, a new mind-altitude.
East to the Dawn
I am gearing up for a fun little project by rereading Leave Her to Heaven.
Leave Her to Heaven by Ben Ames Williams.
Sweetface
“Dogs are better than human beings because they know but do not tell.”-Emily Dickinson
Leo Tolstoy
Auden by Richard Davenport-Hines.
Acclaimed poet Wystan Hugh Auden was born on 21 February 1907.
W.H. Auden by Carl Van Vechten, 1939.
“Poetry might be defined as the clear expression of mixed feelings.”-W.H. Auden
Real life snow looks nothing like pristine painting snow…at least not when you live in my neighborhood.
Snow is not an instant glamorizer.
A Small Press Life: Books. Art. Writing. Life. Tea. 