August 1850
As my eye rested on the blossom of the meadow–sweet in a hedge, I heard the note of an autumnal cricket, and was penetrated with the sense of autumn. Was it sound? or was it form? or was it scent? or was it flavor? It is now the royal month of August.
The question is not what you look at, but what you see.
Excerpt from the book: The Journal 1837-1861 by Henry David Thoreau
butterflies and dragonflies and dragons (admittedly not far since their wings are often smaller than their bodies)
insects and bats and some squirrels (although in a mostly coasting fashion)
planes and helicopters and some pigs (almost never, but who am I to say?)
imagination and time (not exclusively when having fun) and excuses (some are said to not fly, but the best ones often try)
time falls and drifts
like rain that mists
on a hot summer day,
evaporating before our very eyes–
slanting sideways into the future
In life, you have to learn to count the good days. You have to tuck them in your pocket and carry them around with you.
Excerpt from the book: The Thursday Murder Club by Richard Osman, 2020
Are you actually smiling? And if so, what are you smiling at?
What have you seen in the eyes of a genius, in the bedrooms of kings, in the closet of thieves?
Are you Lisa del Giocondo, or the Virgin Mary, or are you a female Leonardo?
What happened to your eyebrows?
Do you miss traveling?
Why aren’t you wearing jewelry?
Do you think you are beautiful?
Are you lonely?
“I suppose all great happiness is a little sad. Beauty means the scent of roses and then the death of roses.”
from the book, This Side of Paradise, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, 1920
beauty in a dying tulip
synchronicity of color
ferns stretching, unfurling
old metal jugs against wood grain
early morning sun on the curtain
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spanishwoods 