Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

it only takes two

"ENOUGH ! we're tired, my heart and I.
We sit beside the headstone thus,
And wish that name were carved for us.
The moss reprints more tenderly
The hard types of the mason's knife,
As heaven's sweet life renews earth's life
With which we're tired, my heart and I."

by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
photography 'Morning Train'  by  Evgeniy Shaman

Friday, September 24, 2010

Sarah Moon - Photographer

Sarah Moon

Sarah Moon

Sarah Moon

"I start from nothing, I make up a story which I leave untold.  I imagine a station which doesn't exist.  I wipe out a space to invent another.  I ship the light I rent everything unreal and then I cry."

Sunday, September 19, 2010



Farewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,
And like enough thou knowst thy estimate.
The Charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;
My bonds in thee are all determinate.
For how do I hold thee but by thy granting,
And for that riches where is my deserving?
The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,
And so my patent back again is swerving.
Thy self thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,
Or me, to whom thou gav’st is, else mistaking,
So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,
Comes home again, on better judgement making.
Thus have I had thee as a dream doth flatter:
In sleep a king, but waking no such matter.

by William Shakespeare

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

I years had been from home,

Evgeniy Shaman

photography by Evgeniy Shaman

I years had been from home,
And now, before the door,
I dared not open, lest a face
I never saw before

Stare vacant into mine
And ask my business there.
My business,--just a life I left,
Was such still dwelling there?

I fumbled at my nerve,
I scanned the windows near;
The silence like an ocean rolled,
And broke against my ear.

I laughed a wooden laugh
That I could fear a door,
Who danger and the dead had faced,
But never quaked before.

I fitted to the latch
My hand, with trembling care,
Lest back the awful door should spring,
And leave me standing there.

I moved my fingers off
As cautiously as glass,
And held my ears, and like a thief
Fled gasping from the house.                                                                 

                                                                         Emily Dickinson                                                                    

Monday, September 13, 2010

Dorothy Parker - Poet


The first time I died, I walked my ways;
I followed the file of limping days.

I held me tall, with my head flung up,
But I dared not look on the new moon's cup.

I dared not look on the sweet young rain,
And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.

The next time I died, they laid me deep.
They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.

They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern,
They weighted me down with a marble urn.

And I lie here warm, and I lie here dry,
And watch the worms slip by, slip by.

Dorothy Parker

textures by MeeR ... miki iwanaga ... my key in the pocket

Saturday, September 11, 2010


9/11, 2000
Linda Foard Roberts

Friday, September 10, 2010

Thursday, September 9, 2010

Mark Sink - Photographer

i shall imagine life
is not worth dying,if
(and when)roses complain
their beauties are in vain

but though mankind persuades
itself that every weed's
a rose,roses(you feel
certain)will only smile

i shall imagine life by E.E. Cummings
Photography by Mark Sink

Tuesday, September 7, 2010



"The gate never opens. The window’s so high
That at first panoramas to her appear:
Rivers, blue arcs, embrace woods and flow by;
Red birds traverse the green, and slender deer.

She’s no idea of how life’s lived below;
It must be splendid, though, so long she’s pined.
She wants embraces, but where can kisses go
Save her own shoulder, round and cool and kind?"

© 1998, Erven J. Slauerhoff / K. Lekkerkerker / Uitgeverij Nijgh & Van Ditmar
From: Alle gedichten
Publisher: Nijgh & Van Ditmar, Amsterdam, 2005
ISBN: 90 388 6956 8

© Translation: 2007, Paul Vincent

Friday, September 3, 2010

Giulio-Iurissevich - Artist


"You told me that you liked the way my name tasted. “Jenna,” you said. “It’s something about the way it feels in my mouth.” Sometimes people give you their thoughts like that and you just start wondering where they came from—start trying to trace them back to their origins. I’m always trying to pick apart syllables to find intention, trying to decipher you like a code I’ve been meaning to break."

by what's mine is yrs