Tonight I stumbled across an encyclopedia entry on ultrasound. Ultrasound is a sound vibration too high frequency to be audible. It was first developed to locate submerged objects – submarines, depth charges, atlantis and such. Some animals, like bats, dolphins and dogs, can hear within the ultrasonic frequency. But no human can. No one can truly know what anyone thinks or feels. What’s inside Mum? What’s inside Dad? What’s inside Jordana? We’re all travelling under the radar undetected. And no one can do a thing about it.Submarine, 2011
”Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire. ”
― T.S. Eliot, Little Gidding IV
I am being destroyed by His love, His perfect fire which burns away purgatory, iniquity. The pain of cleansing sears, but in the end, my eyes will see no other face but His. I’ll stand on the mountain of the Lord and say, “Show me your glory.”
Love devises the torment, to increase love. I am breaking all the time, to find in myself a love and craving and desire awakened once again. This is the path of the Lord: to suffer in sweetness, to climb with open hands, to yearn for His glory, to let your heart be broken and remade for Him.
By fire we live and by fire we die, and in consumption, our skins peel off to reveal feathers of light. I have been resurrected with Christ.
Instagram’s Instant Nostalgia
In “On Photography,” Sontag writes,
It is a nostalgic time right now, and photographs actively promote nostalgia. Photography is an elegiac art, a twilight art. Most subjects photographed are, just by virtue of being photographed, touched with pathos. An ugly or grotesque subject may be moving because it has been dignified by the attention of the photographer. A beautiful subject can be the object of rueful feelings, because it has aged or decayed or no longer exists. All photographs are momento mori. To take a photograph is to participate in another person’s (or thing’s) mortality, vulnerability, mutability. Precisely by slicing out this moment and freezing it, all photographs testify to time’s relentless melt.
Instagram’s “most popular” feed is filled with sunsets, over cities and beaches and points in between. It might be said, though, that all Instagrammed photos emphasize photography as an elegiac or twilight art, one that rushes and fakes the emotion of old photographs by cutting out the wait for history entirely, and giving something just a few seconds old the texture of time. We are creating a kind of instant nostalgia for moments that never quite were.
Full article:http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/culture/2012/04/instagrams-instant-nostalgia.html#ixzz1roik2LpC
love jamz
#5 might be the most beautiful song i have listened to this year
sunflowers and a boy who drives a hearse
long braids that make her look young
a tweed jacket, a suffocating tree, a meadow of tombstones
fireworks and a ring she’ll never have to look for.
you are so pale.
get in my car and let’s drive
no, this car isn’t really mine.
i spotted you a giant’s stride from me
at the opposite end of the funeral
neither of us knew the man who’d died.
later you told me that you blew up your school
and you left
your mother thought you dead
and that was your best memory.
you wept.
put your nose here
it smells like snow doesn’t it?
put your hand here
it feels like silk doesn’t it?
let’s have tea and ginger cake
and music and you sing along
you wanted to know why people cared
what it was to be loved.
when you knew, i knew you would be all right.
“i love you, don’t leave”
but i was more than you ever knew
at the edge of your grave.
and why are you crying again
don’t you know that life and death are the same
the only difference is, the living
can choose to live or to die.
yes yes, put your fingers
just there.
you have learned to play a song.
i can’t hear you any more
but i like the way it sounds.
We’re all virgins to the joys of loving without fear
janelle monaé, mushrooms & roses
somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
any experience, your eyes have their silence:
in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me,
or which i cannot touch because they are too near
your slightest look easily will unclose me
though i have closed myself as fingers,
you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens
(touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose
or if your wish be to close me, i and
my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly,
as when the heart of this flower imagines
the snow carefully everywhere descending;
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the colour of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands.
—e.e.cummings
if you’re filled with affection you’re too shy to convey
