جانم

for our eight years, i was waiting for a photo in prague. what happened, instead, was a lovely photo in london

thank you for being here
with all my love

the smell of the wet pavement, the wet trees, the wet grass

the wet air of a past rain; your wet breath in the thick darkness

before i left, i dreamt non-stop of swimming, of being in the water
the last few days i've been crashing cars, hitting "undo" in my sleep

the fact that every passerby has a story, a history, troubles, loves, pleasures, stresses, interests, all of it, is terribly overwhelming.

i remember my mother saying, long ago, that she wanted me to have a sibling so that i "wouldn't be alone." it's only just hit me, after a friend remembered her own mother saying the same. one can feel perfectly alone in a house full of siblings, of course, and one can be perfectly content without any. but on the whole it makes a difference: to have someone other than your parents in your parents' home; to have a person with whom you share your earliest memories, a history, a lifetime of inside jokes. it makes a difference when someone knows first-hand how you were raised, in what circumstances, and with which supports.

perhaps the years of separation from her own brother made this more pronounced--the fact that she didn't want me to be alone in life.

instagram has inadvertently become a highly personal space--a fairly apolitical one (as opposed to all of my other social media presence) reserved almost exclusively for photos of or by me

i'm surprised by the level of introspection i've experienced as a result... and even more surprised by my fanatical desire to keep it this way

عشق من

my loveliest of all lovelies

may you always warm us with your smile
may you always be fresh! and fruity! and happy! and new!

happiest birthday, from my leftest heart
تولدت مبارک

... in quite a Russian mood today, after an old recording of "by the long road" (some of you may know it as "those were the days") unexpectedly caught in my throat and brought me to tears. leave it to the Americans to put sweet, nostalgic lyrics to this rather heartbreaking folk song.

my treasured piece was ill-gotten during the ancient days of Napster, doesn't appear to exist online, and is performed live, with the appropriate gravitas, by the uniquely voiced Grebenshchikov:

Дорогой длинною, да ночью лунною,
Да с песней той, что вдаль летит звеня,
И с той старинною с той семиструнною,
Что по ночам так мучала меня...

Along a long road and on a moonlit night
And with that song that flies into the distance, ringing
And with that ancient, seven-stringed guitar
That, on past nights, tortured me so much...

19 total strangers liked one of my poems yesterday (the wonder of--of all things--Instagram) and i was on the moon...

there's nothing like three hours of painting with nothing to show for it but some idiotic work-in-progress to bring you crashing back down to earth..

the feeling of being under water--touching the sand, resisting the waves--is like nothing else on earth 

f's phrase of the week: Yes, Clinton is a liar--but Trump is the lie itself.

the smallest kindnesses--bringing someone their tea; sending a line of poetry; saying "i care"; saying "good job"; a surprise hug; a joke; a smile; a treat--are so large in my mind, that the scale of everything calls for redefinition

davood's phrase of the week: It would be so much better if life was like when you were watching Friends.

warmest birthday wishes

to our darling boy, whose voice was so light today, and so warm, that my heart went all aflutter

to our beauty, who spent the night on or around my feet in the most gerdaloo shape possible

... with all my love

sat at my desk this morning and wept with the unexpected shock of nostalgia, sent from across the ocean, from an unlikely source, from a rare beauty

Muslim Magomaev, with the charming name so clearly evocative of his rich cultural background, the "King of Songs," the pop star with the voice of an opera singer, entreating the sea to take him far, far way

Сердце, как друга море встречает 
Сердце, как песня летит из груди 

The heart, like a friend, is met by the sea
The heart, like a song, flies from your chest

weighty [paraphrased] words from Canadian Nancy Heslin, Editor-in-Chief of the Riviera Reporter, who spoke about the enclaves of the disaffected, the marginalized. She has lived in Nice for 15 years; she has received French citizenship; but she will "never feel French; they will never let you. This is not a problem of Islam and the West."

inspired by/based on an old blog post: Platonism

my life in pictures

it's after many, many years that i've started posting photos again--and, because it's not the medium i'm used to, i can't help but sprinkle in writing along the periphery. i handwrite other people's poetry because it makes me feel closer to the text; i take a picture because i like the look of pen on paper. as with everything, i'm at risk of over-sharing.

https://www.instagram.com/adva_kate/

عيد مبارك

crowds of worshipers on their way to the local mosque this morning signalled the end of Ramadan.. kurta, taqiyah, keffiyeh glowing in the blistering heat

how inexplicably beautiful they looked to me... and how the scene froze in my mind as one of great comfort

faced, today, with the terrible limits of language...
trying so hard to relay all the warmth in my heart