Don Draper: As much as I would like to join all the ads making fun of the ubiquitous San Francisco hippie, let’s try to trade on the word ‘love’ as something substantial.
– I don’t think that it’s possible in this context.
So why are we contributing to the trivialization of the word? It doesn’t belong in the kitchen.
” I love this.”
” I love my oven.”
” You know what I’d love ?
I’d love a hamburger.”
We are wearing it out.
Let’s leave it where we want it.
We want that electric jolt to the body.
We want Eros. It’s like a drug.
It’s not domestic.
What’s the difference between a husband knocking on a door and a sailor getting off a ship?
About 10,000 volts.
Archive for the ‘Film’ Category
Posted in art,poetry,writing, Design, digital collage, photography, writing, architecture, Film, Photography, Quotes, Writing, tagged don draper, jolt, Love, Mad Men, photogram, Quote, trivialization on March 31, 2014| 1 Comment »
And, in the dawn, armed with a burning patience, we shall enter the splendid cities.
Only burning patience will allow us to conquer a splendid happiness.
Posted in Architecture, art, Drawing, Film, Habana Diaries, History of Architecture, Ink, Music, Poetry, Quotes, sketchbook, sketching, Watercolor, Writing, tagged Before Sunrise, cuba, Drawing, Havana, History of Architecture, ink, La Habana, Moorish Architecture, Movie, Mudejar, Neoclassical Architecture, sketchbook, sketching on April 26, 2012| 2 Comments »
“Music is a total constant. That’s why we have such a strong visceral connection to it, you know? Because a song can take you back instantly to a moment, or a place, or even a person. No matter what else has changed in you or the world, that one song stays the same, just like that moment.”
Sarah Dessen, Just Listen
Posted in art, Film, Habana Diaries, Photography, Poetry, Thought in the Alley, Writing, tagged Habana, Havana, Movie, night, Poetry, rain, Strangers (2007), street on April 25, 2012| Leave a Comment »
The Arms That Wouldn’t Let Me Go
On this sweet, rainy evening
My thoughts run to you
Like water towards the ocean
In the city’s gutters and roofs
Towards countless drainstorms
Powerless in the face
Of a calculated incline.
It is a sweet rain that is falling tonight
It wears your scent of promises
It is music, it sings of gentle breezes through wooden wind charms,
Of a veranda in the Caribbeans.
A scattering of drops
Like miniscule sand pebbles on my books
As I wait.
O Night, your silence descends upon me like a mantle
It calms me
I could write lines like an ode to your burning eyes
Your long, long lashes that caught my tears
Brushed away listless years
And changed me.
Tonight I don’t see the bus stop in front of me
Or the muted lights of cars
I see you waiting for me on that street
The staircase that separated me from bliss
[I met my two loves on the steps of Italian cathedrals,
they gave me their blessings]
I know you are there
And when you see me, your eyes smile stars,
twinkling benign in the skies between us.
If the world ended in two days,
I would have felt safe
Your broad shoulders would have protected me
From all the walls and crumbling houses of the City.
Sleep, days, a thin membrane
Before and after us
A tender gauze between dusk and your sunset skin.
We stole nights
Like compassionate thieves
Time measured in kisses
A perfect, impossible life
Soft like the sound of a far-away gramophone
Or a clavichord in Vienna
(Will you come with me to cobbled alley-ed Vienna?)
I am home now
The lanes are deserted and streetlights have relinquished
their daytime tyranny
The night is wide with the tabac scent
Of water falling on hot concrete and asphalt
It is a summer night somewhen, somewhere else.
I am home now
The house is still
And bathed in red solitude
I need to stop writing
And conjure up what I’ll be wearing tomorrow
I need to stop thinking
That I could die happy tonight.
San Diego, April 25, 2012
Posted in art, digital collage, photography, writing, architecture, Featured Artists, Film, Paris Diaries, Photography, photography, tagged Dianna Ippolito, Movie, Movie poster, Parapluies de Cherbourg, photographer, The umbrellas of Cherbourg, umbrellas on October 26, 2011| Leave a Comment »
I wake up in San Francisco.
From you and your gravity
Your slate roofs
The bee drinks from the flowers in the fields
There is only
I lost words
They slipped by and became dreams
And in dreaming, perfect sentences
I asked my own
About a thousand years from now,
and if there’s a heaven for love stories
‘If there’s delight in love’, I said, ‘Tis when I see
Jilynnette said yesterday
her name like Ginger Ale
our life is measured by streetlight time.
I told her about boulevards and run-on sentences
I fell asleep reciting
Borges, Cortázar, the Center for the Art of Translation
You are gone at Harvest time
As the grains burst open