“He who works with his hands is a laborer.
He who works with his hands and his head is a craftsman.
He who works with his hands and his head and his heart is an artist.”—St. Francis of Assisi (via hopefisch)
“Art is a jealous mistress, and if a man have a genius for painting, poetry, music, architecture or philosophy, he makes a bad husband and an ill provider, and should be wise in season and not fetter himself with duties which will embitter his days and spoil him for his proper work.”—Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803–1882)
“You think relationships are difficult? Try friendships. Try courting someone in order to convince them to join you in some nameless, shapeless Platonic complication — forever. Convince an adult stranger that you are worth a healthy slice of their limited time and energy without the prize of sex or romance.”—Laura Jayne Martin (via fancydressmasks)
I guess that was an ambitious to do list. I only made it half way through. I was in the kitchen almost all day and there were a lot of dishes to do. Well… that’s life I guess. At least the list helped me focus on what I wanted to do during the free time I had around those food projects.
The brioche is started and I’ve got a sponge going for some more hearty bread. I’ve also got a hankering for french onion soup so I might run to the store for some wine… Making a note to myself not to cook all day though.
I think I’m going to freeze the brioche dough and make little brioches a tete on Saturday.
What a lovely surprise! No work today. Gave myself a 6am start, so I’ll make the best of it.
It’s nice and cold, so I’m gonna try my hand at making brioche and apply myself to this to do list:
Get some health insurance if the government website is working today.
Call the dealership and see if dealer renewed my registration as was agreed.
Study some German… brush up on grammar, tackle a short story, translate a song or two.
Sit down and really study chord shapes on the banjo… where the roots fall, how to modify…
practice the git-fiddle too. (trying to learn two songs at a time… one with words, one without - And if I don’t get a solid grasp of them on the weekend I can’t really get myself to practice and work out the kinks during the week. Too tired, too many chores, etc.)
Write a Christmas letter or two.
Get a nice fire going (Sun’s probably gonna be setting at this point)
Finish this Mircea Eliade book, even though I strongly disagree with him about pretty much every major point in the book. (So Hegel. Much bad.)
(if there’s time) continue the neverending task of organizing my music library.
Do some yoga, Meditate. Have some tea with valerian root and get a good night’s sleep.
Anyways. I’m glad I didn’t procrastinate on my laundry this weekend. My wool clothes were clean and dry and wonderful to wear this morning.
Also, I recommend Denis Johnson’s Train Dreams. I loved it. I didn’t like the ending (I could go on about that, but I won’t). The novella is made up of the most memorable bits of a man’s life (stretching from the 1800s into the 1960s) here in the American Northwest. It is a great portrayal of lonesomeness and perseverance… of living a life you don’t quite understand, even in hindsight.
So yeah. This beard’s days’re numbered. I’ve been fighting a maniacal compulsion to buzz it off… fighting so my friend Shiva can see it. I don’t feel very much myself in it at all. And the only things I like about my face are hidden by it, so it’s not very good for the ol’ self image when the ol’ self loathing rears its ugly head, which is, more precisely, my own head. I’m trying to stick it out ‘til the first of January.
“If I ever feel far away know I am not gone. I am just underneath my grief. Adjusting the dial on my radio, so I can take this life with all of it’s love and all of it’s loss. See I already know that you are the place where I am finally going to sing without any static.”—Andrea Gibson (via water-veiled)
The saints cannot distinguish
between being with other people and being
alone: another good reason for becoming one.
They live in trees and eat air.
Staring past or through us, they see
things which we would call not there.
We on the contrary see them.
They smell of old fur coats
stored for a long time in the attic.
When they move they ripple.
Two of them passed here yesterday,
filled and vacated and filled
by the wind, like drained pillows
blowing across a derelict lot,
their twisted and scorched feet
not touching the ground,
their feathers catching in thistles.
What they touched emptied of colour.
Whether they are dead or not
is a moot point.
Shreds of they litter history,
a hand here, a bone there:
is it suffering or goodness
that makes them holy,
or can anyone tell the difference?
Though they pray, they do not pray
for us. Prayers peel off them
like burned skin healing.
Once they tried to save something,
others or their own souls.
Now they seem to have no use,
like the colours on blind fish.
Nevertheless they are sacred.
They drift through the atmosphere,
their blue eyes sucked dry
by the ordeal of seeing,exuding gaps in the landscape as water
exudes mist. They blink
and reality shivers.
I’m trying to find a ridiculous german pop song, but I don’t know what it’s called or who did it or how it goes, so I’m pretty much beyond helping. I’ve been going through my blog’s archives, because I know it’s there somewhere. No luck, but I do get to read my insane ramblings from a year or two ago.
You may ask yourself, where is that beautiful house? You may ask yourself, where does that highway lead to? You may ask yourself, am I right, am I wrong? You may say to yourself My god, what have I done?
I’ve only had three panic attacks since I came here in late April (two were triggered by being in an obnoxious market crowd, and the other was triggered by loud and abrasive music after having worked almost 11 hours in the cold rain without any rain gear - exceptional circumstances)… compare that to having (at the very least) two attacks per week for almost two years.
Anyways… I’m looking into finishing up my degree… lots of bureaucratic hoops to jump through and I hope that some of my favorite professors will be willing to give me a hand with that after my long hiatus. As it stands, I cannot enroll in any classes or view my records or my graduation requirements or anything really.
“Peter would think her sentimental. So she was. For she had come to feel that it was the only thing worth saying - what one felt. Cleverness was silly. One must say simply what one felt.”—Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf (via hahahadas)
“Look at the sky. It’s not dark and black and without character. The black is, in fact deep blue. And over there: lighter blue and blowing through the blues and blackness the winds swirling through the air and then shining, burning, bursting through: the stars! And you see how they roar their light. Everywhere we look, the complex magic of nature blazes before our eyes.”—Doctor Who, Vincent and the Doctor (via fabula)
Icicles hang in my beard as I look out toward the last band of Orange sky coming to rest on some not so distant peaks. A crescent moon hangs over the mountains; a scintillating planet its only companion in the Western twilight. Overhead countless stars already blaze in the quickly encroaching darkness.
Seriously, though. Washington is made-up. I played about 600 hours of Skyrim before I came out here. Now I just go for a walk. Sure, there’re no dragons to slay, no Dwemer ruins to explore, but that’s fine by me.