Lost really has two disparate meanings. Losing things is about the familiar falling away, getting lost is about the unfamiliar appearing. There are objects and people that disappear from your sight or knowledge or possession; you lose a bracelet, a friend, the key. You still know where you are. Everything is familiar except that there is one item less, one missing element. Or you get lost, in which case the world has become larger than your knowledge of it. Either way, there is a loss of control. Imagine yourself streaming through time shedding gloves, umbrellas, wrenches, books, friends, homes, names. This is what the view looks like if you take a rear-facing seat on the train. Looking forward you constantly acquire moments of arrival, moments of realization, moments of discovery. The wind blows your hair back and you are greeted by what you have never seen before. The material falls away in onrushing experience. It peels off like skin from a molting snake. Of course to forget the past is to lose the sense of loss that is also memory of an absent richness and a set of clues to navigate the present by; the art is not one of forgetting but letting go. And when everything else is gone, you can be rich in loss.
– Rebecca Solnit
I find myself weary of this machine.
Yearning for the age of technology to end.
To go back to bare feet and humble hearts.
To a point where our self-righteousness,
sense of entitlement,
bank of bondages
would fade into the past
in a matter of minutes
and with one flash of light
we would look at these contraptions and think:
How silly we were.
Just how lame was our ambition.
How quickly we killed off our own humanity
through the most uncreative of tools.
| tap, tick, click, click |
hearts in these eyes, dreamt
of this happening once. now
that it is, just wow.
We are carved from the
same sad stone, only mine is
more wood than stone.
How can detachment
be love? but it
strange we are. I stalked the
night streets to forget.
The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you
not knowing how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.
* dirty hands *
+ warm heart + street art
~ seems like a logical place to start ~