Art and Design. Literature and Film. Travel and Culture. Indifference and Seduction.

Posts tagged “Street Art

Lost in the Art of Capture

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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


Haiku del día : Primavera x primera vez


hearts in these eyes, dreamt

of this happening once. now

that it is, just wow.


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Get Your Hands Dirty

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* dirty hands *

+ warm heart + street art

~ seems like a logical place to start ~

haiku du jour

plaza-en-bornthere was no letter

instead she chased.

“tug his shirt sleeve,” she thought, beat

him to the dumb punch.

yuppie: haiku du jour

i would

grab your shoulders, shake

you. but, i’m no Fighter and

you’re no Lover, hun.

yuppies wars

Haiku du jour


I dig brain roads to

another place. white wonder

feeling of peace: is.

sea-made milky way

sea-made milky way

train dreams


saw you yesterday 
afternoon, last night woke up 
sweating in my room 

Into the woods

mujer-bosquemy mother grew up inside a lake,

slopped-off grey clay braided into her deer-brown locks.

my mother whispered into my ear:

the very last winter, the lake was drained,

they found a pair of lady’s shoes, heels up…