Monthly Archives: July 2011

Black

Sheets of empty canvas, untouched sheets of clay
Were laid spread out before me as her body once did
All five horizons revolved around her soul
As the earth to the sun
Now the air I tasted and breathed has taken a turn
Ooh, and all I taught her was everything
Ooh, I know she gave me all that she wore
And now my bitter hands chafe beneath the clouds
Of what was everything?
Oh, the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything

I take a walk outside, I’m surrounded by some kids at play
I can feel their laughter, so why do I sear
Oh, and twisted thoughts that spin round my head
I’m spinning, oh, I’m spinning
How quick the sun can drop away
And now my bitter hands cradle broken glass
Of what was everything
All the pictures have all been washed in black, tattooed everything
All the love gone bad turned my world to black
Tattooed all I see, all that I am, all I’ll be . . . yeah

I know someday you’ll have a beautiful life, I know you’ll be a sun
In somebody else’s sky, but why
Why, why can’t it be, why can’t it be mine?

Pearl Jam


Summer Days

San Franciscans have been enjoying a sunny and warm July week; an unusual occurrence often celebrated by the customary “shirts off.”  Warm summer days slow time and encourage us to notice and enjoy the smaller things in life.  A welcomed breather to our fast paced day-to-day life.

Lunch Break, July 2011
Yerba Buena Gardens

Enjoying San Francisco Life!


Bebe

I DO NOT LOVE YOU…

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda (translated by Stephen Tapscott)