I saw it written and I saw it say.

April’s full moon is the Pink Moon, per the Old Farmer’s Almanac, which draws on Native American and Colonial American sources. Pink moon, pink month: April with its cotton candy texture, sweet spun sugar wool. April brings the sense—everything stirring, about to burst or bursting—that one is waking up from a dream, or moving into another one. It “comes like an idiot,” as Edna St. Vincent Millay puts it, “babbling and strewing flowers.” April’s nighttime atmosphere has a distinct flavor to it, too. The blue light of this month’s dusks is thin, metallic, not the take-a-spoonful blue of November dusks. And lamplight through windows on early evening walks is lemony, not the hearthy and inviting orange-gold glow when the year gets colder. Here in the small northeastern city where I live the birds returned some weeks ago, their sour song in the predawn dim getting sweeter as spring makes more of an effort. The Pink Moon refers not to the color of this evening’s moon but to a star-shaped, pink-petaled flower that spreads itself across the continent this month called phlox.

Tulip ‘Charming Beauty’, living up to its name.

Unlike the logical structure, the poem is an existence which can incorporate contradictions, inconsistencies, explanations and counter-explanations and still remain whole, unexhausted and inexhaustible; an existence that comes about by means other than those of description and exposition and, therefore, to be met by means other than or in addition to those of description and exposition.

A.R. Ammons, from the essay, “A Poem is a Walk” (via indeskidgepoetry)

(via https://open.spotify.com/album/657wUSfWEs3WcOA0xhsAfI?si=Di_LmNc8Q_uu1EJ00W5qlA)

Birchville Cat Motel - 55,000 Flowers for the Hero (excerpt)

Our Love Will Destroy The World

“Death is the mother of beauty, hence from her alone shall come fulfillment of our dreams and our desires.”

— Wallace Stevens (via quotesofcriminalminds)

“This wide-spread idea that everything must be said and can be resolved by language, that every real problem is a topic for debate, that philosophy can be reduced to questions and answers, that one can only cure oneself by talking, that discourse is the only way of teaching anything, this theatrical, garrulous, publicity-seeking idea, lacking shame and modesty, is oblivious to the real presence of bread and wine, their unspoken taste and odour, it forgets how to raise infants through barely discernable gestures, about connivance and complicity, and things that go without saying, unspoken expressions of love, impossible intuitions that strike like lightning, the charm that lingers behind someone’s outward bearing; this judicial idea condemns the timid, those who are not always convinced of their own opinions and those who do not know what they think, researchers; this didactic idea excludes those who do not attend classes, humble folk, inventors, the hesitant and sensitive, men of intellect and labourers, the grief-stricken and the poor in spirit; I have known so many things without texts, so many people without grammar, children without lexicon, the elderly without vocabulary; I have lived so much in foreign lands, mute, terrified behind the curtain of languages, would I have really tasted life if all I had done was listen and speak?”

— Michel Serres, The Five Senses : A Philosophy of Mingled Bodies

tenendo per mano il sole (holding the sun by the hand), Maria Lai

the ultimate goal of psychoanalysis is not the confessionary pacification/gentrification of the trauma, but the acceptance of the very fact that our lives involve a traumatic kernel beyond redemption, that there is a dimension of our being which forever resists redemption-deliverance.

Zizek, The Fragile Absolute

“Oh and Juliana if you read this— I tried to be a peasant looking at a picture of an angel but I couldn’t believe in love until I got to the creation of the animals —how they launch into life from out of the void, blind—all of history ahead of them—and that’s when I thought of you—like do those robins ever settle in at night and just think Best. Nest. Ever That’s the subject of this poem”

—

excerpt from “THE DIAL" 

"HETERONOMY" CHRIS NEALON

Marguerite Duras - Roman Dialogue (1983)

“Reality is the raw material, language is the way I go in search of it - and the way I do not find it. But it is from searching and not finding that what I did not know was born, and which I instantly recognize. Language is my human effort. My destiny is to search and my destiny is to return empty-handed. But - I return with the unsayable. The unsayable can only be given to me through the failure of my language. Only when the construction fails, can I obtain what it could not achieve.”

— Clarice Lispector, The Passion According to G.H. (via bergmans-ghost)

“Isn’t it a curious thing, after all, that your social life ended not because you couldn’t bear two meters between you and your friends, but instead because so much of your sociality was predicated on experiences entirely mediated by economic consumption? And now is it not evident, at least at the intuitive level, the extent to which our landscape has been shaped not for human life but instead for the communion of objects? At a certain point in isolation you almost lose awareness of your own body, which is a social creature, after all. And then when you do sneak out to see your friends in a park, or maybe lift weights in a speakeasy gym, there is an ecstatic shock as you realize how intense actual social contact can be. You realize that six feet is a grave, and that you are entombed.”

— Phil Neel, "Crowned Plague"

Agamben & Foucault TL;DR:

David Lynch, ‘Factory Photographs’