the poem Love by Czelow Milosz* printed and added to miscellaneous collection of books, drawings, notebooks, matchboxes and what have you; I seem to remember I sorted out the studio bookcases not so long ago, I organised them so I would once again be able to find relevant literature at a moment's notice. It would appear, in this part at least, order has given way to unruliness again; haste probably partly to blame, as I can clearly see myself placing what I have found in and /or have used back nilly willy, ignoring the self imposed order in said bookcase. Hence disorder reoccurs. I can only assume the same happens in many a household, for I have witnessed the evidence often enough in other people's homes. It is what we the living do, we make a mess, if we're lucky we get time to tidy things up, enjoy it while it lasts and find our way back to the messy bits soon enough.
a tranquil scene in the same studio: floating flighty fabrics; second on the left is the latest dye result, the sheet wrapped around the copper pipes, blues and oranges
|the stripes are made by the elastic bands|
|the small bird cloth continued with the addition of a window up above and stitching below, to be added to|
To my surprise and rather 'out of character' I find myself reading several books at once Jeremy Paxman's The English, Pessoa's The Book of Disquiet (to be honest I started that one a year ago, keep discarding it and wanting to continue at the weirdest moments) and of course the bible, but that probably doesn't count as I'll be reading this for the forseeable future alongside everything else I read; I started John William's Stoner, but have decided to put that one aside and try and concentrate on finishing the other two first. Oh yes, I'm also attempting Daniel Kahneman's Thinking, fast and slow; ahem why I ask myself, why read all, any? Because I must. Looking at myself from a distance, as advised by Czeslaw Milosz puts things into perspective, never lose that I whisper to self.
*Love by Czeslaw Milosz
Love means to learn to look at yourself
the way one looks at distant things
for you are only one thing among many.
Whoever sees that way heals his heart,
without knowing it, from various ills....
A bird and a tree say to him: Friend.
Then he wants to use himself and things
so that they stand in the glow of ripeness.
It doesn’t matter whether he knows what he serves
Who serves best doesn’t always understand.
poem read in Grace's post the other day