tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7977250548577471352024-03-13T01:20:55.220-07:00leaver loverlarapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comBlogger505125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-15200972294990935612015-10-21T09:53:00.000-07:002015-10-21T09:53:31.336-07:00XCI thought I was dying, I felt the cold up close<br />
and knew that from all my life I left only you behind:<br />
my earthly day and night were your mouth<br />
your skin the republic my kisses founded.<br />
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In that instant the books stopped<br />
and friendship, treasures restlessly amassed,<br />
the transparent house that you and I built:<br />
everything dropped away, except your eyes.<br />
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Because while life harasses us, love is<br />
only a wave taller than the other waves:<br />
but oh, when death comes knocking at the gate,<br />
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there is only your glance against so much emptiness,<br />
only your light against extinction<br />
only your love to shut out the shadows.<br />
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<i>Pablo Neruda </i>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-1833752569176547242015-07-04T20:01:00.003-07:002015-07-04T20:01:37.425-07:00DébrouillardAnd yet the <i>plongeurs</i>, low as they are, also have a kind of pride. It is the pride of the drudge - the man who is equal to no matter what quantity of work. At that level, the mere power to go on working like an ox is about the only virtue attainable. <i>Débrouillard</i> is what every <i>plongeur</i> wants to be called. A <i>débrouillard</i> is a man who, even when he is told to the impossible, will <i>se debrouiller</i> - get it done somehow.<br />
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George Orwell - <i>Down and Out in London and Paris </i>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-36002204471581297602015-04-27T20:51:00.001-07:002015-04-27T20:53:22.857-07:00The Prodigal Sonrepresents the hidden drama of the soul. When we enter into matter - taking upon us a body and embarking upon a lifetime of experience - we are truly going off into "a far country" to be tested, fed on scraps (compared to our true spiritual heritage), degraded, and alienated in many ways. One day, however, true enlightenment dawns. The divinity within is recognized, the "sleeping Christ" is awakened, and we return home to the waiting "Father."<br />
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Tom Harper - <i>The Pagan Christ</i>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-18607409107143119842015-04-02T11:20:00.001-07:002015-04-02T11:20:58.132-07:00PainHow fragile yet these bodies be that betray us upon the want to work. Shall I paint from bed? A mirror and a drug-fogged mind? I convalesce to want to move, to Overcome, to betray it back for proof of strength. Or to make us friends that I may listen, to slow satisfy the want to be of good use. There's trouble in stillness, a spasm of fleeting peace. I feel time! I feel old! I'm subject to the world and its moralities! How fragile yet though is my pride, that I must sit and feel, still.larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-79316020384137376152015-01-25T22:23:00.001-08:002015-01-25T22:23:28.537-08:00Tiny demon<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1L0qtJVY_J80_J5RFVtl2eZjJ9WT0P6Y94P2YU9sXoXC63ZQWermpInmIa-x9y7NM1DWk9LljbU4sy7DZbl-1fla1EC5C19Sh588fYifQImDKZr6FjrVQ3a2G8y5W3B0s459E7jeEDyE/s640/blogger-image--1910513549.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEik1L0qtJVY_J80_J5RFVtl2eZjJ9WT0P6Y94P2YU9sXoXC63ZQWermpInmIa-x9y7NM1DWk9LljbU4sy7DZbl-1fla1EC5C19Sh588fYifQImDKZr6FjrVQ3a2G8y5W3B0s459E7jeEDyE/s640/blogger-image--1910513549.jpg"></a></div>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-20609908907469859372014-12-02T02:30:00.001-08:002014-12-02T02:30:36.045-08:00Jet set janitorI sit above and watch the storm roll in, tile balcony like a cruise ship, high above the water - infinite horizon. Lightning hits the open expanse and a ten-count thunder cracks at the shore. I watch ocean liners and tiny boats traverse across the greyscale sky, obscure views of islands 50km away. Our host - a Japanese lady from Sacramento, a million-miler, cropped hair and a floral lazy dress, buzzing kinetic. Next time you come to my place in Tokyo! I joke with my friends, my job is International Toilet Cleaner! Toilets in Tokyo toilets in Cali! Best staff in the world! They bring me more blankets and tidy around the remanants of breakfast, backyard orange bananas broken wild from Lord Cavendish. <div>It's raining over the infinity pool. My partner said, build it small! She says. My pool in Sacramento, strange shape no good for laps. I say bigger! So I bought the whole place, bye bye partner! I love her choice I say, fresh blankets in hand, staff at the ready. Soon I'll get out of my kimono, new and silk, when the waves stop in infinity. She'll start her laps too, soon, we dirty glamour'd. </div>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-50322693640857774142014-11-22T00:37:00.001-08:002014-11-22T00:37:15.047-08:00MajestyTwelve dollar poolside massages smell like rose oil and Empire while a team of tiny hands skim plumeria from the pool and sweep around our discarded sweat-soaked clothes. Bamboo swishes in the wind, unripe mangos sway above the water tiled below in volcanic rock inlaid with a stone yin-yang. <div>Did I know my temples ached this badly? Or my calves or the outside edges of the soles of my feet? I'm half awake under strong small hands - our place spotless in a scurried instant then quiet behind the stone wall packed with green insulating from the busy narrow streets full of scooters and Aussies.</div><div>I fight off jet lag with naps and caffeine, strong iced coffee gritty from the finest grind, sweet from dark cane syrup. I'm tempted to drink the sludge, to stay awake past 9 pm today while my brain and body fight over the bright hot light and the witching hour of my internal clock. I try not to check the time at home. I look. My eyelids fall heavy. On vacation you nap. But dinner falls somewhere around three am in my dislocated state.</div><div>I've given up on clothes, on time on movement. I write on a carved teak day bed on silk pillows, Matisse, colonial, exoticized. I lap up serenity, so easy on an airy room I didn't have to clean myself. My mind rests on home, still in yesterday and back to silk pillows and new sandals bought from lovely ladies for special morning price - good luck to be first customer. </div><div>Even washed, skin still fragranced from oil from flowers - light skinned pretend princess. O sloth and decadence, the richness of taking. If I fluff my own pillow, it's enough for today. </div>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-40794418837164373442014-11-20T18:48:00.001-08:002014-11-20T18:48:14.964-08:00ShrinesFirst, the heat. Thick, a force and entity humid - plants grow giant and in saturated hues, lush, hyper-green. Colour rules and the exaggerated sunshine burns vivid - clothes and hair will never dry.<div>Offerings everywhere. In the airport bathroom a woman bows quickly to a potted rhododendron and a fresh bowl of marigolds. Incense and clove smoke hangs in the atmosphere along with the exhaust and hot garbage. I step on petals in the street, dodging tiny rafts of flowers and rice left for the dieties - little folded banana leaves clutching incense sticks destined to be ground underfoot and swept up with straw brooms and replaced by women and men carrying trays of them shrine-to-shrine. </div><div>They wear patterned sarongs and ride scooters one-handed balancing holy fare against the frenetic street. Every corner, ledge, vehicle - petals and scent. They stop and bow. Sprinkle with something like holy water from a bright painted vinegar jar. Move on to the next carved stones, motifs of stylized clouds point upward like clouds, like smoke. Small gates to heaven, daily trampled and refreshed with prayers, for synesthetic gods... </div><div><br></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIdEjH8wefhDnmHgKfLeudh5TYYegizMXc1WFNHlHvxfccRtPzBlBF7_t6tlm9GgQeINEGWGvr-3b-zkfLx1X6JFuWhW5Sp958xzp54kahSRxJEHC3jNvsHWQiAaKXoZ9df0gm_CoBOxJ/s640/blogger-image--563727144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHIdEjH8wefhDnmHgKfLeudh5TYYegizMXc1WFNHlHvxfccRtPzBlBF7_t6tlm9GgQeINEGWGvr-3b-zkfLx1X6JFuWhW5Sp958xzp54kahSRxJEHC3jNvsHWQiAaKXoZ9df0gm_CoBOxJ/s640/blogger-image--563727144.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-52651219983247719442014-10-29T13:32:00.001-07:002015-04-27T21:00:23.727-07:00What seas break in us, in the night of our being, along beaches that we only sense in the full flood of our emotion!<div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">What we lost, what we should have loved, what we got and were, by mistake, contented with, what we loved and lost and, once lost, saw that we had not loved but loved it still just because we had lost it; what we believed we thought when we felt something; what we believed to be an emotion and was in fact only a memory; and, as I walked, the whole sea came rolling in, cool and clamorous, from the deepest reaches of the dark, to etch itself delicately along the sand...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">- Fernando Pessoa </span></div>
larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-86119702942579138502014-06-02T09:57:00.001-07:002014-06-02T09:57:46.126-07:00The medieval apothecary gardencared little for aesthetics, focusing instead on species that healed and intoxicated and occasionally poisoned. Witches and sorcerers cultivated plants with the power to "cast spells" - in our vocabulary, "psychoactive" plants. Their potion recipes called for things such as datura, opium poppies, belladonna, hashish, fly-agaric mushrooms (<i>Amanita muscaria</i>), and the skin of toads (which contain DMT, a powerful hallucinogen). These ingredients would then be combined in a hempseed-oil-based "flying ointment" that the witches would then administer ca finally issuing a special dildo. This was the "broomstick" by which these women we're said to travel.<div><br></div><div><br></div><div>Michael Pollan - <i>The Botany of Desire </i></div>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-41583180479954260582014-05-05T11:23:00.001-07:002014-05-05T11:23:41.456-07:00Madeleines are everywhere in the gardenProust wrote somewhere that the reason beautiful places sometimes disappoint us in reality is that the imagination can only lay hold of that which is absent. It traffics not in the data of our senses, but in memories and dreams and desires. A garden will move us to the extent it engages the imagination as well as the senses. Among other things, the garden is a passage somewhere else - to the personal and shared past it's scents evoke, to the distant places to which it's forms allude. Gardens exist not only in the here and now, but in the there and then too. <div><br></div><div>Michael Pollan - <i>Second Nature </i></div>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-27522399025572936422014-04-08T12:57:00.003-07:002014-04-08T12:58:16.808-07:00If I was where I would be then I'd be where I am not<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="255" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/OKfgT12mJPw?rel=0" width="400"></iframe><br />
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Karen Dalton - <i>Katie Cruel</i>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-73759379996241138482014-03-07T11:16:00.002-08:002014-03-07T11:16:31.389-08:00In the Sage<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<i>"I am lucky to see this view each day.. Am blessed, as I feel certain it is sacred ground."</i> </div>
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larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-88231218923446784522014-03-04T14:01:00.002-08:002014-03-04T14:01:42.512-08:00Entertainment"The successful Entertainment will leave one finally with impressions of wit and freshness, with a multitude of quick kaleidoscopic sensations: arrival, joy, color stimulation; comfort, reflection, repose; sweetness, coolness, warmth, distant music; breaks, twists, shifts; wickedness, laughter and farewell.<br />
It only takes the dart of the imagination at play, and one need never suffer or impose a dull dinner party again in life."<br />
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- Judith Olneylarapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-57460317541616743942013-12-11T11:45:00.003-08:002013-12-11T11:46:48.355-08:00226 [231]<i>If some day I should happen to have a secure life and all the time and opportunity in the world to write and publish, I know that I would be nostalgic for this uncertain life in which I scarcely write at all and publish nothing. I will feel nostalgic not only because this ordinary life is over and I will never have it again, but because there is in every kind of life a particular quality and a peculiar pleasure and when we move on to another life, even if it is a better one, that particular pleasure is dimmed, that particular quality impoverished, they cease to exist and one feels their loss. </i><br />
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<i>If one day I manage to carry the cross of my intentions to the ultimate calvary, I know that I will find another calvary within and will feel nostalgia for the days when I was futile, unpolished and imperfect. </i></div>
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Fernano Pessoa - <a href="http://runningouroboros.blogspot.ca/2012/11/i-wanna-be-explorer.html" target="_blank"><i>The Book of Disquiet</i></a></div>
larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-47908498737918086082013-12-09T13:08:00.003-08:002013-12-09T13:08:53.875-08:00Kittens and Flowers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Little melarapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-31428024308500267582013-11-25T15:04:00.001-08:002013-11-25T15:04:40.202-08:00CO2"There's a reason why industrial agriculture came about: we need to feed a growing population cheaply and efficiently. There are plenty of good reasons to criticize the consolidation of food production to a small group of corporations - but efficiency is not among those reasons. If we limit our concern to global warming, one wonders if it's really <i>better </i>to have twenty different farmers each deliver broccoli in their own trucks to the farmers market, compared to one veggie-packed truck delivering to multiple grocery stores."<br />
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Chris Ying - "Knowing is Half the Battle", MAD Symposium 'Guts' appendix: Lucky Peach 9, Fall 2013larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-387152488575159432013-11-03T10:38:00.002-08:002013-11-03T10:38:54.627-08:00"You will get me out of your thoughts in a week.""Out of my thoughts! You are part of my existence, part of myself. You have been in every line I have ever read since I first came here, the rough common boy whose poor heart you wounded even then. You have been in every prospect I have ever seen since - on the river, on the sails of the ships, on the marshes, in the clouds, in the light, in the darkness, in the wind, in the woods, in the sea, in the streets. You have been the embodiment of every graceful fancy that my mind has ever become acquainted with. The stones of which the strongest London buildings are made are not more real, or more impossible to be displaced by your hands, than your presence and influence have been to me, there and everywhere, and will be. Estella, to the last hour of my life, you cannot choose but remain part of my character, part of the little good in me, part of the evil.<br />
But in this separation I associate you only with the good, and I will faithfully hold you always, for you must have done me far more good than harm, let me feel now what sharp distress I may. Oh God bless you, God forgive you!"<br />
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Charles Dickens - <i>Great Expectations </i>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-82757692289301388092013-10-22T10:13:00.001-07:002013-10-22T10:18:35.669-07:00Falling<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-11770965098092580172013-09-15T21:02:00.002-07:002013-09-15T21:02:44.616-07:00Ghost Of A Smile<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="255" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/_LQE4DhjbKM" width="400"></iframe><br />
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Peder - <i>Ghost Of A Smile</i>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-81357906143009537642013-09-06T11:26:00.000-07:002013-09-06T11:26:35.977-07:00Hail!natural desire! Hail! happiness! divine happiness! and pleasure of all sorts, flowers and wine, though one fades and the other intoxicates; half-crown tickets out of London on Sundays, and singing in a dark chapel hymns about death, and anything that interrupts and confounds the tapping of typewriters and filing of letters and forging links and chains, binding the Empire together.<br />
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Hail happiness! or prayer; or denial; hail! in whatever form it comes, and may there be more forms, and stranger.<br />
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<a href="http://runningouroboros.blogspot.ca/2012/07/it-was-love.html" target="_blank">Virginia Woolf</a> - <i>Orlando</i>, 1928larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-78064469954262111512013-09-03T15:43:00.000-07:002013-09-03T15:43:00.324-07:00Mountain treehouse collection<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-75908214247457123712013-07-18T13:03:00.000-07:002013-07-18T13:03:10.744-07:00I wanted to wander the world in a dirty seersucker suit, getting into trouble. I wanted adventures. I wanted to go up the Nung Ruver to the heart of darkness in Cambodia. I wanted to ride out into a desert on camelback, sand and dunes in every direction, eat whole roasted lamb with my fingers. I wanted to kick snow off my boots in a Mafiya nightclub in Russia. I wanted to play with automatic weapons in Phnom Phen, recapture the past in a small oyster village in France, step into a seedy neon-lit <i>pulquería</i> in rural Mexico. I wanted to run roadblocks in the middle of the night, blowing past angry militia with a handful of hurled Marlboro packs, experience fear, excitement, wonder. I wanted kicks - the kind of melodramatic thrills and chills I'd yearned for since childhood, the kind of adventure I'd found as a little boy in the pages of my Tintin comic books. I wanted to see the world - and I wanted the world to be just like the movies.<br />
Unreasonable? Overromatic? Uninformed? Foolhardy?<br />
Yes!<br />
But I didn't care.<br />
<br />
<br />
<a href="http://runningouroboros.blogspot.ca/2013/01/a-life-of-crime.html" target="_blank">Anthony Bourdain</a> - <i>A Cook's Tour</i>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-54657776531167789132013-07-08T10:25:00.003-07:002013-07-08T10:25:44.521-07:00GrouseMarco continued. "And there were too many herbs. A bird can be ruined by herbs. You have to be careful. We're here to eat a fucking bird, are we not, Bill? Isn't that why we're here, to eat a fucking bird?" The waiters had been joined by a cook in a toque. Marco, meanwhile, was inching up on the edge of his char, and his eyes were bulging again. "We're not here to eat a fucking herb garden. Would I have ordered grouse if I wanted to eat a salad? And the parsley. I mean - look at it. There's no fucking point, is there Bill?" His eyes were darting round the room wildly. His eyes said: Some fucker was responsible for this and I'm going to find out who. "I just don't know why it's there. Do you, Bill? Is there someone here who can tell me why this fucking parsley is sprinkled all over my grouse?" Marco was shouting. "If someone will tell me what it's doing there, that will be fine. But I don't have a fucking clue."<br />
He sighed heavily. "It's all about good eating."<br />
<br />
<br />
Bill Bryson on Marco Pierre White - <i>Heat</i>larapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-797725054857747135.post-90469378627985722382013-07-04T10:08:00.002-07:002013-07-04T10:08:50.695-07:00AnswerThat you are here - that life exists and identity,<br />
That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.<br />
<br />
<br />
- Walt Whitmanlarapollinarehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01366909638581260094noreply@blogger.com