In Our Days, We Will Live

Penelope Gottlieb (b.1952), Potentilia Multijuja (2012), acrylic and ink on panel, 213 x 198 cm. Via 1stdibs; see also, the artist’s website.

notes from my side of the bed:

i didn’t notice june 23rd pass this year, like i always do.
i’m not sure what i am doing is philosophy anymore - or if it ever was.
large groups of lovely people terrify me. i will always run away.
i don’t know if i want to go to another psychiatrist.
someone asked me who is in charge of decorating; i think i gave a bad answer.
i’m always worried i’m giving the wrong answer.
i worry i worry too much; i know i do.
i spent a lot of time alone at train stations.
i spent a lot of time alone at night.
i spent a lot of time along in cramped streets.
i spent a lot of time alone watching breezes.
i was fine.
leave me for an hour, and i’ve been alone too long.
i love foucault, but i can’t tell you why the way you may like me to.
i can only say i understand tenderness, patterns, sympathetic strokes.
that the connections are all clear to me, but i am constantly in the struggle of framing the question. 
we have wide-eyes.
i’m no less of a romantic than i was when i ran myself in circles. 
all of the folds are starting to resemble wrinkles.
puddles of voices comfort and scare me.
there are more important things to do.

June 27th, 2014 - 0 notes