Clouds by David Cox.
We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.”
—T. S. Eliot, from The Cocktail Party (Mariner Books, 1964)
Scott Naismith: Cumulus Consonance
“Therefore, the places in which we have experienced daydreaming reconstitute themselves in a new daydream, and it is because our memories of former dwelling-places are relived as day-dreams that these dwelling-places of the past remain in us for all time.”
Gaston Bachelard, from The Poetics of Space (Orion Press, 1964)
Thank you, memoryslandscape
Here, we are one geography:
every part of us inked on a map
where, across all the blue waters,
continents’ edges inexplicably match.
I move closer to you in the dark,
feel the slow heat
that embers you deeper into the night.
Where all fires descend a few hours
into their own slow-dreaming hearts.
Where the ravine hides in its own steepness
no matter how long, how fiercely we love.
— Jane Hirshfield, “Sleeping,” Of Gravity & Angels (Wesleyan, 2011)
Orra White Hitchcock, strata near Valenciennes 1828-40
Argenteuil (Val-d’Oise), la ZUP.
— (via memoryslandscape)