Acceptance - By Robert Frost

When the spent sun throws up its rays on cloud
And goes down burning into the gulf below,
No voice in nature is heard to cry aloud
At what has happened. Birds, at least must know
It is the change to darkness in the sky.
Murmuring something quiet in her breast,
One bird begins to close a faded eye;
Or overtaken too far from his nest,
Hurrying low above the grove, some waif
Swoops just in time to his remembered tree.
At most he thinks or twitters softly, ‘Safe!
Now let the night be dark for all of me.
Let the night be too dark for me to see 
Into the future. Let what will be, be.’

www.actionforhappiness.org

I found this book when I was wandering the streets of Paris alone and feeling the loneliness. I loved the photos instantly, but it wasn’t until afterwards that I read the introduction. What an amazing way to see the world! I felt so inspired by Robert Doisneau’s work and by the man himself.

Excerpt of the book’s introduction:

Doisneau delighted in gleaning the instant. Clear of gaze, a man with a winning smile, he liked to say "I never noticed time passing, I was too taken up with the spectacle afforded by my contemporaries, that gratuitous, never-ending show for which no ticket is needed, and when the occasion arose, I offered them, in passing, the ephemeral solace of an image". Throughout the years Doisneau captured, day after day, "the ordinary gestures of ordinary people in ordinary situations". Joys he felt and discoveries he made as he walked the city make up the subject-matter of his photographs: "There are days when simply seeing feels like happiness itself ... You feel so rich, the elation seems almost excessive and you want to share it"

Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can’t see from the center

– Kurt Vonnegut

I went to my first ever comic book/sci-fi convention today! Lots of amazing, unusual, crazy and creepy costumes about. Here's just a few of them...

(Bart Simpson)

Click the link for all things FOUND:

www.foundmagazine.com

The present is the ever moving shadow that divides yesterday from tomorrow. In that lies hope - Frank Lloyd Wright

(found online)

To His Lost Lover - Simon Armitage

Now they are no longer
any trouble to each other

he can turn things over, get down to that list
of things that never happened, all of the lost

unfinishable business.
For instance… for instance,

how he never clipped and kept her hair, or drew a hairbrush
through that style of hers, and never knew how not to blush

at the fall of her name in close company.
How they never slept like buried cutlery –

two spoons or forks cupped perfectly together,
or made the most of some heavy weather –

walked out into hard rain under sheet lightning,
or did the gears while the other was driving.

How he never raised his fingertips
to stop the segments of her lips

from breaking the news,
or tasted the fruit

or picked for himself the pear of her heart,
or lifted her hand to where his own heart

was a small, dark, terrified bird
in her grip. Where it hurt.

Or said the right thing,
or put it in writing.

And never fled the black mile back to his house
before midnight, or coaxed another button of her blouse,

then another,
or knew her

favourite colour,
her taste, her flavour,

and never ran a bath or held a towel for her,
or soft-soaped her, or whipped her hair

into an ice-cream cornet or a beehive
of lather, or acted out of turn, or misbehaved

when he might have, or worked a comb
where no comb had been, or walked back home

through a black mile hugging a punctured heart,
where it hurt, where it hurt, or helped her hand

to his butterfly heart
in its two blue halves.

And never almost cried,
and never once described

an attack of the heart,
or under a silk shirt

nursed in his hand her breast,
her left, like a tear of flesh

wept by the heart,
where it hurts,

or brushed with his thumb the nut of her nipple,
or drank intoxicating liquors from her navel.

Or christened the Pole Star in her name,
or shielded the mask of her face like a flame,

a pilot light,
or stayed the night,

or steered her back to that house of his,
or said “Don’t ask me how it is

I like you.
I just might do.”

How he never figured out a fireproof plan,
or unravelled her hand, as if her hand

were a solid ball
of silver foil

and discovered a lifeline hiding inside it,
and measured the trace of his own alongside it.

But said some things and never meant them –
sweet nothings anybody could have mentioned.

And left unsaid some things he should have spoken,
about the heart, where it hurt exactly, and how often.

It's not what we eat but what we digest that makes us strong; not what we gain but what we save that makes us rich; not what we read but what we remember that makes us learned; and not what we profess but what we practice that gives us integrity - Francis Bacon

Why should I hold back now and sound meteocre just so I can sound meteocre twenty years from now? - Janis Joplin