inspiration #6

Cathy was beautiful like Brigitte Bardot. Cathy always was there, but outside … Then, some years ago, she put a shotgun in her mouth and blew her head off.

N.B. Photo by Bruce Davidson.
Two "inspiration" posts in a row? Dear, dear.
Life is a bit hectic at the moment. But when things calm down, I'll try to start posting my own stuff again, I promise.

inspiration #5

The Tallest Man On Earth - A Field Of Birds from Yellow Bird Project on Vimeo.

This isn't only another song/stopmotion video posted in the "inspiration" series (ie things that inspire me!), it's also the theme song of the Yellow Bird Project, a Montreal-based nonprofit organisation which sells t-shirts designed by bands and singer-songwriters (Bon Iver, Bloc Party, The National, Little Boots, Metric, and many, many more). The money raised is then sent to charities directly chosen by the designer of the t-shirt. (The t-shirts are really cool by the way, I've got a couple and am really happy with them!).

Be indie with a conscience! ;]

girl with balloon

by shamrock

This is my first drawing of a human figure in years, so things are a bit out of proportion. I need to brush up.
Any criticism/advice is welcome!

vêpres

Cheveux d'or et brins d'herbe
Tachetés d'ambre vespéral, 

Tamisés par les branches pavoisées
De feuilles vertes et fluettes

Toi et moi, nous,

Se pâmant sous le chêne antique

Comme si demain n'était plus.

by shamrock

dream

by shamrock

one leaf left

photo by shamrock

Hark, Nick Drake sings...

Time has told me
You’re a rare, rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
For someday our Ocean
Will find it’s shore

So I’ll leave the ways of making me be
What I really don’t want to be
Leave the ways that are making me love
What I really don’t want to love

Time has told me
You came with the dawn
A soul with no footprint
A rose with no thorn
Your tears they tell me
There’s really no way
Of ending your troubles
With things you can say

And time will tell you
To stay by my side
To keep on trying
‘til theres no more to hide
So leave the ways that are making you be
What you really don’t want to be
Leave the ways that are making you love
What you really don’t want to love

Time has told me
You’re a rare, rare find
A troubled cure
For a troubled mind

And time has told me
Not to ask for more
For someday our ocean
Will find its shore
                             ~ Nick Drake

à une âme inconnue

"thou art not thy lane" ~ Robert Burns

Respire, expire
Chaque souffle me rappelle
Qu'il est une âme
Je ne sais où
Qui tressaille

Respire, expire
Une âme inconnue
Oubliée ou étouffée
Mais toujours seule
Et frémissante

Respire, expire,
Sœur mystérieuse
Ne t'éteins point
Mais essuie tes larmes
Avec ces doigts tremblants

Respire, aspire
Lève ce grave menton
Car nous nous aimons
Sans nous connaître
Ensemble, trépidons.

by shamrock

shipwrecked

He looked into his glass, and watched the shadow of his head swim in the ruby below. Hadn’t he always cast himself as a martyr, as an outcast? Perhaps it was nothing more than that – a role he had been playing. Perhaps he was no different than anyone else. He shook his head. No – no. It couldn’t be. He had been an outcast. Hell, he’d even had stones thrown at him for being a foreigner. He hadn’t made it all up. But it was true that he had latched unto his otherness, he had worn it as a badge of pride. Over the years he had instilled his life with a rich tragic motif. His otherness had been – still was – a crutch he could lean on in times of crisis. But it wasn’t his real identity. It wasn’t his true self. It had begun by being the persona he slipped on when he hurt. Now it had become much more, it was the thing around which he was building his whole identity. And that couldn’t be healthy.
He remembered something he had heard a preacher say about finding one’s identity in God. He remembered coming across something Emerson and Steinbeck had written about an “Oversoul”. Yes, people were connected with something wider than themselves, yes, they were connected with one another somehow, and perhaps in a deeper sense that they thought. But that didn’t help resolve the question of his identity. It just made things more complicated.
He sighed, ran his fingers through his hair, and lifted the glass to his lips.

by shamrock

inspiration #4

Life isn't about waiting for the storm to dance.
It's about learning to dance in the rain.

inspiration #3

by Robert Frank

I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'

Jack Kerouac, On the Road

epiphany

photo by shamrock

Its soul, its whatness, leaps to us from the vestment of its appearance. The soul of the commonest object, the structure of which is so adjusted, seems to us radiant. The object achieves its epiphany.

                               James Joyce

crosswords

Tom walked into the usual café, sat at the usual seat and ordered the usual cup of coffee. He mechanically swung open his laptop and placed his fingers on the keyboard. He kept them there for what seemed to him like ages, but he didn't type anything. He caught his reflection in the screen. A pair of sad eyes stared back at him. Come on Tom, they seemed to be urging, get a grip of yourself. Write something. Anything. But nothing would come. Not even one word. Tom swore under his breath and slammed the computer shut. He scratched the back of his head. For the first time in months he looked round the café. The morning sun was coyly casting its light through the dusty windows. A lot of chairs were still stacked up on the tables. The place was empty, save for an old man filling in crosswords on yesterday's paper and a girl reading in the opposite corner of the café. She was wearing a purple dress, and Tom couldn't help looking at her long folded legs. She turned her head towards him, and he quickly looked down. He thought he would pretend to work at his computer, but he realized that he had closed it. He felt his ears burning. He raised his head again and pretended to stare out the window. From the corner of his eye he sensed that the girl was looking at him. He felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. He looked outside and focussed on a pigeon that was rummaging for food in front of the baker's across the street. After a while, he slowly turned his head back towards the girl. She was reading again, holding the book with one hand and playing with her hair with the other. God, she was so cute. How could girls be so cute without even realizing it, he thought. He wondered what she was reading. It looked like a novel. Was she a Hemingway girl, a fan of jazz and of postcard Paris? Or was she the Austen type, a lost soul, a romantic dreamer? Or was she both? He squinted, and tried to make out some of the words, but she was sitting too far away. He suddenly realized that she was looking at him. She smiled, and waved at him. He smiled back awkwardly. She raised the book and pointed at the title on the cover: The Brothers Karamazov. Tom raised his eyebrows and mouthed the word "impressive". They looked at each other for a while. Then they turned away and blushed. When they looked back at each other, they burst out laughing. The girl opened her mouth to say something, but she was interrupted:
"Hey, maybe you youngsters could help me out," said the old man without lifting his eyes from his newspaper. "Ten-letter word, Newton's laws. What could it be?"
 Tom and the girl looked at the old man, then at each other. They burst out laughing again. Tom turned to the old man. "I think the answer is attraction," he said. He looked back at the girl. She was looking down at the floor, and her face was bright red.
"Hm... attraction," muttered the old man. "I think you're right, kiddo. Can you help me with another one?"
But no answer came. The boy and the girl were standing in the middle of the room, lips locked.

by shamrock

inspiration #2