Little Daisy on this Lonely Planet

Sleep away and dream a dream. Life is just a lullaby.

It’s sort of weird if you think about it. We live in a pretty apathetic age, yet we’re surrounded by an enormous amount of information about other people. If you feel like it, you can easily gather that information about them. Having said that, we still hardly know anything about people.

Haruki Murakami, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage  (via larmoyante)

One heart is not connected to another through harmony alone. They are, instead, linked deeply through their wounds. Pain linked to pain, fragility to fragility. There is no silence without a cry of grief, no forgiveness without bloodshed, no acceptance without a passage through acute loss. That is what lies at the root of true harmony.

Haruki Murakami, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage (via larmoyante)

Beyond the Sun


Thanks for your letter. Sounds like you’re living life the way you wanted - and that makes me smile. No, I hadn’t heard Björn Borg retired. Thank God one of us has a finger on a sporting pulse. No records left to collect, you complain. Borg, Brolin, and an unknown tennis trainer released something recently. No doubt your contacts in the Stockholm underworld can source that gem.

Come back the other day to find the pub on the corner had been burned down. A dark London street story that I won’t burden you with now. Determined as I am to write you some life affirming shit and not drag you on a regular troll through the night seas to see what crawls.

Yeah I know they cast in their lots to see who could get the old pub’s lease and turn it into more luxury flats. Brick by brick the infiltration has begun. I feel moved enough to take a spray can in hand and step to the boarding, but, as yet I can’t think of anything witty or important enough to be up there.

Yet the drunkards still own the park. D’s still there in your old flat makin’ beats and still owns the night. While this street can still shape-shift and make you quicken your pace on a late night return - so I suppose we still have time. But make no mistake my friend, I’m sure some barracade somewhere has started its calling.

I’m so sorry we missed each other when you last came to town. I heard from Linda that you sat with her telling stories for 3 hours as she put some extensions in her clients’ hair. She told me ’bout Cuba, cigars and sacred drums - of arguments in bars, Dante, the color of Christ and the only true poet… the South China seas… Remembered Vy Yung, the Buddhist master. “How could we obtain truth through words”. When she quoted your “immature writers plagiarize mature writers still”, I was back in a bar in New York, lower east side when you shouted that. Maybe it was yourself. Maybe I wasn’t there. Maybe it slipped down between the years. My memory is exactly that now. But my friend, you definately have a convert there. If you ever need your hair braided - and I know that’s a long shot, then she’s your girl.

As my man Scratch or maybe it was Ricky Nomonk - or more probably all of them at some stage said - you gotta check the new style. I assume you are still running an old testament blades to hair ratio and it hasn’t fallen rudely out of you. If that’s the scenario then my sincerest apologies.

Saw Mr. Brennen in the Holloway Road yesterday. Walked past with a sack of potatoes on his shoulders. I didn’t stop him for he wouldn’t have had a clue whoever the hell I was. He didn’t back then. Even when we used to spend months sleeping on his sofa, explaining every morning which one of his sons’ friends we were. I guess that’s the price you pay for any more than six children around the Holloway Road area.

I think of you often, and hope we see each other as soon as possible. Until such time, may the winds be at your back, the dice be kind, and the gods turn the occasional blind eye.

Sincerely Yours,

Beyond the clouds. Beyond the sun.

The Rebel without a cause

The worst of having a romance of any kind is that it leaves one so unromantic.

Before I go to sleep tonight,won’t you tell a story?
One that does not center around power or glory.
A simple tale of love that is tender and sweet,
however glorified still uncorrupted with a steady heartbeat?

Or better still of love that’s also passionate and wild,
that holds the light of youth and makes you playful like a child.

Stephen Fleming: I saw her once more only. I saw her by accident at an airport, changing planes. She didn't see me. She was with Peter. She was holding a child. She was no different from anyone else.

When they were introduced, he made a witticism, hoping to be liked. She laughed extremely hard, hoping to be liked. Then each drove home alone, staring straight ahead, with the very same twist to their faces.

Koop Island Blues

The time that my journey takes is long and the way of it long.

I came out on the chariot of the first gleam of light,
and pursued my voyage through the wildernesses of worlds
leaving my track on many a star and planet.

It is the most distant course that comes nearest to thyself,
and that training is the most intricate
which leads to the utter simplicity of a tune.

The traveler has to knock at every alien door to come to his own,
and one has to wander through all the outer worlds
to reach the innermost shrine at the end.

Some days,
I feel everything at once.
Other days,
I feel nothing at all.

What I wouldn’t give to have tired of you.

Man: Most people are together just so they are not alone, but some people want magic. I think you are one of those people.
Nora: Nothing wrong with that?
Man: Nothing, but it doesn't happen all the time.