Thursday, January 9, 2014

let me learn from where I have been

You were cold as the blood through your bones /And the light which led us from our chosen homes 
--Mumford and Sons, Below My Feet

Nostalgia is the sweetest of all sadnesses.
We are incessantly creating homes for ourselves all over the globe.
Because none of these are actually really our home.

But they're beautiful little resting-places, these pieces of the world.
And they lodge themselves into your heart in beautiful ways.

This is Lincoln's Inn's Fields. For an afternoon of bliss, add clotted cream scones, strawberries and prosecco.]

Little moments like:
 dodging pigeons that guard the entrance to the bridge like dragons,
the way the grass smells in Hyde Park,
the color of the Thames at night,
the view of the Shard from Waterloo bridge,
the warmth of the apartment building when you step inside from the cold,
the surge of victory inside of you when Sainsbury's has a sale on Fruit and Nut bars,
the joy that a pint of cider and a cozy pub bench crowded with people you can laugh with can bring.

our own secret garden
The English language is like London: proudly barbaric yet deeply civilized, too, common yet royal, vulgar yet processional, sacred yet profane.
― Stephen Fry

The wide world is full of lions to climb
and rivers to tame, and mountains to crest and cities to explore.
 And lots of people to fall in love with. Lots of those.

 And if you ever become too old to climb a tree, then I'm afraid you've become too old.
You should take a u-turn instantly, and head back along the road towards youth.
Because that's how aging works, right?

I read through my little blue book the color of the sea, and looked at all the adventures hastily written and haphazardly scribbled onto those pages.
The world is one of those dangerous places that seems so conquerable and so mundane.
But in a world of traffic jams and nail clippers; crosswalks and washing dishes there exists wonders like the alps or the Indian Ocean or the Andromeda galaxy or the giant squid.
It's almost impossible to believe that you share the same universe as such a foreign, mysterious creature as the giant squid.
But you do.
A molecule of water vapor that is floating through your house may have been a drop of water that touched the back of a humpback whale.
The atoms that surround us have had long journeys themselves, and we can hardly know where their adventures have previously brought them.

a universe, squeezed onto a small disc of bronze
One day we waited in line for five hours.
Five. Hours. To go into a small, dark room for twenty-five minutes.
But, inside that room, it was raining. 
And we walked in the rain without it touching us.
Five hours is a small price to pay for a little bit of magic.

a little bit of enchantment

just know you're not alone/ I'm gonna make this place your home --Phillip Phillips

 On Waterloo Bridge where we said our goodbyes, 
the weather conditions bring tears to my eyes. 
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove 
And try not to notice I've fallen in love 

[or with a tan mitten. That you will lose on the overnight Megabus to Edinburgh. A small tragedy]
 On Waterloo Bridge I am trying to think: This is nothing. 
you're high on the charm and the drink.
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song
That says something different.
And when was it wrong?
 ― Wendy Cope, After the Lunch


Yet now I do not repent me of all the trouble I have been at to arrive where I am. 
--John Bunyan, Pilgrim's Progress

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