After all, once you know that part of something exists, it stands to reason that the rest of it is somewhere out there, too.
Along my journey through this transitory world, new year's housecleaning.
Seek not the paths of the ancients; Seek that which the ancients sought.
The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.
How I long to see among dawn flowers, the face of God.
A weathered skeleton in windy fields of memory, piercing like a knife.
Every moment of life is the last, every poem is a death poem.
The forties and fifties were years of high poet-incense; the language-flowers were thickly sweet. Those flowers whined and begged white folks to pick them, to find them lovable. Then the '60s: Independent fire!
Steven Meisel is completely consumed with what interests him. He does what he wants to do, and when something doesn't interest him, he's not afraid to say so. I think that's why you don't see his work all over the place as often as you might like to. Today he only photographs what he wants to photograph, what turns him on. He has an extraordinary eye, and his sophistication is limitless. This is a man who doesn't miss a beat.
It's the tide. It's the dismal tide. It's not the one thing.
God cannot be realized without love. Yes, sincere love.