An angel on the Place Jean Moulin, between the trees, reveals the graphite after dark. At the bakery “Le Boulanger de l’Hôtel de Ville” I look in the mirror. The heart is honey-colored corduroy, touching the moon with a finger. Sweet chestnuts. How do we know each other?
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At this concert, I cried, laughed, sang songs, transported myself to the land of childhood, saw my mother’s smile, and my friend’s tears mingled with mine. Time sparkled on my cheek. I absorbed the theater, enjoyed French, and lived in Bordeaux that night.
Merci Beaucoup!
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–Sybille Baier from Stuttgart was 20 years old, had a difficult life, and was prone to depression when she recorded 14 songs for herself, which she claims saved her life. She packed up those tapes and moved on to the family life, forgetting about them – Daria Danuta Lisiecka says in her program “Wyczytane do Białości” on Radio z Qltura.
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Rich is the one who is satisfied with what he has
Zen saying
I’m pausing for a moment my reading “Tsubaki Stationery Shop” because I can’t resist designing a few autumn cards for my sister and friends. From the very beginning, Ito Ogawa’s novel ignites my previously sidelined passion for letter writing and card making. Because it’s a story about a letter writer.
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We reach Dublin Northside, and the rain stops. Magic sun peeks out from behind the cloud. Because our first stop is the Cloud Café. We sit on the veranda and gaze out at North Strand Road. Pleasant songs play in the background, and the city buzzes. A green double-decker bus floats over a stone bridge.
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October started quickly. I don’t know where it is rushing. So I try to capture this last week. I listen to the dripping rain, watch the flickering candle flame. I grind coffee beans, warmth brown like chestnuts. I am looking a fox in the garden. At the Galway market, I eat homemade sushi in the fleeting sunshine. Meanwhile a poem I write about November.
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The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.
Maya Angelou
The orange light of sunset behind the curtain, made bed, heather-covered hills, a mother’s hands, a kettle on the stove with laundry drying above it, relaxed cat, people hugging, shoes, glass bottles of homemade juice, the ocean (…) Various images remind us of home. We come from different countries, but we all live in Galway, and we are united by a Photography Exhibition “Home” part of Eastside Arts Festival organized by Hugh Murphy.
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Finally, I’m cleaning up one of my local beach in Galway again with a group of volunteers. This time, I’m joining an event organized by Luana Jungmann from Curi Ocean.
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5:35 a.m. The fox turns to me his pointed muzzle and staring at me from ten feet away, like all the wildlife nature trying to survive in this city.
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And everything is happening now. Only once.
Just look and listen to not miss anything from this moment.
-sings Jerzy Stachura Junior at the 24th Nation Poets’ Meeting “White Locomotive” in Łazieniec, in Poland. The red, yellow, and purple light of a September evening illuminates the stage and poet Edward Stachura is standing on the road with a bicycle next to his mother. Life, happening here and now, and gleams.
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