it was the rock-step in the beat, the jazz in the air, 
covers of songs, 
that not-so-lazy Mississippi river fast flowing, 
that cool wind telling us spring is coming, no, rather, 
spring is here. 


new orleans, louisiana

it was the rock-step in the beat, the jazz in the air, 

covers of songs, 

that not-so-lazy Mississippi river fast flowing, 

that cool wind telling us spring is coming, no, rather, 

spring is here. 

new orleans, louisiana

(Source: Flickr / rosekuo)

Keep everythingunder your tongue and don’tcome home. Go far and farther still.We’ll meet in dreams as we do now.I’ll be waiting for you on the windowsillwe already knew we knew.
- griswold
houston, tx

Keep everything
under your tongue and don’t
come home. Go far and farther still.
We’ll meet in dreams as we do now.
I’ll be waiting for you on the windowsill
we already knew we knew.

- griswold

houston, tx

We are not one with this world. We are not  the complexity our body is, nor the summer air idling in the big maple without purpose. We are a shape the wind makes in these leaves as it passes through. We are not the wood any more than the fire, but the heat which is a marriage between the two. We are certainly not the lake nor the fish in it, but the something that is pleased by them. We are the stillness when a mighty Mediterranean noon subtracts even the voices of insects by the broken farmhouse. We are evident when the orchestra plays, and yet are not part of the strings or brass. Like the song that exists only in the singing, and is not the singer. God does not live among the church bells but is briefly resident there. We are occasional like that. A lifetime of easy happiness mixed with pain and loss, trying always to name and hold on to the enterprise under way in our chest. Reality is not what we marry as a feeling. It is what walks up the dirt path, through the excessive heat and giant sky, the sea stretching away. He continues past the nunnery to the old villa where he will sit on the terrace with her, their sides touching. In the quiet that is the music of that place, which is the difference between silence and windlessness. - “Music Is in the Piano Only When It Is Played”, by the great Jack Gilbert
addie against green with lips red, colors like winter holiday, yet on a day beset by summer sunlight.
houston, tx

We are not one with this world. We are not
the complexity our body is, nor the summer air
idling in the big maple without purpose.
We are a shape the wind makes in these leaves
as it passes through. We are not the wood
any more than the fire, but the heat which is a marriage
between the two. We are certainly not the lake
nor the fish in it, but the something that is
pleased by them. We are the stillness when
a mighty Mediterranean noon subtracts even the voices of
insects by the broken farmhouse. We are evident
when the orchestra plays, and yet are not part
of the strings or brass. Like the song that exists
only in the singing, and is not the singer.
God does not live among the church bells
but is briefly resident there. We are occasional
like that. A lifetime of easy happiness mixed
with pain and loss, trying always to name and hold
on to the enterprise under way in our chest.
Reality is not what we marry as a feeling. It is what
walks up the dirt path, through the excessive heat
and giant sky, the sea stretching away.
He continues past the nunnery to the old villa
where he will sit on the terrace with her, their sides
touching. In the quiet that is the music of that place,
which is the difference between silence and windlessness.
- “Music Is in the Piano Only When It Is Played”, by the great Jack Gilbert

addie against green with lips red, colors like winter holiday, yet on a day beset by summer sunlight.

houston, tx

new york city, new york

new york city, new york

reposted from Traci:

thebodyasconduit:

Three mouths; two open to what’s above them.

July 2012

film

in/on my house

*

(photo of me covered in milk by Rose Kuo; photo of Rose by me)

Cite Arrow via thebodyasconduit
strangers who hold worlds in their eyes

new york, new york

strangers who hold worlds in their eyes

new york, new york

it seemed normal, even likely at the time. this hope.
(petals falling though it wasn’t windy,sunny though it wasn’t warm, pollen though i couldn’t smell it, sky though we couldn’t reach it, light though it wasn’t blinding, tree though it was more flower, powerlines though barely showing,
spring, though this hope was not really of any season)
new york city

by rose kuo

it seemed normal, even likely at the time. this hope.

(petals falling though it wasn’t windy,
sunny though it wasn’t warm, 
pollen though i couldn’t smell it, 
sky though we couldn’t reach it, 
light though it wasn’t blinding, 
tree though it was more flower, 
powerlines though barely showing,

spring, though this hope was not really of any season)

new york city

by rose kuo

new york city, new york
Faith is a series of calculationsmade by an idiot savant.I’m in love.I’m alonein this city of painted boxesstacked like alphabet blocksspelling nothing.
- from “Gravity”, Maura O’Connor

new york city, new york

Faith is a series of calculations
made by an idiot savant.
I’m in love.
I’m alone
in this city of painted boxes
stacked like alphabet blocks
spelling nothing.

- from “Gravity”, Maura O’Connor

“Suddenly this defeat.This rain.The blues gone grayAnd the browns gone grayAnd yellowA terrible amber.In the cold streetsYour warm body.In whatever roomYour warm body.Among all the peopleYour absenceThe people who are alwaysNot you.
I have been easy with treesToo long.Too familiar with mountains.Joy has been a habit.NowSuddenlyThis rain.” ― Jack Gilbert

“Suddenly this defeat.
This rain.
The blues gone gray
And the browns gone gray
And yellow
A terrible amber.
In the cold streets
Your warm body.
In whatever room
Your warm body.
Among all the people
Your absence
The people who are always
Not you.

I have been easy with trees
Too long.
Too familiar with mountains.
Joy has been a habit.
Now
Suddenly
This rain.” 
― Jack Gilbert

(Source: Flickr / rosekuo)

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
Cite Arrow Pablo Neruda 
by Rose Kuo
kat in sunlight.
(quietly saying goodbye to summer)
cancun, mexico

by Rose Kuo

kat in sunlight.

(quietly saying goodbye to summer)

cancun, mexico