Fine Art Of The Forest

I actually attack the concept of happiness. The idea that - I don’t mind people being happy - but the idea that everything we do is part of the pursuit of happiness seems to me a really dangerous idea and has led to a contemporary disease in Western society, which is fear of sadness. It’s a really odd thing that we’re now seeing people saying “write down 3 things that made you happy today before you go to sleep”, and “cheer up” and “happiness is our birthright” and so on. We’re kind of teaching our kids that happiness is the default position - it’s rubbish. Wholeness is what we ought to be striving for and part of that is sadness, disappointment, frustration, failure; all of those things which make us who we are. Happiness and victory and fulfillment are nice little things that also happen to us, but they don’t teach us much. Everyone says we grow through pain and then as soon as they experience pain they say “Quick! Move on! Cheer up!” I’d like just for a year to have a moratorium on the word “happiness” and to replace it with the word “wholeness”. Ask yourself “is this contributing to my wholeness?” and if you’re having a bad day, it is.

Hugh Mackay (via varanine)

http://www.flickr.com/photos/nadya_ka/6173951745/

Marriage of decay and awakening.

To stray beyond the lines is to imply you are through with your visions, that you wish to join the mêlée.

Lytton Smith

Tsang Chui Mei（Chinese, b.1972）

The Death of Strawberry  士多啤梨之死  2011  Acrylic on canvas 122 x 61cm  via

YUKI Rei（由木礼 Japanese, 1928-2003）

End of the Summer 夏の終わり　1972 Woodblock print 72 × 37cm via

Although you mention Venice keeping it on your tongue like a fruit pit and I say yes, perhaps Bucharest, neither of us really knows. There is only this train slipping through pastures of snow, a sleigh reaching down to touch its buried runners. We meet on the shaking platform, the wind’s broken teeth sinking into us. You unwrap your dark bread and share with me the coffee sloshing into your gloves. Telegraph posts chop the winter fields into white blocks, in each window the crude painting of a small farm. We listen to mothers scolding children in English as if we do not understand a word of it– sit still, sit still. There are few clues as to where we are: the baled wheat scattered everywhere like missing coffins. The distant yellow kitchen lights wiped with oil. Everywhere the black dipping wires stretching messages from one side of a country to the other. The men who stand on every border waving to us. Wiping ovals of breath from the windows in order to see ourselves, you touch the glass tenderly wherever it holds my face. Days later, you are showing me photographs of a woman and children smiling from the windows of your wallet. Each time the train slows, a man with our faces in the gold buttons of his coat passes through the cars muttering the name of a city. Each time we lose people. Each time I find you again between the cars, holding out a scrap of bread for me, something hot to drink, until there are no more cities and you pull me toward you, sliding your hands into my coat, telling me your name over and over, hurrying your mouth into mine. We have, each of us, nothing. We will give it to each other.

For the Stranger  Carolyn Forché

Braavo! Braavo! Kuula, Arkadi… just niiviisi peavad tänapäeva noormehed väljenduma! Ime oleks, kui teil jüngreid poleks! Varemalt tuli noormeestel mõndagi õppida, ei tahetud ju nõmedusega kuulsaks saada, tahes-tahtmata tehti tööd. Aga nüüd tarvitseb neil vaid öelda, et kõik maailmas on rämps, - ja asi kombes. Noortel hea meel. Ja tõepoolest - enne olid nad lihtsalt tobud, nüüd aga on neist järsku saanud nihilistid.

Ivan Turgenev “Isad ja pojad” (1862)

untitled by reapingwhatwesaw on Flickr.