10 September 2012

DIARY, ÉTÉ (SUMMER)

by Colette Saint Yves

The last days of summer are a dreamlike haze, ghosted by fragments of lost things: dust lacing my sandals; the cradle sway of trains creeping across Indian landscapes; mangos with flesh soft enough to peel bare-handed; crouching at night markets; slithering through cities on motorbikes; iced fruit hosing the desert sands from lungs; the perfumes of the Himalayas; lazily swimming between limestone islands as the sun is swallowed into the larynx of night.
  by Colette Saint Yves

I don't sleep in suburbia, in this stillness. I wandered twenty-five thousand miles, coming home different to an indifferent neighborhood, the alien-world of the unchanging, the sea of cloned summers. I don't comb out the braid fingered through my mane in my last moments in Hà Nội, for seven days. For seventy-one days I'd been imbued in Asian culture, like tea in boiling water.
  by Edward Gorey

My brain is anything but still. It's a runaway train, derailed in girlhood, splitting itself infinitely to ramble down corridors and up staircases of thought. Philosophical commentaries are spun, dreams are woven, and speaking of dreams, sailing the South Pacific is one which bloomed in Ha Long bay, and staining my fingertips in potions to develop film and glass plates, and view cameras, and camping on Assateuque island with wild horses.
  by Aëla Labbé

I sometimes wind up sunk into my pillows, with one palm splayed against the ache in my brow, from these growing pains of the psyche and soul. The pale azure is painted into day; I wish clouds could cocoon the fallen.
  by Colette Saint Yves

I await winter, when I can tuck blankets up to my chin, and the world is whitened into the sleepy oblivion of snow. Until then, there is the unfinished song of the cicadas, the trees not yet undressed from their emerald-green robes, the glow of fireflies at dusk. We are breathing still.
  by Colette Saint Yves

Featured art by Colette Saint Yves (1, 2, 5, 6), Edward Gorey (3), and Aëla Labbé (4).

Special thanks to four-year old Lucy, who wanted to know why cicadas never finished their song, for inspiring "the unfinished song of the cicadas".

11 comments:

Bianca Stewart said...

Breathtaking, Savannah. I am drunk.

Nishe said...

It's one of my favourite posts of yours.

Eryn said...

This is absoultely stunning. I'll be saving this to favourites. My word, breathtaking! Thank you.

Anna said...

You write beautifully.

Anna
stylescreed.blogspot.com

a. said...

This is so unbelievably lovely I can't even possibly explain it.
You should write more of these!

Alma said...

So in love with your words...Thanks for the mention of lucy ... I have returned the favor in my blog. Many thanks and love the inspiration.

alexis daiana said...

Lovely Susanna, reading your words is like dreaming one of those beautiful dreams you never want to wake up from. Thank you for inspiring me :) I also wanted to thank you for the comment you left on my blog the other day. It really means a lot coming from you! I hope you are alright, dear. I noticed you deactivated (or deleted?) your Facebook account. Know that you will be missed there! I send you my love ♥

Tori Ishikawa said...

Your words and thoughts and emotions, always so well put together.

Girl in the North said...

This was just so lovely to read... :)

Yasmin said...

it is so full of melancholy - I really love it. I love autumn.

Amir jamil said...

Global Ads Business which have 10 Types of Earning Systems with 3 Levels Referral Program.
Want to Join Just Contact : jobzcornerz@gmail.com
www.globaladsbiz.com