i love words. and there are a few magnets in the world.

Henri Matisse-Charles Baudelaire Fleurs du mal)

And i don’t speed read. I tend to re-read and contemplate over words over and over, and over.
I like to pay close attention to each sentence and hear what you’re saying and writing.
I like to know what is going on in your world.
Whether I read your narratives or letters or texts or messages or stories,
well, they paint a picture in my head. and if I look at a foto, it tells me a story.

I take a while to look at things. I take a while to read a book, and to read a letter.
I go back and re-read them.
I’d like to read more letters and stories and messages.
So there’s no need to be selective in what you write with me.

But sometimes I think people are selective in what they want to share.
I want to know and hear you and listen to people.

I like to read hints and make a personal judgment and conclusion. I love to read bold and clear words that make me pull in my breath. I want to read and hear words that send blood rushing to my ears.

And, I like pictures too.

And sometimes I take all those words and (in my head) make a giant building. I won’t make it too tall; I don’t want it to collapse. But when I feel I should complete it, I stop.
And I start a new structure with new words, and in those stories and letters and messages you’ve shared, I’ve (subconsciously) selected important phrases and words and stacked them up like an architect (in my head).

And these words, and these stories and messages you shared, well, they affect me, they attract me, they bring me closer and, somehow, distant me from other less significant things.
I think.

Sometimes, well, words exist, and so many of them still haven’t been used by me or you or many other people.
And time, well, I guess, time exists so that all these stories and ideas (that you’ve shared) don’t happen all at once. (though, that would be totally bitchin’ and quite confusing!)
And, all this space we have, well, I guess, this space exists so that this bitchin’ and complicated stuff doesn’t all happen only to you or to them or me all at once.

How can anyone stand to have everything happen to them all at once, right?

But sometimes a word or a phrase can make you feel like that. The good, the bad, the love, the sorrow, this remarkable intensity running through your bones. It’s a little beautiful. Incredible. Sometimes, well, somebody’s eyes can make you feel that. But when you don’t have those eyes, words take over. Sometimes lips and the motion of the someone’s lips can make you feel like that too. But when you don’t have those lips in front of you, words take over. It’s pretty enlightening, sometimes.

Sometimes, stories are supposed to follow a path, but some don’t, and it’s a little more exciting that way. They keep you on your toes and make you restless. And, well, it’s that felt intensity again.

I think, but then, again, I like to soak in your world in your own words. :)

And I thought of this book:

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La gerbe épanouie
En mille fleurs,
Où Phoebé réjouie
Met ses couleurs,
Tombe comme une pluie
De larges pleurs….

-Charles Baudelaire (Le Jet d’eau, from Fleurs du mal)

Henri Matisse illustrates Charles Baudelaire’s poems. A little treat, and a little perfect.

 

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