This has been such a hellish week that I'm not even sure my brain is still functioning. I thought it would be appropriate to turn the blog over to Tomas Tranströmer, who was announced yesterday morning as the 2011 Nobel Laureate in Literature.
(I also keep accidentally deleting my 'shoe shots.' Please forgive.)
(sweater: vintage; chambray: walmart; skirt: thrifted; boots: seychelles)
Waking up is a parachute jump from dreams
Free of the suffocating turbulence the traveler
sinks toward the green zone of morning.
Things flare up. From the viewpoint of the quivering lark
he is aware of the huge root systems of the trees,
their swaying underground lamps. But aboveground
there's greenery--a tropical flood of it--with
lifted arms, listening
to the beat of an invisible pump. And he
sinks toward summer, is lowered
in its dazzling crater, down
through shafts of green damp ages
trembling under the sun's turbine. Then it's checked,
this straight-down journey through the moment, and the wings spread
to the osprey's repose above rushing waters.
The Bronze Age trumpet's
hovers above the bottomless depths.
In day's first hours consciousness can grasp the world
as the hand grips a sun-warmed stone.
The traveler is standing under the tree. After
the crash through death's turbulence, shall
a great light unfold above his head?
(Tomas Tranströmer, The Great Enigma)