A french cult classic passed on...

Äya is 9

Last night we strolled the streets of Nolita hand in hand
Regaled in fresh melon and spoke in excited hushed voices of this and that.
Under the stars Catherine Deneuve glowed in opulent fabric the color of day
As your young body leaned on me.
Nine years ago you entered in fresh wonder
Love unfolding.
There has been beauty and some sadness.
You, wise beyond your years, have taken on life with open grace.
Will there ever be words enough to thank you or to make up for my mistakes?
To you I bow, my beautiful arrow, and stand in grateful awe as I watch you fly forth.

Top photo by Kai Krienke 2012, bottom photo 2007

fern faeries

This weekend was a filled with sticks and frogs, daisies and forget me knots, mountain rays and marshmallow clouds, nostalgic ponds, ferns and sweet corn. Dripping ice cream, night time fire, hot stones and humming bees. A fullness too hard to recall, as a dream waifs through the night into morning. Traces left over, an image or two, flowers encircling heads in forest whimsy.

It has been a week now that I've been paying homage to this little soul left to rest on the window sill of 557 Broadway. A life taken all too soon by our modern hands. Was the brilliant azure sky mirrored on the pane? An illusion of freedom and openness? What a shock, the fatal surprise of closure, an impenetrable end. Death in a breath.
As I look closely what remains still are citron plumes stirring gently in the breeze, beak slightly ajar, talons curled and pearly white. A left over casing to remind us of our fragility and the imminent fate that awaits us all.

“Know that joy is rarer, more difficult, and more beautiful than sadness. Once you make this all-important discovery, you must embrace joy as a moral obligation.” 
― André Gide

thank you Paula...

... for reminding me to play

"Be it as it may, remember that you’re living your own life, not that of your boss. Over the long run, adapting yourself to the pace of your company may cause more damage than the regular paychecks can fix."

via the friendly anarchist

pink dreams

Ananda Ashram

We chanted softly, 

our voices caressing the night.

Krishna.

Rama.

Encircling our tongues.

Upon the last note, she took a breath

and told of the man in white with golden tears.

They wrote for months.

Lovers.

Then gone.

Her head bowing, a sigh, followed by a delicate smile.

The fireflies reflected the stars above.

A warm hand reaching in the dark.

enchanting

horizons

Sometimes you find that your work is the continuation of the work of another, or theirs of yours. They start where the other left off and meeting again, back around to eternity. A shared moment of the regard on the transience of life, a moment, a breath.

The first image is by a friend, taken in California. Mine, on the Lake of Geneva.

cortado

A couple years ago I stumbled upon the cortado at Seersucker Cafe in Carroll Gardens. This beautiful little expresso with a ratio of 1:1 milk served in a short glass is just the perfect blend of coffee for my taste. There is just enough milk to cut the acidity as it smoothly fills the mouth with warm perfection. The pictures are taken from my morning indulgences sipped in contemplative bliss.