Someone asked me what home was and all I could think of were the stars on the tip of your tongue, the flowers sprouting from your mouth, the roots entwined in the gaps between your fingers, the ocean echoing inside of your ribcage.
El Mac was finally able to leave the States for the first big mural project he has done out of the country since having struggled with health issues as of late. Thankfully, it looks like he has recovered nicely with his skills intact from the looks of this stunning piece that was commissioned by Eventscape in Toronto. The wall adjacent to the Gardiner Expressway was executed in collaboration with Montreal’s STARE and Toronto’s KWEST, who contributed on the background.
The world we live in. Is it fucked up? Yes. Is it unfair? Without a doubt. Can we change everything to make it better? Highly unlikely. Is that a reason to give up? No. Should we turn blind eyes to the negative aspects? HELL no. What should we do, then? Simple: We change what we have the power to change, acknowledge what we can’t in hopes that someone else eventually can figure out how to, and in the interim make our own situations the best they can be. It won’t be easy, that’s for sure. But it’s still good to try.
Her eyes were glittering like the eyes of a child when you give a nice surprise, and she laughed with a sudden throaty, tingling way. It is the way a woman laughs for happiness. They never laugh that way just when they are being polite or at a joke. A woman only laughs that way a few times in her life. A woman only laughs that way when something has touched her way down in the very quick of her being and the happiness just wells out as natural as breath and the first jonquils and mountain brooks. When a woman laughs that way it always does something to you. It does not matter what kind of a face she has got either. You hear that laugh and feel that you have grasped a clean and beautiful truth. You feel that way because that laugh is a revelation. It is a great impersonal sincerity. It is a spray of dewy blossom from the great central stalk of All Being, and the woman’s name and address hasn’t got a damn thing to do with it. Therefore, the laugh cannot be faked. If a woman could learn to fake it she would make Nell Gwyn and Pompadour look like a couple of Campfire Girls wearing bifocals and ground-gripper shoes with bands on their teeth. She could get all society by the ears. For all any man really wants is to hear a woman laugh like that.
I have this strange feeling that I’m not myself anymore. It’s hard to put into words, but I guess it’s like I was fast asleep, and someone came, disassembled me, and hurriedly put me back together again. That sort of feeling.
But even so, every now and then I would feel a violent stab of loneliness. The very water I drink, the very air I breathe, would feel like long, sharp needles. The pages of a book in my hands would take on the threatening metallic gleam of razor blades. I could hear the roots of loneliness creeping through me when the world was hushed at four o’clock in the morning.
- Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (via skeletales)