if a buddha had a pet chihuahua

he'd look something like this.

and you thought buddhas couldn't have pet chihuahuas. ha!

[16th k]

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thoughts that meander

i walk every day along a shaded promenade, reading while i walk. im the girl with my nose stuffed into yellowing pages at any given opportunity. i ascent and descend dozens of sets of moving stairs, with a book open, walking and getting on and off the metro while reading have all been mastered.

now its is james joyce, 
portrait of the artist as a young man.

i won't lie, for the first time in a very long time i've skimmed over dozens of pages in a book that im reading, sermons, god this and god that, repent, confess, damnation in hell. while crossing petnehazy utca i thought, all of this symbolism, all of these rituals and scriptures that i am so ready to skim over, i've grown completely bored by catholicism, christian symbols and how even admitted non-god believers still accept and or contribute to their meaning by day and by night.

// la virgin //

once i bought paperweight for one euro. a bargain. it is the shape of a pyramid, clear, and inside is a small disk with an image of the virgin mary on it, clad in a blue robe, hands held together at her heart. why would a buddhist buy such a thing.

i couldnt get over how banal an object it was, a plastic paperweight and that 'they' thought of putting a virgin mary inside of it, a daily reminder to say their prayers perhaps. pure ridiculous perhaps. i couldn't leave it behind. now it serves my desk as a daily reminder

// schiele has nothing to do with this //

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effortless concentration

[effortless concentration]

breathe in / breathe out

object. mind resting. continuous...

breathing in / breathing out. again and again.

they call it shin-e  and results in a comfortable and wonderful experience, one where the self dissolves. ego disappearing, space is taking over. don't forget to eat.

[limitless comfort]

sinking mind // in the jungles of india

[effortless concentration]

img: unknown source / possibly ffffound

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on contemplation.

sitting under the lamp, the balcony aglow. thinking about cravings i used to have. some i still do.

french riviera // chocolate aztec tea // being a mother to a plant.

setting suns and sprouting mint. this balcony garden that i once deemed hopeless seems to be doing better than i thought possible. today i sun burned by lips, i changed the film in my camera, i walked until my feet hurt, i watched a classic film and read some james joyce.

alone for contemplation and my finger tips ache for a camel. not for the nicotine or the rush of blood to my head but for the holding. something to be held more than a pencil or a paint brush. something more than an electric mouse and keys that aren't made of bones or ivory.

i miss susi's company and sewing into the dusk until our eyes couldn't see anymore. ott's ginger tea.

i've cut my thumb on a tuna can.

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much love mondays: black low tops

if there is anything i love more than converse shoes its this pair of low tops, simple and classic.
its a shoe i can never get tired of, no matter how many pairs i go through.

tell anna what you love on mondays.

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saturday // cactus day

i love discovering new parts of the city.
i love free passes because he is an "editor" of a gardening magazine.
i love wearing pretty dresses.
i love cactus // cacti?

i love david too.

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cat's eye // margaret atwood

i realise that if i hope to any extent to get the real hungarian experience while im living here i should read hungarian literature. (un)fortunately its not commonly translated into english, or at least not that ive found and the british council library seems to have a good stack of atwood books. so i continue on reading atwood's books that i never made time to read before.

cat's eye //

potential has a shelf life

he considers me also a little fragile because artistic. i need to be cared for, like a potted plant

there were no men in this painting, but it was about men, the kind who caused women to fall. i did not ascribe any intentions to these men. they were like the weather, they didn't have a mind. they merely drenched you or struck you like lightening and moved in, mindless as blizzards. or they were like rocks, a line of sharp slippery rocks with jagged edges. you could walk with care along between the rocks, picking your steps, and if you slipped you'd fall and cut yourself, but it was no use blaming the rocks.

stories from a childhood, stories from her present, controversial artist returns to toronto for a retrospective. hometowns bring back a life of memories from her earliest catching caterpillars in ontario's far north to life drawing class at the art college. i was captivated every page. she has a way with words, this margaret atwood.

memories are unreliably coloured: one can only know this later. i don't think im 'later' yet.

identity / the nature of artistic creativity / worth / coming of age.

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