Arthur detto "Arturo"

Aug 22 2014

"Down this narrow street"

Source: https://s3.amazonaws.com/ooomf-com-files/a1mV1egnQwOqxZZZvhVo_street.jpg

Down this narrow street (more of an alleyway than a thoroughfare), they said the poet would often walk. They said that it was at some point halfway through the path — on the ninth of May in 1834 — that the Poet experienced inspiration, and felt the muses sing to him for the first time. In the interval of time between the end of one street and the beginning of another, he crafted the verses which would make him famous and which would imprison him forever in the sepulchral embrace of textbooks. 

What was it that ignited the spark that day? Was it that particular hue of the buildings? Was it the way the road gradually curved upward and to the right? Or was it the fact that the alleyway used to house small, family-operated butcher shops (for it was before the days of rigid zoning laws) which would now and then spill unto the street the sacrificial offal?

  /  

May 23 2012
storiesinspiredbypictures:

*You Really Are.* * *
> In the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, the couple stopped to admire the > etchings on the wall. They had only known each other for a month, but the > student felt sure of something about his companion already. He tugged out > the permanent marker from his backpack and started tracing a word over the > rough exterior. >
 > *You*, he write, and caught his companion’s eye, smiling. He spoke aloud. > “Really Are.” He looked back at the board and scribbled that too. *A > beautiful person.*

storiesinspiredbypictures:

*You Really Are.*
*
*

> In the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge, the couple stopped to admire the
> etchings on the wall. They had only known each other for a month, but the
> student felt sure of something about his companion already. He tugged out
> the permanent marker from his backpack and started tracing a word over the
> rough exterior.
>


> *You*, he write, and caught his companion’s eye, smiling. He spoke aloud.
> “Really Are.” He looked back at the board and scribbled that too. *A
> beautiful person.*

1 note  /  

Sep 03 2011

I’ve got to stop reading Italian love poetry.

Unfortunately, Words fail me when it matters.

Fortunately, when it matters, people do not.

Words may blunder, but understanding hearts not necessarily.

Thank goodness.

  /  

Sep 02 2011
Aug 28 2011
My friends, love is better than anger. Hope is better than fear. Optimism is better than despair. So let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic. And we’ll change the world

  /  

Aug 25 2011

Excerpt from My Diary Entry for April 4, 2011

Springtime engenders not only the sweetness of flowers but the shortness of hemlines.

  /  

+

Excerpt from My Diary Entry for April 3, 2011:

In cleaning the fridge, we make the usual grisly discoveries of food long abandoned and forgotten in the inner recesses of the fridge, the wasted potential of culinary delights shoved into the back, occluded from view and from mind.

  /  

Aug 23 2011
Aug 17 2011
La jeunesse est moins dangereuse qu’en danger.

  /  

Aug 16 2011
Page 1 of 33