lullaby #35 14:59

it keeps on playing, even if I'm the only one listening to it.

darkness can't drive out darkness 22:04

But this loneliness, it won't leave me alone
It's such a drag to be on your own
Baby, you left and you didn't say why
Mostly darkness in my mind
Sometimes it leaves me, sometimes it leaves me behind

I am done being scared 21:34

a tristeza é lúcida, disseram-me. mas é premente soltarmo-nos de qualquer luto de sonhos que foram pelo cano abaixo para que nos apercebamos dos novos que nos levarão a céus mais altos. porque, e mais uma vez, "se ninguém sonhasse, tanta coisa tinha ficado por fazer".

lullaby #34 16:34

oh, I am 17:52

lullaby #33 13:51

But I want to.

fica prá próxima 18:38

never/not 10:09

uma garrafa a boiar algures 15:06

Bet you don't remember how we met.
That's okay it hasn't happened yet.
Although we had the same dream.
Although we had the same dream.

I think I met you when I was sleeping.
'Cause I shook myself awake.
Although we had the same dream.
I know when I go to sleep
We'll have the same dream.
We'll have the same dream.

Oh... bet you don't remember how we met.
That's okay it hasn't happened yet
Although we had the same dream.
I know when I go to sleep
'Cause we can still dream

chantal akerman 14:55

lullaby #32 13:52

the only cure is more cowbell: 11:50

you twit,

he said.

and he filled in the blanks, and connected the dots for me, i'd missed it completely.

i loved him so much in that moment.

and for a second, a split second, i was a neil gaiman fan.
and i was a fan because he’d tricked me, and he’d tricked me without me knowing, and i’d heard rumors that he does that, but i thought i was immune.
and for a second i felt like what it must feel like when i’m on stage playing “the bed song” and someone snaps a picture of neil a few feet away, looking at me.
and for a second i felt what it must feel like to wait in a line for five hours and have him sign a book that changed your life.
to stand not in admiration of the husband writer, the writer who wants his tea but not with the milk hot because then it’s just wrong, the writer who won’t remember what time he said he’d meet you, the writer who has to sign 12,000 copies of his new book that’s a bestseller before it hits the shelves and actually that’s really annoying because i’m slightly jealous of his instant success no matter what he does, the writer who gets irritated when i leave too many clothes on the floor and he can’t get to the bathroom, the writer who is awkward and has a hard time in party situations when he feels he doesn’t understand the social hierarchy, the writer who is not really a writer are you kidding me he’s just some snoring heap of flesh beside me, sweating and breathing and grinding his teeth and probably dreaming the kinds of dreams that neil gaimans dream, full of dreams and wishes and magic and wonder and all the shit that can drive me crazy if i’m not in the right mood for it….no…the WRITER. the man who actually takes a pen to a paper and writes things and creates a believable world that sucks you in and spits you out, its logic embedded in your mind forevermore. that. i saw THAT. and i love THAT so much, the fact that he can DO that…and i don’t get to see that most of the time. i’m too busy looking at the man. as it should be, i think.

you cannot separate the self from the relationship and you cannot separate the relationship from the work.

call it poison, or call it the muse.

one thing i have learned, being an artist married to another artist:

whatever it is, we've infected each other, and the only cure is more cowbell.
that's the end of my book and marriage review.

é 20:41