[gràcia & bogatell beach]
rockets. gentle men. augusta. croissant con nutella. sticklers for sun. sandwiched. emeralds. youth. periwinkle. winter winds. holding hands. quit playin’. pigeon-techture. barcelona is: grown men on scooters. she sells. pumpkin pie beach. dog day afternoon. lyfegame. gets better with time?

b&w photos here.

hot breath & an ice cold shoulder.
kissed beneath a tremendous blanket on a humble bed.

how you gonna tell the ice queen to play it cool?

social unrest.
sleep is not for the wicked, but what wicked sleep it is.

(what happened to my dreams?)

interest piqued quickly turns to interest peaked.

frost. (peeking in)
bite.
you. (speaking in -)

tongues – unravelled. un-reveled.

it’s harder to tell just how cold she is in the winter.

and yet the books will be there on the shelves, separate beings,
that appeared once, still wet 
as shining chestnuts under a tree in autumn,
and, touched, coddled, began to live
in spite of fires on the horizon, castles blown up,
tribes on the march, planets in motion.
“we are, ” they said, even as their pages
were being torn out, or a buzzing flame
licked away their letters. so much more durable
than we are, whose frail warmth
cools down with memory, disperses, perishes.
i imagine the earth when I am no more:
nothing happens, no loss, it’s still a strange pageant,
women’s dresses, dewy lilacs, a song in the valley.
yet the books will be there on the shelves, well born,
derived from people, but also from radiance, heights.

- c. milosz, and yet the books

$20
76 pages – full color
perfect bound
23.8cm x 18.4cm (9.375” x 7.25”)

website: www.davepires.com
twitter: twitter.com/davepires

oftentimes in denying yourself pleasure you do but store the desire in the recesses of your being.
who knows but that which seems omitted today, waits for tomorrow?
even your body knows its heritage and its rightful need and will not be deceived.
and your body is the harp of your soul,
and it is yours to bring forth sweet music from it or confused sounds.
- k.gibran on pleasure, from the prophet

you put a note in my pocket, said
be good to yourself
and that was all

life being what it is,
we all dream of revenge
open your eyes for a second just to roll them at me
i stared straight into the sun,
something to concentrate on

and if you turn it on you’d find, i’ve written you a thousand times
you would do anything, you’d give up everything for god knows why
i just can’t stay till your gone
i won’t wish you well,
i won’t see you off,
i won’t try to call.
if i see you in my mind, i’ll say to you
it’s not your fault

you said i’ll see you in september, but that’s not long enough for me
you put a note in my pocket,
so it would take care of me
but that was all

- kaki king, life being what it is

i will leave you to time – oum kalthoum
أم كلثوم – ح اسيبك للزمن

i will leave you to time
without reproach or sorrow
you will suffer from regret and know pain
if you complain, i won’t ask what’s wrong
if you cry, i will not have mercy on you
oh you who did not have mecy on me when my heart was in your hands
time has passed you by
time will make you taste my fire in the separation
time will take my revenge for me
every betrayal and every night you kept me up
every abandonment and every wound you left for me
the nights will all return to you
one day you will need the affection of my heart
one day you will long for my presence
and you will not ever find another love like mine
and the regret will remain inside your heart
hurting you more than living a life of me reproaching you
tomorrow you’ll hope i’ll settle the score with you
i won’t settle the score and i won’t reproach you
it’s enough that i left you to time
i’m going to leave you with that which has no mercy and you cannot handle
i won’t say you know what time is going to do
time always changes things so much
the more it goes on moans take the place of laughter
complain, i won’t ask you what’s wrong
cry, i won’t have mercy on you
oh you who did not have mecy on me when my heart was in your hands
time has passed you by

this is yiorgos. he lives in skafi, crete.
alone.
well, he has some animals.
he goes about his daily activities in complete solitude, save for the few people who roll through in the summertime. obviously intensely compelled to go and see him and learn everything. unbelievably beautiful photos of him here. 

♦

if you do not first lighten yourself and your soul of the weight of your burdens, moving about will only increase their pressure on you, as a ship’s cargo is less troublesome when lashed in place. you do more harm than good to a patient by moving him about: you shake his illness down into the sack, just as you drive stakes in by pulling and waggling them about. that is why it is not enough to withdraw from the mob, not enough to go to another place: we have to withdraw from such attributes of the mob as are within us. it is our own self we have to isolate and take back into possession.

…

we must unknot these bonds and, from this day forth, love this or that but marry nothing but ourselves. that is to say, let the rest be ours, but not so glued and joined to us that it cannot be pulled off without tearing away a piece of ourselves, skin and all. the greatest thing in the world is to know how to live to yourself.
- michel de montaigne, on solitude