The Wind in our Faces
It's snowy and cold outside (but beautiful). A candle is lit and the cat sleeps on my desk. I'm drinking a husband-invented concoction of whiskey, orange liqueur, and butterscotch schnapps over a single giant ice cube, and listening to Karen O. So this is what we're getting on the blog tonight. Sound alright?
Photos by me, and a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke, the ever-present poet who narrated my life and thoughts more than 100 years ago like a damned magician. I discovered him randomly when I was a teenager and never have I parted from his words in quiet hours.
The photos were taken last April on a clunky old Nikon film camera that I kind of love. It was given to me by my father-in-law.
The people in the images are my friends.
by Rainer Maria Rilke
translated by Robert Bly
My eyes already touch the sunny hill.
Going far ahead of the road I have begun.
and charges us, even if we do not reach it,
into something else, which, hardly sensing it,
we already are; a gesture waves us on
answering our own wave…
So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp;
it has inner light, even from a distance-
but what we feel is the wind in our faces.