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@sanctorium.bsky.social

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photography, writing header: Alice Oswald, Falling Awake

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · Nov 12

I wake to listen:
A far sea moves in my ear.

Sylvia Plath, The Morning Song

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 11m

She stood , listening to the owl, and fell into a tranced sleep, dreaming in another world, the one inside this one.

sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 2h

She listens to the whispers
A deer cracks the silence

sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 2h

she is not alone

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 5h

A figure in long white runs barefoot across the field, across the line of field and woods, out of sight now.

a faint line of distant woodland in a white scape

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 6h

every word, oh so, Christina 🤍

sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 6h

I am always awed, Carax.

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 6h

You know, when you want to disappear into the night with film and a glass of red. Bonne nuit!

Leos Carax, C’est pas moi

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 8h

Exquisite

Christina Tudor-Sideri @dreamsofbeing.bsky.social · 11h

For the inaugural issue of Draught Journal @draughtjournal.bsky.social:

On Bookmarks and Other Ruins—a reflection on the bookmark as a fragile site of memory, desire, and incompletion, accompanied by images of my own bookmarks.

draughtjournal.com/article/on-b...

On Bookmarks and Other Ruins

<p>There is something indescribably intimate about the act of interrupting one’s reading, the act of marking one’s place in a book, a subtle gesture t

draughtjournal.com

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Reposted

Broken Sleep Books @brokensleepbooks.bsky.social · 8h

Róisín Ní Neachtain's I, bird is a fragmented, lyrical reckoning with grief, trauma, and the porous boundary between body and voice. @roisinnineachtain

www.brokensleepbooks.com/product-page...

Minimalist book cover for “I, bird” by Róisín Ní Neachtain; the coral-red title sits at top left above the author’s name; below, a dark, sweeping tree branch with sparse red leaves spans the page, from which a simple wooden swing hangs on thin ropes; “Broken Sleep Books” appears small at the bottom.

THE WHITE ROOM MEDUSA

This is a square, empty room in which there is one window. You can’t see a door and you have no idea how you got in. The window is too small to have entered through. You are not in your usual clothes but it’s not in a straitjacket either. You find no relief in this. You are frozen against the floor. The floor is strangely soft but provides you with no comfort. This is a clinical space and not the type of hospital you have been forced to stay in. For a moment you think it is no different to White Cube. This isn’t a hospital. This is not an experiment. You are part of an exhibition. You are the exhibition. All eyes are on you and you must perform.

It would be something not to perform. It would be something to lie here perfectly still and immobile, both in body and mind. You would not think about solitary confinement. You would not recite poetry in your head. You would not try to count time. You would not try to stay sane. How different would it be from outside of these walls really?

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 8h

Quite.

sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 8h

you are a rare comet

Joseph Beuys, Comet, 1955-56

watercolour of a comet in paled hues of brown and cream

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 11h

Perhaps the truth depends on a walk around the lake.

Wallace Stevens

man on his back by clouded lake, embroidered gauntlet gloved hand raised

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 13h

Raymond Coxon. Blue Bird, 1968

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 14h

Paul Celan, Lightduress; tr. Pierre Joris

sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 15h

but
of interest

sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 15h

Paul Celan, Breathturn; tr. Pierre Joris

sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 15h

Threadsuns
above the grayblack wastes.
A tree-
high thought
grasps the light-tone: there are
still songs to sing beyond
mankind.

Paul Celan, Threadsuns; tr. Pierre Joris

B & W early hour scape of trees,a cloud, quietude

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 1d

good night

Ultimately, the most romantic thing is the heart, and every sensitive person carries in himself old cities enclosed by ancient walls.

Robert Walser

On table, old bronze vessel behind green leaved branch with small pink blossoms

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 1d

wish you a peaceful day

sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 2d

Isn't it the moment of most profound doubt that gives birth to new certainties? Perhaps hopelessness is the very soil that nourishes human hope; perhaps one could never find sense in life without first experiencing absurdity.

Václav Havel

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 2d

🤍

sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 2d

candle in the night, a portal

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 2d

by moon and candle, a series of short films, intensely beautiful

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sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 2d

🤍

sanctorium.bsky.social @sanctorium.bsky.social · 2d

That orbèd maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the Moon.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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