The yurt compound of William Coperthwaite near Machiasport, Maine.
No one alive has done more to promote yurts than Bill Coperthwaite. Coming across the style in a 1962 National Geographic article, he recognized in the yurt a construction method so simple and durable, that almost anyone, regardless of skill or budget, could build their own home. He’s spent the last 4 decades living off-grid, lecturing, selling plans, and leading hundreds of yurt building workshops around the globe.
Read more on Bill’s life and philosophy in his book: A Handmade Life.
Photographs by the exceptional A. William Frederick.
Try to be mindful and let things take their natural course. Then your mind will become still in any surroundings, like a clear forest pool. All kinds of wonderful, rare animals will come to drink at the pool, and you will clearly see the nature of all things. You will see many strange and wonderful things come and go, but you will be still.
This is the happiness of the Buddha.
— Venerable Ajahn Chah (via cazham
Lydia Lunch - Mechanical Flattery
Music that’s like gumdrops … .
If you marry, you will regret it; if you do not marry, you will also regret it; if you marry or do not marry, you will regret both. Laugh at the world’s follies, you will regret it, weep over them, you will also regret that; laugh at the world’s follies or weep over them, you will regret both; whether you laugh at the world’s follies or weep over them, you will regret both. Believe a woman, you will regret it, believe her not, you will also regret that; believe a woman or believe her not, you will regret both; whether you believe a woman or believe her not, you will regret both. Hang yourself, you will regret it; do not hang yourself, and you will also regret that; hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you will regret both; whether you hang yourself or do not hang yourself, you will regret both. This, gentlemen, is the sum and substance of all philosophy. An ecstatic lecture.
I am associating this with Nordic thoughts right now.
➜ A Sweetening All Around Me As It Falls
Even generous August
only a child’s scribblings
on thick black paper, in smudgeable chalk –
even the ripening tomatoes, even the roses,
blowsy, losing their fragrance of black tea.
A winter light held this morning’s apples
as they fell, sweet, streaked by one touch
of the careless brush, appling to earth.
The seeds so deep inside they carry that cold.
Is this why some choose solitude, to rise
that small bit further, unencumbered by love of earth,
as the branches, lighter, kite now a little higher
on gold air? But the apples love the earth and falling,
lose themselves in it as much as they can at first touch
and then, with time and rain, at last completely:
to be that bone-like One that shines unleafed in
all black and glazed with not the pendant gold of
necklaced summer but the ice-color mirroring
when the earth is lonely and dark and knows nothing
Seed-black of the paper, seed-black of the waiting
December’s shine, austere and fragile, carves the
But today, cut deep in last plums, in yellow pears,
in second flush of roses, in the warmth of an hour,
as drunk on heat as the girl who long ago vanished
into green trees,
fold that loneliness, one moment, two, love, back into
—Jane Hirshfield, from Poetry (August 1992)
➜ Missing You While You Read About Africa
You mull under giant leaves, deep
in the Belgian Congo.
I’d like to wind one into a sarong,
something you’d want to peel back slowly.
Instead, I thumb the books you’ve finished,
wonder which words got stuck in your head.
You didn’t notice my short dress, or the hint
of violets I dabbed over my blue-veined heart.
Even as I swayed, so my hem lifted like mist
over a harvest moon, you read on.
I want to rise over your dark continent,
drag my hands through thick foliage
cling like thick-sweet mango
to the roof of your mouth.
C. E. Laine
My brain is sore from constantly missing and dreaming of the people closest to my heart!
I live in accordance with dream logic - open, free and fueled by an unconditional love of fate.