You've Convinced Me

Whoever who pursues joy in the appreciation of his work will never find it. The happiness of an artist, must lie solely in the fulfillment of his art.

on a still and scenic Autumn morning
she`s lays there in the dandelion field



and the sky is blue.




and her eyes are blue.





and her lips are blue. 



still and scenic in the dandelion field
on a radiant Autumn morning

normalgetsyounowheree asked: i love your tumblr. and I'm very jealous of your travels. I need to get out of brampton myselfff.

Get out ASAP! There`s so many ways to get going, the decision is the hardest part.

If you ever feel like downloading my music, you can do that for free now:

soundcloud.com/iamsarahreid

Ps. When`s the last time you ate a potato?! 

Her smile danced lazily towards my eyes, then into them- right through them- emerging from the back of my skull with any remaining thread of defiance onto which I may have held trailing obediently in tow. The narcotic parade marched their seventh around the crumbling Jericho of my mind, before settling again on her lips, just at the moment they met mine.

The room was a terrible and wonderful dream, made up entirely of such mind-numbing threads- some of the persistent hunter, others the defiant hunted. All were woven together by that cruel, resolve shattering kiss; the same kiss I experience now, many times before now, and forever after in the sanctuaries of my mind once reserved for only pure and sacred things. These sanctuaries, now polluted with every pagan indulgence, remain holy in their own rite- in my right to remain holy. 

My vision perpetually twists and contorts into versions of this same dream. Mouths float independent of faces, faces protrude independent of identities, identities form absent of names, and names exchange unconnected to trivial attachments. 

One name in particular though, breaks the impermanent trend. It lingers in my ear against my will, and when I try to speak, it arrests my tongue and floods my senses- flooding my tongue and arresting my sound reason. Stronger than whatever I am her name is, her name is, her name is, her name is, her name is…

The veiny grid of carefully organized lights and highways create a material of the finest weaving. As if laid out in preparation for a tailor, the black satin of the night-washed city surface is threaded throughout with gold lace, surrounded by flickering diamonds, and accented with the irregular and especially bright ruby. 

I want to make a dress of this. 
I want to drape it around whatever element of God granted me such incredible fortune. I want to behold my gratitude clinging to every sweet curve of her benevolence.

As I drift further away from satin, and deeper into sleep, I dream of dressing her in the wonderfully imminent evening gown of Switzerland. On her, it`s riverine and disconnected collage of lights slip into the kind of logic that only beauty can justify. I allow myself to sink deeper into visions of this entity: of her radiance in the morning robe of Rome, the cocktail dress of Paris, the elaborate fabrics of Morocco, of Japan, of India, of the woven world she designs and I constantly create-
for her…
I must have tripped over the hem, I`ve fallen so far ahead of myself.  

I am in love with and I am in awe of this God, and the life she has arranged for me so neatly in silky highways of fluorescent lights. I am grateful for the will in my mind, and the skill in my hands to mold it into something more than a metaphor.

My life is a tangible experience; I wear it on my face to try and wrap my head around it. 

Weeeooouu, it`s a new year indeed.  

laura220 asked: Hey darling. Have you ever read anything by Charles Bukowski? I have a feeling you'd appreciate him. :)

Only the in-your-face popular stuff. I unjustifiably never got into him. Rectifying that now, I’ll thank you later.

ps. thank you :p 

I really wish someone on Tumblr would post a picture of a noodle shaped girl with long, wavy, multi-coloured hair wearing high-waisted rainbow shorts and oversized, non-prescription glasses riding a unicorn in space while smoking a cigarette. I wish someone would because I’ve never seen that before and I think it would be really funky/unique and cool if I did see it somewhere on my dash one day please. Also make her topless and her boobs average sized, and maybe put a triangle tattoo on her shoulder. KTHNXBYE

…

Dear Tumblr,

Anything of relevance would be nice. 

-Sarah 

Nothing feels better than writing a solid set of lyrics, and just knowing that they’re a solid set of lyrics. There’s my productivity for the day. 

I’m not sure why this took me so long to post…
So some of you will remember that I had recently visited lovely Summerland. During my stay there I was involved in a little poetry circle, and was assigned the task of conjuring a monologue from the perspective of a Medieval King’s advisor. Well:

Silas Hadassa is the cynical and self-depricating, sacrilegious right hand, and here is his monologue-esque thing. 

I have my god the moon.
They array me like Solomon, in rivers of maroon,
of glory.
Curious how, if washed in blessed fountain
or in innocent blood,
this coat still retains its stain—if not heightened by the latter.
What glory in a blood washed coat?
I feed on the fattest of the flock,
more tender flesh is not found,
but he is thick with the sins of the people.
He is beaten supple with their guilt.
He is banished Archibald, laden with their blame,
and flees to find refuge in the cookhouse—
forgiveness in the blade.

What savour in hypocrisy?

They put me to lie in beds of feather down,
plucked from the wings of fallen angels who will not miss them,
for they’ve long lost the desire to fly.
My pillow turns to rock beneath me,
red meat to sand in my mouth—I eventually to dust.

I am the bloody tailor,
I weave the heartstrings of the damned to false and folly silver linings.
I am the scapegoat’s savour,
dulling sky and deficit the consequence of poor forewarning. 
I am weight to hold wings not worthy,
the justice of felled celestial.

I am advisor to the king, I am the voice of the people;
I am draped in their blood, I engorge on their flesh,
I prevent them from flying—
what savour in hypocrisy?

My desire must be towards the King.
I become a pillow for the rock of a hand that pounds at its own foundation
the people—dry as desert sand—draw from the well of my madness,
drunk on the prospect of hope, the promise of God.
I have my god the moon.
They trust in chariots, they trust in horses,

I have my god the moon.

It is he who advises me relying not on hope,
relying not on goodness.
He knows not goodness, but emits it in tides;
there is no good, but for the prospect of good.
There is no hope, but for the idea of hope.
My god the moon knows not light, but radiates come shadow.
There is no light but a difference in the darkness.

I am the King’s advisor,
I tell him only his desire,
he tells the people theirs.
Theirs is the idea of hope.

They trust in chariots, they trust in horses,
They trust in tidings and tint cathedrals,

I have my god the moon.