Claude Monet’s Water Lilies in “Midnight in Paris”
In the heart of the mythical Elqui Valley in Pisco, surrounded by the Andes Mountains, 500km north of Santiago in central Chile, lies a magical place that allows for star-spangled dreams beneath the clear pure sky. Combining stargazing and specialized astronomic tours with night-time horseback riding, meditation and even tarot readings, Elqui Domos is a hotel quite like no other.
It was completed in 2005 to fulfil its owners’ desire to observe and enjoy the grandeur of the one of the world’s most star-filled skies. It is one of only seven astronomic hotels around the world and the only one in the Southern Hemisphere, offering breathtaking views of the magic skies draped over the Elqui Valley (the valley is renowned for its sharp, clear skies, as it happens to sit under one of the clearest atmospheres in the world). The lack of rain and pleasant weather all year round set the perfect conditions for astronomic tourism, where guests can gather to enjoy a unique chance to liaise with the stars.
Woah!!!! Hopefully no one was bothered to make that. If not holy shit, amazing. I hope I can see stars like that one day
‘Bourrasque’ light installation by Paul Cocksedge in Lyon
THIS IS THE HAPPIEST GOAT I HAVE EVER SEEN OMFG JUST LOOK AT ITS FACE
This is a word we use to plug
holes with. It’s the right size for those warm
blanks in speech, for those red heart-
shaped vacancies on the page that look nothing
like real hearts. Add lace
and you can sell
it. We insert it also in the one empty
space on the printed form
that comes with no instructions. There are whole
magazines with not much in them
but the word love, you can
rub it all over your body and you
can cook with it too. How do we know
it isn’t what goes on at the cool
debaucheries of slugs under damp
pieces of cardboard? As for the weed-
seedlings nosing their tough snouts up
among the lettuces, they shout it.
Love! Love! sing the soldiers, raising
their glittering knives in salute.
Then there’s the two
of us. This word
is far too short for us, it has only
four letters, too sparse
to fill those deep bare
vacuums between the stars
that press on us with their deafness.
It’s not love we don’t wish
to fall into, but that fear.
this word is not enough but it will
have to do. It’s a single
vowel in this metallic
silence, a mouth that says
O again and again in wonder
and pain, a breath, a finger
grip on a cliffside. You can
hold on or let go.
(aubade on a picture of spontaneous combustion)
When my lover returns
to his wife, his suburban apartment, the comfort
of a seasoned bed bearing
his beautiful weight
I say nothing.
I do not nod nor sigh nor breathe the light
starting to bleed into the room
the colour of saints
being martyred in portraits.
I walk the gallery of his absence, a tourist only
to this surfeit of space,
the erasure of lines
that is his gift to me.
It is enough, I think, to watch over the wide
territory of his need, to guard
the frontiers of desire
with my body and silence.
It is enough. And so I do not stir,
even when the flames bloom
from my unbrushed hair,
pursed eyelids. I disappear
into photographic retreat,
chemical shadow. So
when my lover returns
I am already the ash he wonders at
and brushes gently away
from the hood of his car.
Paradise in the fog @Sun-Moon Lake, Taiwan ～日月潭 鏡 雪世界 (von passer-by F.H. (新手上路中))
Ellen Bass, The Thing Is (via atramentum)