There are stars in the southern sky

Southward as you go

There is moonlight and moss in the trees

Down the Seven Bridges Road

 

I have loved you like a baby

like some lonesome child

I have loved you in a tame way

And I have loved you a while

 

Sometimes there’s a part of me

has to turn from here and go

Running like a child from these warm stars

Down the Seven Bridges Road

 

There are stars in the southern sky

and if ever you decide you should go

there is the taste of thyme sweet and honey

down the Seven Bridges Road

The Eagles

“Start now. Start where you are. Start with fear. Start with pain. Start with doubt. Start with hands shaking. Start with voice trembling but start. Start and don’t stop. Start where you are, with what you have. Just….start.

“I know I’m not myself with people, (…) But am I myself when alone? That seems unlikely, too.”

From Reborn: Journals & Notebooks (1947-1963)

“If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel’s heart beat, and we would die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence.”

“Art is a technique: a means by which to materialise the invisible realm of the mind.”

“….The profound yet delightful weirdness of being in a body..”  – ‘Vibrant Matter: A Political Ecology of Things’

“I am an artist…It’s self-evident that what that word implies is looking for something all the time without ever finding it in full. It is the opposite of saying, ‘I know all about it. I’ve already found it.’ As far as I’m concerned, the word means, ‘I am looking. I am hunting for it. I am deeply involved.'”

“I must see new things and investigate them. I want to taste dark water and see crackling trees and wild winds.”

“The whole world is, to me, very much ‘alive’ – all the little growing things, even the rocks. I can’t look at a swell bit of grass and earth, for instance, without feeling the essential life – the things going on – within them. The same goes for a mountain, or a bit of ocean, or a magnificent piece of old wood”

— Ansel Adams