White / peach: I wonder how much the Greek artists considered that sculpting marble is straight out of mythology. “Brought to life from stone.” Whenever I visit the Greek and Roman Art wing of the Met, I think of two words: devotion and endurance. And there’s something unsettling (yet god-awfully captivating) about it all.
Green / jasmine: when Charles Simic writes, “Every art is about the longing of One for the Other,” I think of Andrei Tarkovsky: “Art is born and takes hold wherever there is a timeless and insatiable longing for the spiritual, for the ideal: that longing which draws people to art.” The whole notion of art as an ideal seems relentlessly cruel, but perhaps, as artists, we are conditioned to see this ideal as an opportunity for truth and beauty.
Black / earl grey: “He was crazy, he was a dreamer, lovely and dark, / Like a chinaberry tree, a pond, a stump with a jar of lightning. / Lord, he had a way with him: His eyelids were like louvered shutters. / When he looked at your face, he looked at your face.” (The Lacuna). It’s good to be reunited with you, Frank.
Oolong / Dong Ding: It’s a late observation, but New York weather fits the personality of the city. Always shifting and moving. Always adapting. Always something to complain about, when it’s abysmal.
Pu’er / dragon pearl: In terms of dreams—most of these happen at the edge of the sea. Think Alessandro Baricco. Because at the end of the waves, where the shoreline hits land, you look outward, and there is too much possibility. I was fumbling through my short story drafts and there’s this one fragment, some midnight idea, typed in a word document: “sunrise. the boy stands with the ocean up to his knees. an empty rowboat floats toward him. he swims over and climbs inside—but then realizes something is off. the sky is the sea and the sea is the sky, and light coruscates through the water around him. he walks (or rather, drifts) through the air as his skin is pressed by a vague, familiar coldness. he breathes in.”