Ansel Adams, Rails and Jet Trails, Roseville, California, 1953. From melisaki.
“The alchemists, who in their own way know more about the nature of the individuation process than we moderns do, expressed this paradox through the symbol of the ouroboros, the snake that eats its own tail. In the age old image of the ouroboros lies the thought of devouring oneself and turning oneself into a circulatory process, for it was clear to the most astute alchemists that the prima materia of the art was man himself.
The ouroboros is a dramatic symbol for the integration and assimilation of the opposite, i.e. of the shadow self. This feed back process is at the same time a symbol of immortality, since it is said of the ouroboros that he slays himself and brings himself to life again, fertilizes himself and gives birth to himself. This is much like the cycle of the Phoenix, the feminine archetype.
Ouroboros symbolizes The One, who proceeds from the clash of opposites, and therefore constitutes the secret of the prima materia which unquestionably stems from man’s unconsciousness.”
—Carl Jung
From all these outstanding Tumblrs: yama-bato, uncertaintimes, aureliomadrid, lenkody, luminousinsect & heilige: ouroboros in an alchemical still
(via yama-bato)
Within us is the soul of the whole, the wise silence, the universal beauty, the eternal One.
Koson, 1910. Thanks to Old Paint
Barnett Newman: Covenant, 1949. (Smithsonian). Thank you, newamsterdamlemonade.
Helmar Lerski
Landscape of the Human Face, 1931-1935
Gelatin silver print (black & white)
9 3/8 x 11 3/4 inches
Thank you, yama-bato.
Robert Frank
Suitcase of Tulips, 1950
Gelatin silver print (black & white)
15 7/8 x 11 7/8 inches\
Thank you, yama-bato.
There it is; the light across the water. Your story. Mine. His. It has to be seen to be believed. And it has to be heard. In the endless babble of narrative, in spite of the daily noise, the story waits to be heard. Some people say that the best stories have no words. It is true that words drop away, and that the important things are often left unsaid. The important things are learned in faces, in gestures, not in our locked tongues. The true things are too big or too small, or in any case always the wrong size to fit in the template called language.
Jeanette Winterson. Today in the river.
You are a pool of clear water where the light plays.
Jeanette Winterson. Thank you, riskywiver.
The Moment
Oh, the coming-out-of-nowhere moment
when, nothing
happens
no what-have-I-to-do-today-list
maybe half a moment
the rush of traffic stops.
The whir of I should be, I should be, I should be
slows to silence,
the white cotton curtains hanging still.
Thank you, A la recherche du temps perdu
