Tag : Prose

travel for bloomfelt.com

11 March 2016, good memories

Creativity is sacred and not sacred.

What we make matters enormously,
and does not matter at all.
We toil alone,and we are accompanied by Spirits
We are terrified and we are brave.
Art is a crushing chore and a wonderful privilege
Only when we are most playful can divinity finally get serious with us.
Make space for all these paradoxes to be equally true inside your soul,
and I promise you can make anything.
So please calm down and get back to work.
The treasures that are hidden inside you are hoping you will say: YES
Elizabeth Gilbert
Big Magic

on site of bloomfelt.com

25 October ,2015 back home in Quebec

William Blake,being a sort of victim of the Industrial Revolution …..was a great poet,a great songwriter an activist,a philosopher a visionary.He have us beautiful books,paintings,ideology- and yet William Blake in his life was never appreciated.He had no real succes.He was often ridiculed .He died poverty-stricken,but he also died full of joy.He never let go the language of enthusiasm .So I try to remember now when I feel sorry for myself to give a little thought of William Blake.

Patti Smith,
M Train 

travel for bloomfelt.com

15 October 2015,Terra Nova,Gros Morne


We live between the act of awakening and the act of surrender. Each morning we awaken to the light and the invitation to a new day in the world of time; each night we surrender to the dark to be taken to play in the world of dreams where time is no more. At birth we were awakened and emerged to become visible in the world. At death we will surrender again to the dark to become invisible. Awakening and surrender: they frame each day and each life; between them the journey where anything can happen, the beauty and the frailty
John O’Donohue

at the site of studio bloomfelt.com

31 august,2015

The earth was warm under me, and warm as I crumbled it through my fingers. Queer little red bugs came out and moved in slow squadrons around me. Their backs were polished vermilion, with black spots. I kept as still as I could. Nothing happened. I did not expect anything to happen. I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins, and I did not want to be anything more. I was entirely happy. Perhaps we feel like that when we die and become a part of something entire, whether it is sun and air, or goodness and knowledge. At any rate, that is happiness; to be dissolved into something complete and great. When it comes to one, it comes as naturally as sleep.
Willa Cather

felted sculpture by Marjolein Dallinga for bloomfelt.com



Long after the firefly had gone its trail of light kept moving across my cornea.
Its faint flicker kept dancing through the darkness of my closed eyes like a lost soul.
I raised my hand to touch the dark. But my fingers felt nothing. The little light stayed
its course just out of reach

translation from Dutch by Luc Matter from the novel” Norwegian woods”