December 2011
“Science —
beyond pheromones, hormones, aesthetics of bone,
every time I make...”
– Katherine Larson, from “Love at Thirty-Two Degrees” (adapted from clavicola)
Also how things work out, always. Always. Deserved or not, it doesn’t matter at all. There’s a vase, a bed, a hidden crumb somewhere between the covers. It’s enough.
Oedipus - Regina Spektor
Being somewhere, leaving somewhere. Such madness and I still do not know whether it was fair. I am glad I did not tell you, voice on the phone. “Whatever” being the very worst thing in the history of two people. Such frustration - we’ll be alright. We always are. The words I carry around my neck put upon your fingertips. And throughout all Eternity I forgive you, you forgive me.
“Books don’t offer real escape, but they can stop a mind scratching itself raw.”
– David Mitchell (via pavorst)
goosebumpsfitsandmalaria:
I realize there’s something incredibly honest about trees in winter, how they’re experts at letting things go.
“I will remember your small room, the feel of you, the light in the window, your...”
– Charles Bukowski (via ontelbaar)
winterlief:
Scarborough Fair/Canticle by Simon...
“there are worse things
than being alone
but it often takes
decades to realize...”
– Charles Bukowski (via ontelbaar)
7 tags
In de kamer van de appels, de verlegen appels de rode en de gele appels lag in een wit en rimpelig bed: mijn moeder, die Anna Karenina las en in gedachten verzonken een appel at en door een muur verdween, geruisloos door een witte muur verdween naar appelboomgaarden, naar appelplukkers en appelrapers met appelmanden en appelkarren, naar appelschuiten met appelruimen, naar appelhavens en...
Things seem so far away at times. The very first time that sentence was finished for me by you, I felt so grateful - look where I am now. And it is the best thing, perhaps. Those words whispered in the dark (you do it so well), I carry them around, cannot part from them. Of course of course, always the nerves, the frustration, the anger, they will not ever leave me, I suppose. Not being shouted at...
Van Gogh writing his brother for paints Hemingway testing his shotgun Celine going broke as a doctor of medicine the impossibility of being human Villon expelled from Paris for being a thief Faulkner drunk in the gutters of his town the impossibility of being human Burroughs killing his wife with a gun Mailer stabbing his the impossibility of being human Maupassant going mad in a rowboat...
“Most of us, I suppose, have a secret country but for most of us it is only an...”
– C.S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader (via somberlily)
“I want to do a piece where I go to the Alps and talk to a mountain. The mountain...”
– Bas Jan Ader (via bouqetofparentheses)