Before and after. Sometimes I still cannot believe that was...
Before and after. Sometimes I still cannot believe that was me!!! I used to hate having pictures of me but now I'm so glad I did just so I can look back at myself!
zjoot: (hey look how cool this is! go check out...
(hey look how cool this is! go check out caesura-poetry)
Breakfast time!!
Breakfast time!!
i-like-ramyun: #city #chicago #architecture #instagood #lensblr...
#city #chicago #architecture #instagood #lensblr #photographersontumblr
On my morning walk to the lake passing northwestern law school.
Just came back from a laaaate dinner. Believe it or not,...
Just came back from a laaaate dinner. Believe it or not, it's still North Face weather here in Chicago! Night all!!
the heart is.
I wrote something after you left.
The heart is…
I could't finish it.
There is a catalogue of sum totals scattered like loose scrabble tiles inside my head. Perhaps if I could piece them together to form one large word, some approximation could be derived, such that I could advise you what the heart is.
The heart is…
An apple. Like the one I sank into when my mother took me to the apple orchards in Indiana. I was seven. My tongue curled around honeycrisp, as the world around me settled into a golden hush that I can only recall in autumn.
A name. 큰형, or *kkeun-hyung, was what my mother always called my dad. I thought it was his name until I was 13, when it occurred to me that, translated, it means "Big big brother." It occurs to me 21 years later that at some point, my mother must have loved my father enough to come up with this name.
A departure. Trains leaving the depot in a gust of reluctant smoke. Goodbyes scrawled into notes or texted with eyes not turning back but trained onto a tiny LCD attempting to capture the sound of footsteps walking towards the rain. We are at once indelibly marked by the ones we allow into our bodies, and then, spending the rest of our lives trying to erase the stains of ownership.
A silence. The pounding that fills your ears after you've spilled yourself, like a glass of milk, across a sheet of music, the tender terrain of a man's jaw, a book you read out loud at night when the sirens remind you that life is slipping between your fingers.
The same fingers you pressed between your lips that morning.
Before you left.
fuckyeahdogs: (via Twitter / CuteEmergency: It's been a long...
omg.
gibson grand: Thoughts on the TWC
gibson grand: Thoughts on the TWC:Over the years, I've seen a lot of complaining on tumblr about popularity and features. This morning, this post came across my dash, which while griping about the editors and the "feature" process, also singled out my blog with a number of specific complaints—mainly the fact that I often reblog…
Too polite, by 200%, but very measured and persuasive.
I have absolutely zero desire to work today. Zero. Is it that...
I have absolutely zero desire to work today. Zero.
Is it that obvious?
Sometimes the warble contains the things encased in one-on-one meetings to discuss partnership...
Sometimes
the warble
contains
the things
encased
in one-on-one
meetings
to discuss
partnership prospects
and real
estate soured
by capital
intercourse.
*
We
laughed
at sunset,
once.
Secret.
back-room conversations
were had vis-a-vis,
the coffee machine
lounging in the 27th floor pantry
about to erupt into revolutionary
discomfort, emotional dissonance
over nascent divorce
and the unwinding grandfather
clock that tickles the lean
of Hugo Boss right around
5:15 p.m., when 52 weeks
are shuffled and dealt
a blow, a fine dose of euthanasia
consistent with the nap
of aloof insurance claims, didactic
only insofar as collisions
occur on the way to Sunday Mass.
#lit
I bought four books of poems today. It is so fun coming home to brown paper packages filled with books.
Three of the books are solid, full of round loveliness and cutting breaks.
The last book, however, is filled with stuff that made me want to tear the pages out and draw mustaches on them.
One of these things is not like the other ones, but it was okay, because it made me feel like I can do things better, I can write things better, and even if I don’t ever get a book deal or live off royalties, it’ll still be okay, because I know things that this poor, shaven little book never will.
…from The Lack Of, by Joseph Massey.
…from The Lack Of, by Joseph Massey.
"I'm tired of the current fad for short stories which clack along like a sewing machine dispensing..."
"I'm tired of the current fad for short stories which clack along like a sewing machine dispensing pertinent information in stitches and stopping only when the garment is finished…. I want to move toward a complexity which makes life within the work and which does not resemble life as most people seem to think it is lived."-
Frank O'Hara (via uutpoetry)
1. where did Frank say this
2. Frank is perfect, this is kind of marvelous
(via adornoble)
Tumblr Crushing. 1. thelandlockedmariner2. wentdog3....
Tumblr Crushing.
1. thelandlockedmariner
2. wentdog
3. darksilenceinsuburbia
4. lovecraftsgreatestfan
5. caseyresci
6. lensblr
7. danbrady
8. praelibar
9. charleyfoster
pavorst: The only way you destroy a polaroid is to burn it. The image fades in from black to...
The only way you destroy a polaroid is to burn it. The image fades in from black to colour. The fire unwinds every atom of what the picture used to be. How do you know when something is real? Do you keep it somewhere so that you can look back at it? I wake up in the morning and the sun is already waiting. I don't really know how my fingers pull my curtains back or what it is I expect to see outside. When someone hums a piece of music, I listen and drum my fingers to it. I fold up the sheetmusic and put it into my pockets. The world outside doesn't stop happening because you close your eyes. It isn't really gone. But why then do we close our eyes each night and give ourselves to an altered state of consciousness? When we dream, our ears are awake. Our instincts are sharp. We've learned to be watchful of the dark, and our feet guide us towards places where our eyes can pick up familiar shapes. Within five minutes of being born, infants are searching for faces. I'd like to think that in our dreams, we are simply moving through the echoes of other people's lives. Kind of like an eddy, an aftermath. We're walking through the jetstream that is left behind after someone lives for a moment. I close my eyes and my feet stay still but when I jump from the Empire State building, my body shocks itself into waking. The falling is real. The memory is real. It only goes away when I burn it.
There are some things that are too good for the interwebs. But….reblogging because it’s here.
darksilenceinsuburbia: http://www.ricardogonzalezgarcia.com
YAP!
Holy Crap Guys!! I just found out that one of the of the Lensblr staff members picked my last avatar to be submitted for its website and that another one of my photos is already queued to be posted in the near term!! I took my avi while fooling around with my webcam before I even had a camera or knew a thing about photography!!
I’m still such a n00b at this photography stuff and I get so excited when anyone other than me thinks any of them are good.
a fetish.
One of my closest friends has confessed to me that he continues to have fantasies about having sex without condoms. The drawback to having sex so often and with so many is, ironically, the barrier he must employ in order to protect himself. He is anxious, though, to meet someone for whom he can become wholly immersed.
These days, I have grown obsessed with talking in the dark; watching ghosts filter through the window blinds like reflexive inhibition and the steely scent of fear. My arm will be splayed out over my head and my legs will be restless, as conversation covers such absolutely crucial topics as the importance of milk and the role of fried chicken in my life. Blue-grey and dusted bars I can almost touch when the moon gazes into us and cuts us open like a pair of wild chilis waiting to be so split, so that we can burn each other with the stories of our mothers and the truth of man’s best friend—the way my Billy looked when he couldn’t know how quietly the other side of life approached. Lips up my cold arms only to complement a soul that is shaking loose a collection of bitter rain, and you could read me a poem or two with owlish eyes and a taste for the pieces of me that remain unplumbed.
I walked past you today; you were stopped at Superior and Wabash, waiting for the black benz to cross before you did; you were picking up the mail out of your little cubbyhole on the ground floor; you were jogging along LSD with your phone strapped to one arm; you were ordering a sandwich from the deli, along with a small bag of lemon cookies; you were scrawling the description of your window sill, overlooking the harbor pregnant with dreams—never knowing how close darkness came.
Seeing this makes a lot of other things worth it.
Seeing this makes a lot of other things worth it.
No comments:
Post a Comment