it’s not even about figuring it out. It’s about being okay with not figuring it out…. and talking, and drinking coffee and crying a little bit, and music, and moments, and sensations in your gut, and yeah.
Michael Moore: Do you know that on the day of the Columbine massacre, the US dropped more bombs on Kosovo than any other day?
Marilyn Manson: I do know that, and I think that’s really ironic, that nobody said ‘Well maybe the President had an influence on this violent behavior’. Because that’s not the way the media wants to take it and spin it, and turn it into fear, because then you’re watching television, you’re watching the news, you’re being pumped full of fear, there’s floods, there’s AIDS, there’s murder, cut to commercial, buy the Acura, buy the Colgate, if you have bad breath they’re not going to talk to you, if you have pimples, the girl’s not going to fuck you, and it’s just this campaign of fear, and consumption, and that’s what I think it’s all based on, the whole idea of ‘keep everyone afraid, and they’ll consume.’
"Assume you have discovered an entropy of spirit, immeasurable of course, but it pulls graveward all those whose element is breath, not as the in and out again of water and the sun, but oblivion’s ass-first downhill twenty-four-hour drag. Knowledge is an after-the-fact affair, fair game for a hunger striker’s skeptic gopher tooth. Remember your “agenbite of inwit,” but don’t, please don’t, go knocking on doors declaring you’ve gone hollow with all the others, no one will believe you so long as your bag of flesh is fair. Fall down the stairs to another street. Have you noticed nature does not care for you, no matter the pathos of your fallacies, your antiperspirant, or you arms folded over the stretch marks of your hardest years? That’s you, cell mate, roping a Platonic calf. Rare air, this is all you’ll catch and never can. Live on that for a week and leave a message on your machine, “nourished by words alone.” Those fireworks you inherited, where are they now? Will you set them off to end the show? You have a story that simply cannot be sold, and no rewrite can change country or cast, so here you are in never-never land again. That figure off there in the mist is Nietzsche, stay clear, they say his breath is vile, he needs his space or so the professors say. Were you handed this out of an old script or are you improvising this to-do? Whatever you are, an actor or a human merely with all the other actors, or can you tell the difference without a script in hand, you talk about a text that is not there. Each morning your own short-form obituary appears on every page. An open mike will follow. But this is only in the babblesphere, don’t inhale those dialogues that bubble up. Weariness grows in direct proportion to answers that recede nightly as you snore. Did you audition for this part or did you win it in an all-night poker game? The difference is the same, none, today. Don’t give your chips to another to bet, that’s stacking the odds in your favor, sharing the blame. Avoid places where the lights are always on. Try finding a sunset through a simple gift of looking west. There can be too much light for your own good. Pace Pascal. Let someone close your eyes. Necessary, or so I’m told. That hand in front of your face, try it now."
“[But I know there are rules that cannot be broken.
Perhaps a name was changed.
A small mistake.] Perhaps
a woman I do not know
is facing the day with the heavy heart
that, by all rights, should have been mine.”—In November by Lisel Mueller (via the-final-sentence)
“He tells you he doesn’t want to hide anything from you. He wants to be closer to you than he’s ever been to anyone. In this spirit, he confesses the thoughts that shame him. You play the role of red cross volunteer, impervious and good-hearted, ladling out mush-until the night he tells you he has been fantasizing about other women. You know men do, you would assume that he does, but this truth said aloud, confession style, becomes your own lurid infection. He’s oblivious. He says, “It’s transference,” putting himself on the couch: He’s hating and loving you the way he did his mother. Fantasies are his way of escaping your power. When he says that transference is a universal truth, you say, “For you maybe.” You break up. Everywhere you go, you see women more beautiful than yourself. You imagine him being attracted to them. You’re drinking gasoline to stay warm. When he calls and tells you he misses you, you invite him over. He spends the night. In the morning, he asks where his razor is. You tell him you threw it away when you broke up. He says, “I framed your deodorant.”—Melissa Bank-The Girl’s Guide to Hunting and Fishing (via 81396)
Unmet at Euston in a dream Of London under Turner’s steam Misting the iron gantries, I Found myself running away From Scotland into the golden city.
I ran down Gray’s Inn Road and ran Till I was under a black bridge. This was me at nineteen Late at night arriving between The buildings of the City of London.
And the I (O I have fallen down) Fell in my dream beside the Bank Of England’s wall to be, me With my money belt of Northern ice. I found Eliot and he said yes
And sprang into a Holmes cab. Boswell passed me in the fog Going to visit Whistler who Was with John Donne who had just seen Paul Potts shouting on Soho Green. Midnight. I hear the moon Light chiming on St Paul’s.
The City is empty. Night Watchmen are drinking their tea,
The Fire had burnt out. The Plague’s pits had closed And gone into literature.
Between the big buildings I sat like a flea crouched In the stopped works of a watch.
I’m going to apply to every college I can think of.
Yes. I will do it. I might spend like $600 doing this but I don’t care. My parents are the ones always nagging me about this shit anyway. I’ll be like ISNT THIS WHAT YOU WANTED GUYS? YESSS, THIS IS EXACTLYYYYY WHAT YOU WANTED.
I really get annoyed of myself sometimes. I go through these phases where I act like I don’t want to be around anyone, so people give me my space. Then I realize how lonely I am and ask for people to come back. But they can’t just ‘come back’. They’ve already forgotten my name.
“[Dostoevsky] asserts the impossibility of solitude, the illusory nature of solitude. The very being of man (both external and internal) is the deepest communion. To be means to communicate. […] He depicts confession and the confessional consciousness of others in order to reveal their internally social structure, in order to show that they (confessions) are nothing other than an event of interaction among consciousnesses, in order to show the interdependence of consciousnesses that is revealed during confession. I cannot manage without another, I cannot become myself without another; I must find myself in another by finding another in myself (in mutual reflection and mutual acceptance).”—Mikhail Bakhtin, “Toward a Reworking of the Dostoevsky Book”
“I can remember at school how we would read together in class an Ode by Keats, a Shakespeare sonnet or a chapter of Animal Farm. I would tingle inside and want to sob, just at the words, at nothing more than the simple progression of sounds. But when it came to writing that thing called an Essay, I flubbed and floundered. I could never discover where to start. How do you find the distance and the cool to write in an academically approved style about something that makes you spin, wobble and weep?”—Making History, by Stephen Fry (via fuckyeahstephenfry)