“I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back anymore - the feeling that I could last forever, outlast the sea, the Earth, and all men - the deceitful feeling that lures us onto joys, to perils, to love, to vain effort - to death; the triumphant conviction of strength, the heat of life in the handful of dust, the glow in the heart that with every year grows dim, grows cold, grows small, and expires - and expires, too soon, too soon - before life itself.”—Joseph Conrad
I’m not proud of myself. Or the things I’ve done. But I’m not looking to redeem myself. I don’t exactly know the word for it. But a way to rise from the ashes, without really recognizing that they are ashes. A way to simple move forward so to speak. I don’t want to have to explain myself, and then say “But now I’m doing this and this and this so now I’m actually a worthy person.” No, I’ve always been a worthy person. But I realize that many times along the way, I might have been deceived into thinking that I wasn’t. So no, redemption is not what I’m after. Just continuation, with a little bit more faith in myself.
And even though nothing’s really going my way, I’m still alright.
I’m humbled by the idea that there’s a tomorrow, and the people who really do care for me won’t ever stop caring.
I guess you could say I’ve grown the fuck up a little bit. And learned how to find happiness in the most unhappiest of times.
“Because it is neither easy nor difficult,
because the outer dark is not passport
nor is the inner dark, the horror
held in memory as talisman. Not to go in
stupidly holding out dark as some
wrong promise of fidelity, but to go in
as one can, empty or worshipping.
White, as a proposition. Not leprous
by easy association nor painfully radiant.
Or maybe that, yes, maybe painfully.
To go into that. As: I am walking in the city
and there is the whiteness of the houses,
little cubes of it bleaching in the sunlight,
luminous with attritions of light, the failure
of matter in the steadiness of light,
a purification, not burning away,
nothing so violent, something clearer
that stings and stings and is then
past pain or this slow levitation of joy.
And to emerge, where the juniper
is simply juniper and there is the smell
of new shingle, a power saw outside
and inside a woman in the bath,
a scent of lemon and a drift of song,
a heartfelt imitation of Bessie Smith.
The given, as in given up
or given out, as in testimony.”—Robert Hass, “Transparent Garments” (Praise, Ecco, 1974)
“Here’s what I learned: If you want to do photography at a level that really satisfies your soul and your ego you’ll need to do it alone. Forget having the spouse or girlfriend or best friend or camera buddy tagging along. Forget the whole sorry concept of the “photo walk” which does nothing but engender homogenization and “group think.” Leave all electronics in your hotel room. Cut off all communications, during the day, from or to the “real world” and immerse yourself in the hunt for images. Learn what makes your brain salivate and why. Learn to operate that camera by braille. And make your decisions based on what your inner curator wants you to say.”—The Visual Science Lab / Kirk Tuck: Lonely hunter. Better hunt. (via bandh)
“Yes, Anais, I was thinking how I could betray you, but I can’t. I want you. I want to undress you, vulgarize you a bit—ah, I don’t know what I am saying. I am a little drunk because you are not here. I would like to clap my hands and, voila—Anais! I want to own you, use you. I want to fuck you, I want to teach you things.”—Henry Miller to Anais Nin (via hangama)
“In my ache for action I look inward. I sell eighteen of my ova to an anonymous Midwesterner. I walk home alone at night, bare-thighed, and hope something will happen. For years I find that I can only communicate the fact of the place with absurd anecdotes: Let me tell you about the ghost stories.”—Kerry Howley, “Pretty Citadel” (The Paris Review No. 198, Fall 2011)