to feel this vulnerable means I’m alive

Read the Printed Word!

~ Wednesday, June 19 ~
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“ Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I’m never not thinking of you.
— Virginia Woolf (via hellanne)

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(Source: efedra)


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~ Sunday, June 16 ~
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Visual-Poetry: bedenkt

visual-poetry:

bedenkt, dass jetzt um diese zeit, der mond die stadt erreicht.
für eine kleine ewigkeit sein milchgebiss uns zeigt.
bedenkt, dass hinter ihm ein himmel ist,
den man nicht definieren kann.
vielleicht kommt jetzt um diese zeit
ein mensch dort oben an.
und umgekehrt wird jetzt vielleicht
ein träumer…


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“ He is exactly
the poem
I wanted to write.
— Mary Oliver (via savvysmilinginlove)

(Source: hellanne)


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~ Saturday, June 15 ~
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“ What I would call living
is pure idiocy:
speak and be burned.
— Mary Ruefle, from “Alive and on Earth” in The Adamant (via proustitute)

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personal hero

personal hero


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lightlythrown: a whole new world #2 - Hideaki Hamada

lightlythrown:

a whole new world #2 - Hideaki Hamada


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~ Friday, June 14 ~
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“ The writer’s only responsibility is to his art. He will be completely ruthless if he is a good one… If a writer has to rob his mother, he will not hesitate; the Ode on a Grecian Urn is worth any number of old ladies.
— William Faulkner (via writingquotes)

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~ Thursday, June 13 ~
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sirvam-se: MY HEART IS A HOTEL (Picture: Homopatik Berlin) one of my favorite places

sirvam-se:

MY HEART IS A HOTEL (Picture: Homopatik Berlin)

one of my favorite places


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theparisreview: Why do they lie downwhen I shoot them?Such open,willing obedienceseems to come from an inclinationto serve. I wishI could controlmyself better,but I am not grown yet, and the mysteryof death meansnothing to me.Perhaps it is betterto be feared than loved. —Henri Cole, from “Self-Portrait with Rifle”Photography Credit rAndom International

theparisreview:

Why do they lie down
when I shoot them?
Such open,
willing obedience
seems to come

from an inclination
to serve. I wish
I could control
myself better,
but I am not grown yet,

and the mystery
of death means
nothing to me.
Perhaps it is better
to be feared than loved.

—Henri Cole, from “Self-Portrait with Rifle”
Photography Credit rAndom International


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“ I got all hung up on Cezanne around 1949 in my last year at Columbia, studying with Meyer Shapiro. I don’t know how it led into it- I think it was the same time that I was having these Blake visions. So. The thing I understood from Blake was that it was possible to transmit a message through time which could reach the enlightened, that poetry had a definite effect, it wasn’t just pretty, or just beautiful as I had understood pretty beauty before-it was something basic to human existence, or it reached something, it reached the bottom of human existence.
—

Allen Ginsberg Interview

Paris Review Spring 1996 

(via grolierpoetry)


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~ Wednesday, June 12 ~
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“ That’s what the world is, after all: an endless battle of contrasting memories.
— Haruki Murakami (1Q84)

(Source: theselittlewondersstillremain)


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~ Tuesday, June 11 ~
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“ A person’s life purpose is nothing more than to rediscover, through the detours of art, or love, or passionate work, those one or two images in the presence of which his heart first opened.
— Albert Camus (via artemisdreaming)

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“ The really important kind of freedom involves attention and awareness and discipline, and being able truly to care about other people and to sacrifice for them over and over in myriad petty, unsexy ways every day. That is real freedom. That is being educated, and understanding how to think. The alternative is unconsciousness, the default setting, the rat race, the constant gnawing sense of having had, and lost, some infinite thing.
— David Foster Wallace, This is water (via pavorst)

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theparisreview: I am trying to imagine that I am someone else,a grocer, an aerialist,a young viola player who travelsaround the country in a bus full of musicians, but difficulty lurks at every turn.I am not really sure what a viola looks like,plus, I have become so used to being methat I have become an assistant professor of myself. By the time I have learned to playthe viola, even badly,I would be close to death at best.And I am so happy when I can stay home and pass the time in a leather armchair,volumes of Diderot on the shelf above me,some jazz low on the radio,slow waves of memory washing over me and desire passing through melike the tiny amount of electricitythat flows through the night-light in a bathroom.So maybe the way to overcome the ego is to start small, to imagine that I am still meonly I was born in Columbus, Ohio,and I go to the gym three times a week.Or, better still, I do not go to the gym at all— it is up to me after all.Maybe I stay home and listen to the newswith an uncooperative look on my face,a smoker who likes to look out the front window as I do, or to sit in a leather chairunder a long shelf of French literature,a fellow who gets tearfulwhenever the wind stirs up the leaves, who gets tearful thinking about his parentsburied under tall drifts of snowin a large municipal cemeterysomewhere on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio. —Billy Collins, “One Self”Photography Credit Joyce Kim (via)

theparisreview:

I am trying to imagine that I am someone else,
a grocer, an aerialist,
a young viola player who travels
around the country in a bus full of musicians,

but difficulty lurks at every turn.
I am not really sure what a viola looks like,
plus, I have become so used to being me
that I have become an assistant professor of myself.

By the time I have learned to play
the viola, even badly,
I would be close to death at best.
And I am so happy when I can stay home

and pass the time in a leather armchair,
volumes of Diderot on the shelf above me,
some jazz low on the radio,
slow waves of memory washing over me

and desire passing through me
like the tiny amount of electricity
that flows through the night-light in a bathroom.
So maybe the way to overcome the ego

is to start small, to imagine that I am still me
only I was born in Columbus, Ohio,
and I go to the gym three times a week.
Or, better still, I do not go to the gym at all—

it is up to me after all.
Maybe I stay home and listen to the news
with an uncooperative look on my face,
a smoker who likes to look out the front window

as I do, or to sit in a leather chair
under a long shelf of French literature,
a fellow who gets tearful
whenever the wind stirs up the leaves,

who gets tearful thinking about his parents
buried under tall drifts of snow
in a large municipal cemetery
somewhere on the outskirts of Columbus, Ohio.

—Billy Collins, “One Self”
Photography Credit Joyce Kim (via)


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