Joan Didion
Lisa Stone, Tell Me, Other Mothers of Sons
Emily Gould, What Are Women Fighting About?
Master Beethoven, by Howling Wolf (excerpt)
For a connoisseur of collapse,
life can only, really, be lived backwards.
The plate of grapes and cheese on the bed
points not to a precoital snack
but to an excess of zeal
in the props department.
There is one astonishing moment
when he approaches a mirror and rests his head against it.
The background is pure darkness
and the mirror has no frame.
He appears to be asking for succor
from his double. The ancient of days.
Griefs, at the moment they change into notes,
lose some of their power to injure the heart,
link his enforced physical separation from life
to his unique way of perceiving it,
as if infirmity alone makes us take notice and learn,
enables us, sleepwalkers, to keep one eye open.
At the climax, it is as if he were somersaulting
from groom to bride, from bride to groom
to recover quite that initial, spiraling intensity,
yielding a glimpse of icy, annihilating joy
beneath his feet.
It’s a mighty big bed for such a small world.
Euripides
Not Here, by Rumi
There is courage involved if you want
to become truth. There is a broken-
open place in a lover. Where are
those qualities of bravery and sharp
compassion in this group? What’s the
use of old and frozen thought? I want
a howling hurt. This is not a treasury
where gold is stored, this is for copper.
We alchemists look for talent that
can heat up and change. Lukewarm
won’t do. Halfhearted holding back,
well-enough getting by? Not here.
November 20, 2004
If she is the One and she is the world
then what am I
but the opportunity cost concubine
of some recycled verse and lullaby
breaking hearts with sunset eyes
in triangles
trains
tigers
and lies.
my absorption lines—
they are frayed
and I fear
my fear is greater than my faith.
Tori Amos
Steve Jobs
via minimalmac
- HE: Do you still scribble formulas when you're nervous?
- ME: No, only when I'm in love.
- HE: Have you quantified love?
- ME: I've come closer to the TOE.
- HE: [Shows her a familiar image.]
- ME: Euler.
- HE: Yes. You are capable of such incredible displays of love. Do you ever love in a quiet, simple way?
- ME: No
- HE: There is no hearth in you, just wildfires.
- ME: "Kissing you is opening a door into a flaming building."
- HE: Don't quote other men's words to me.
- ME: You're right. I'll stick to other men's equations.
- HE: Wildfires or permafrost, that's you.
- ME: Every day--and at least twice a day.
French photographer Lucien Clergue (b. 1934), has a vast repository of work which has spanned over 40 years. Some of his favorite motifs were Gods and Goddesses, gypsies, portraits of his good friends Picasso and Cocteau, and of course, the female nude.
This image, Sea Nude, Carmargue, 1958, is thought to be a depiction of the birth of Aphrodite, all full of sea foam and come.
via filthygorgeousthings
- ME: AH!
- NEIGHBOR: What's the matter?
- ME: AHHHH!
- HE: WHAT?!
- ME: LATRODECTUS HESPERUS!
- HE: ALOHOMORA! [Laughs]
- ME: [Jumps across hallway, pauses. Takes deep breath. Lifts her stiletto and shows squished black widow spider on the sole]
- HE: Oh... Do you always call things by their scientific names?
- ME: Only when I get really... emotional.
- HE: Sounds like fun sex.
- ME: Yeah, if you like being called a homo.
- ME: OMG. Your day-planner looks like a war zone.
- SHE: oh, that's not for work. That's notes on my lovers' attentions.
- ME: you log CALLS?
- SHE: dates, sex, DMs, e-mails, texts, letters, gifts, etc. They're numbered, see? That corresponds to the diary entry or transcript or summary or whatever in my files.
- ME: you're absolutely insane--in a really organized way.
- SHE: you should do it. It makes it so much easier.
- ME: honey. I can barely water my orchid much less date... how many?
- SHE: eight.
- ME: you're a freak.
- SHE: you're intrigued.
- ME: yeah, I log my expenses and income streams. This is...
- SHE: so much more fun? Yeah, I know.
