Jan31 2013 quote

When you are in the middle of a story it isn’t a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It’s only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.
Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace (Opening quote from Stories We Tell, which you must go see right away)

Jan14 2013 text

"Leaving is not enough. You must stay gone. Train your heart like a dog. Change the locks even on the house he’s never visited. You lucky, lucky girl. You have an apartment just your size. A bathtub full of tea. A heart the size of Arizona, but not nearly so arid. Don’t wish away your cracked past, your crooked toes, your problems are papier mache puppets you made or bought because the vendor at the market was so compelling you just had to have them. You had to have him. And you did. And now you pull down the bridge between your houses, you make him call before he visits, you take a lover for granted, you take a lover who looks at you like maybe you are magic. Make the first bottle you consume in this place a relic. Place it on whatever altar you fashion with a knife and five cranberries. Don’t lose too much weight. Stupid girls are always trying to disappear as revenge. And you are not stupid. You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street."

- “Frida Kahlo to Marty McConnell”, by Marty McConnell (via notarobotbutaghost)

(Source: saturdaynightveins)

Jul3 2012 quote

El hombre maldito critica nuestra ropa, nuestro cuerpo, nuestras lágrimas y opiniones, quiere una madre numinosa para sus hijos mas no la mujer concreta que tiene la entraña valiente para parirlos.

Apr10 2012 quote

There are two ways to reach me: by way of kisses or by way of the imagination. But there is a hierarchy: the kisses alone don’t work.
Anaïs Nin, Henry and June

Feb10 2012 image

"There is something when you’re writing in seclusion, and then you make a record and then it goes out there, and you don’t actually see how people react, except at shows, so you play enough shows and you start to see how people… they own the songs for themselves.

It’s pretty amazing. It feels a little bit… it feels like anything, it leaves your hands and it changes into something else as it enters someone else’s. It’s a really, really strange, blind relationship between putting out music and taking in music. I mean I don’t kid myself when I hear Gillian Welch’s new album and I’m listening to the songs. It’s a strange blind gift she’s giving me because she has no idea what it’s going to mean to me or how I’m going to react. It’s really coming from a very central place in her, to a very central place in me. It will never be spoken about, it’s really an anonymous gift.”

-Leslie Feist in this wonderful interview

Nov11 2011 quote

Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers—A king might envy us, and if we part them it’s more like sacrilege than anything I know.
E.M. Forster, A Room With A View

Jul29 2011 text

"In the kitchen Maria washed the dishes, conscious of one less dish to put away, one less cup. When she returned them to the pantry, Bandini’s heavy battered cup, larger and clumsier than the others, seemed to convey an injured pride that it had remained unused throughout the meal. In the drawer where she kept the cutlery Bandini’s knife, his favorite, the sharpest and most vicious table knife in the set, glistened in the light.

The house lost its identity now. A loose shingle whispered caustically to the wind; the electric light wires rubbed the gabled back porch, sneering. The world of inanimate things found voice, conversed with the old house, and the house chattered with cronish delight of the discontent within its walls. The boards under her feet squealed their miserable pleasure.

Bandini would not be home tonight.”

-John Fante, Wait Until Spring, Bandini

Oct7 2010 quote

When you feel a lot it’s so scary you want to smash up. If you are a man, it is easier to smash something on the outside than it is to feel what’s happening inside. Women know it’s inside, and so that’s what they smash. They smash themselves.
The Agony Of Intimacy, Jeanette Winterson

Oct4 2010 text

A Refined Hedoism

"I remember a cool river beach and a May night full of rain held in far clouds, moonly sparks saying on the water and the close, dank, heavy wetness of green vegetation. The water was cold to my bare feet, and the mud oozed up between my toes. He ran on the sand, and I ran after him, my hair long and damp, blowing free across my mouth. I could feel the inevitable magnetic polar forces in us, and the tidal blood beat loud, loud, roaring in my ears, slowing and rhythmic. He paused then, I behind him, arms locked around the powerful ribs, fingers caressing him. To lie, with him, to lie with him, burning forgetful in the delicious animal fire. Locked first upright, thighs ground together, shuddering mouth to mouth, breast to breast, legs enmeshed, then lying full length, with the good heavy weight of body upon body, arching, undulating, blind, growing together, force fighting force: To kill? To drive into burning dark of oblivion? To lose identity? Not love, this, quite. But something else rather. A refined hedonism. Hedonism because of the blind sucking mouthing fingering quest for physical gratification. Refined because of the desire to stimulate another in return, not being quite only concerned for self alone, but mostly so. An easy end to arguments on the mouth: a warm meeting of mouths, tongues quivering, licking, tasting. An easy substitute for bad slashing with angry hating teeth and nails and voice: the curious musical tempo of hands lifting under breasts, caressing throat, shoulders, knees, thighs. And giving up to the corrosive black whirlpool of mutual necessary destruction. Once there is the first kiss, then the cycle becomes inevitable. Training, conditioning makes a hunger burn in breasts and secrete fluid in vagina, driving madly for destruction. What is it but destruction? Some mystic desire to beat to sensual annihilation — to snuff out one’s identity on the identity of the other — a mingling and mangling of identities? A death of one? Or both? A devouring and subordination? No, no. A polarization rather — a balance of two integrities, charging, electrically, one with the other, yet with centers of coolness, like stars." (Northampton, Massachusetts, early 1950s)

- Sylvia Plath

Feb10 2010 quote

It’s nice when you decide you like someone and without declaring yourself do what’s possible to further his happiness.
This can take the form of gifts, lovely food, publicity or advance warning.
Jenny Holzer, Living.

Nov14 2009 quote

Leslie told me a story about a day, a day or two, moments which rolled into an unplanned loopy adventure, loopy like rolling tape. Every minute earned its own portrait, a fantastic memory, and I can only think that time must have felt a bit slower, if time were even a thing at all.

Tyler Clark Burke (I think).

Funny these should come in today.
(y sí, a ella también le pasa.)

via

Jul14 2009 quote

To understand Broken Social Scene, you have to understand that if you’re only listening to four albums, you’re only in up to your ankles. The sum is still greater than its parts, but the parts are still better than most else.
Café Eclectica Music: Broken Social Scene: an attempt at putting musicianship in the context of music, as we know it aka Broken Social Scene for Dummies (via verderadiante)

May8 2009 text

Zebra question

I asked the zebra,
Are you black with white stripes?
Or white with black stripes?
And the zebra asked me,
Are you good with bad habits?
Or are you bad with good habits?
Are you noisy with quiet times?
Or are you quiet with noisy times?
Are you happy with some sad days?
Or are you sad with some happy days?
Are you neat with some sloppy ways?
Or are you sloppy with some neat ways?
And on and on and on and on
And on and on he went.
I’ll never ask a zebra
About stripes
Again.

- Shel Silvertein

Apr23 2009 text

"The postmodern reply to the modern consists of recognizing that the past, since it cannot really be destroyed, because its destruction leads to silence, must be revisited: but with irony, not innocently. I think of the postmodern attitude as that of a man who loves a very cultivated woman and knows that he cannot say to her I love you madly , because he knows that she knows (and that she knows he knows) that these words have already been written by Barbara Cartland. Still, there is a solution. He can say As Barbara Cartland would put it, I love you madly . At this point, having avoided false innocence, having said clearly that it is no longer possible to speak innocently, he will nevertheless have said what he wanted to say to the woman: that he loves her in an age of lost innocence. If the woman goes along with this, she will have received a declaration of love all the same. Neither of the two speakers will feel innocent, both will have accepted the challenge of the past, of the already said, which cannot be eliminated; both will consciously and with pleasure play the game of irony But both will have succeeded, once again, in speaking of love." - Umberto Eco

via painted colors from a cowboy cliché