Some people underestimate how erotic it is to be understood.
—Mary Rakow (via commovente)
(via writingsforwinter)
the best often die by their own hand
just to get away,
and those left behind
can never quite understand
why anybody
would ever want to
get away
from
them
—Charles Bukowski, “Cause and Effect” (via hellanne)
(via dammit-hannah)
Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I’m never not thinking of you.
—Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters (via amantissima)
(Source: violentwavesofemotion, via ardent-bastard)
M Ward ‘Chinese Translation’ (by 4ADRecords)
And I said
What do you do with the pieces of a broken heart
and how can a man like me remain in the light
and if life is really as short as they say
then why is the night so long
and then the sun went down
and he played for me this song
Angry, and half in love with you, and tremendously sorry, I turned away.
—F. Scott Fitzgerald (via loveyourchaos)
(Source: 13neighbors, via ardent-bastard)
Bill Murray on Gilda Radner:
“Gilda got married and went away. None of us saw her anymore. There was one good thing: Laraine had a party one night, a great party at her house. And I ended up being the disk jockey. She just had forty-fives, and not that many, so you really had to work the music end of it. There was a collection of like the funniest people in the world at this party. Somehow Sam Kinison sticks in my brain. The whole Monty Python group was there, most of us from the show, a lot of other funny people, and Gilda. Gilda showed up and she’d already had cancer and gone into remission and then had it again, I guess. Anyway she was slim. We hadn’t seen her in a long time. And she started doing, “I’ve got to go,” and she was just going to leave, and I was like, “Going to leave?” It felt like she was going to really leave forever.
So we started carrying her around, in a way that we could only do with her. We carried her up and down the stairs, around the house, repeatedly, for a long time, until I was exhausted. Then Danny did it for a while. Then I did it again. We just kept carrying her; we did it in teams. We kept carrying her around, but like upside down, every which way—over your shoulder and under your arm, carrying her like luggage. And that went on for more than an hour—maybe an hour and a half—just carrying her around and saying, “She’s leaving! This could be it! Now come on, this could be the last time we see her. Gilda’s leaving, and remember that she was very sick—hello?”
We worked all aspects of it, but it started with just, “She’s leaving, I don’t know if you’ve said good-bye to her.” And we said good-bye to the same people ten, twenty times, you know.
And because these people were really funny, every person we’d drag her up to would just do like five minutes on her, with Gilda upside down in this sort of tortured position, which she absolutely loved. She was laughing so hard we could have lost her right then and there.
It was just one of the best parties I’ve ever been to in my life. I’ll always remember it. It was the last time I saw her.”- from Live from New York: an Uncensored History of Saturday Night Live
(via thetinhouse)
The Field
Field is pause field is plot field is red chigger bump where
the larvae feed corn wig curled in your ear. Field cares not
a fig for your resistance though kindly gently lay your
head down girl lay it down. When ready storm when
summer kilned smoothly as a cake. Awake! Awake and
wide is field. And viral. Biotic. Field of patience of percolation
and policy. Your human energy. Come again? What for? In
field there is no time at all no use a relief the effort done
which is thank you finally the very lack of you. Lay your
head down girl lay it down. In field which has waited since
you first ascended to the raw end of your squared off world and
gazed upon your subjects: congery of rat snake corn snake
of all the low ribbons bandaging the stalks. Progress in field
foot sliding in matter slick chaff in fall. And always field’s oboe
this sawing a wind that is drawing its nocturne through the 23rd
mansion of the moon. Field is Requiel’s music and the Wild Hunt
of offer. In field they are waiting you are sounding. Go home.
by Erin Belieu
(I think it would be good to spend an entire day reading poems about fields. Or, to just go be in a field and absorb that life.)
Woody Allen on Plath (from Annie Hall, I believe)
(Source: the-influence, via ardent-bastard)
Not
that you are unloved
but that you love
and must decide which
to remember; tracks left
in the field, a language
of going away or coming back—
and to look up
from the single mind,
to let untangle
the far-off snow
from sky
until no longer
held as proof
is also where birds
find agreement
strung along branches
each with their own song
for the other,
every note used
to sing anyway—
how to hold the already
as the not yet
by Sophie Cabot Black
