theparisreview:

But time spent reading is never time wasted. Nor, for that matter, is time spent sitting by oneself, writing about a party you will never have.”

Sadie Stein on dinner-party surveys as conversation starters

(via itualac)

Returning Birds

This spring the birds came back again too early.
Rejoice, O reason: instinct can err, too.
It gathers wool, it dozes off—and down they fall
into the snow, into a foolish fate, a death
that doesn’t suit their well-wrought throats and splendid claws,
their honest cartilage and conscientious webbing,
the heart’s sensible sluice, the entrails’ maze,
the nave or ribs, the vertebrae in stunning enfilades,
feathers deserving their own wing in any crafts museum,
the Benedictine patience of the beak.

This is not a dirge—no, it’s only indignation.
An angel made of earthbound protein,
a living kite with glands straight from the Song of Songs,
singular in air, without number in hand,
in tissues tide into a common knot
of place and time, as in an Aristotelian drama
unfolding to the wings’ applause,
falls down and lies beside a stone,
which in its own archaic, simpleminded way
sees life as a chain of failed attempts.

Wislawa Szymborska

"The rainbow is a pure childlike image… Colorfulness does not stimulate the animal senses because the child’s uncorrupted imaginative activity springs from the soul. But because children see with pure eyes, without allowing themselves to be emotionally disconcerted, it is something spiritual: the rainbow refers not to a chaste abstraction but to a life in art. The order of art is paradisiacal because there is no thought of the dissolution of boundaries – from excitement – in the object of experience. Instead the world is full of color in a state of identity, innocence, and harmony. Children are not ashamed, since they do not reflect but only see."

— "A Child’s View of Color", Walter Benjamin, in Walter Benjamin: Selected Writings, Vol. 1, 1913-1926 (via between-two-seas)

nickkahler:

Odilon Redon, Vision, 1879

nickkahler:

Odilon Redon, Vision, 1879

itualac:

dynamotheory:

Foxygen // Can’t Contextualize My Mind

Yessssssss

(Source: firstaeon, via firstaeon)

Family Secret

I dreamed of a dog
a skinned dog
its body sang its red body whistled
I asked the other one
the one who turns out the light the butcher
what has happened
why are we in the dark

this is a dream you are alone
there is no one else
light does not exist
you are the dog you are the flower which barks
sharpen your tongue sweetly
your sweet black four-legged tongue

dreams scorch the skin of man
human skin burns disappears
only the mutt’s red pulp is clean
the true light dwells in the crust of its eyes
you are the dog
you are the skinned mongrel every night
dream of yourself and let that be enough

Blanca Varela

"I discovered that my obsession for having each thing in the right place, each subject at the right time, each word in the right style, was not the well-deserved reward of an ordered mind but just the opposite: a complete system of pretense invented by me to hide the disorder of my nature. I discovered that I am not disciplined out of virtue but as a reaction to my negligence, that I appear generous in order to conceal my meanness, that I pass myself off as prudent because I am evil-minded, that I am conciliatory in order not to succumb to my repressed rage, that I am punctual only to hide how little I care about other people’s time. I learned, in short, that love is not a condition of the spirit but a sign of the zodiac."

— Gabriel Garcí­a Márquez, Memories of My Melancholy Whores (via journalofanobody)

earthenwares:

in the oblivion between the trees
the lyric attacks by dogs
at the end of an endless trip
night turns all the keys of gold
but no door opens for you

a lantern follows
the ancient principles of winter
I walk straight toward you
as you open the fan of history
that’s folded in an isolated song

—Bei Dao, “Road Song” [excerpt]

Tags: bei dao

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Wilhelm Sasnal 
Shoah
2003

Letter to My Older Sister (2)

after Carol Lem

dear Georgiana,

the trees are full now, palms
bless the skyline and winter
never arrives. don’t worry i
haven’t forgotten my promise
altho it seems impossible to
keep without your support. if
you were here, you’d prove the
proper Big Sis and knock me
on the noggin with a sage fist

at my desk i dredge for the
bodies of survivors. they fill
the absence briefly and then
vanish into angry impotent and
accusatory splatts. why-have-
nots peck at my ears. i turn
up the volume till the walls
shake to rolling stones, black
night’s fallings and dogs at bay

in the morning, i’m greeted by
talking leaves and ghost mushrooms
and the soft mist off the coast,
the scuttlings of ring-tailed
opossums stealing food from feline
odalisques too sated to stir, the
flittings of doves on the mate
and in my reverie i seek you out
to share my favorite lullaby

it is i who sites beside you
it is i who sings from the shallows
it is i scratching against this silence

Wanda Coleman

"Persons who participate in discoveries, whether by land or by sea, should take possession, in our name, of all lands and provinces they might reach…"

Leyes de Indias (1513)

kdo:

Etta James - A Sunday Kind of Love (1960)
Written by Barbara Belle / Anita Leonard / Louis Prima / Stan Rhodes

old favorites

(via itualac)

Martinez, California.