lost in sprawl city

Oct 19

“One has to take a somewhat bold and dangerous line with this existence: especially as, whatever happens, we are bound to lose it.” — Friedrich Nietzsche, Untimely Meditations (via artisticalyhaze)

(via howitzerliterarysociety)

a-passionate-embrace:

"I believe in the possible realization of a world in which man can be much, even if he has little; a world in which the dominant motivation of existence is not consumption; a world in which “man“ is the end, first and last; a world in which man can find the way of giving a purpose to his life as well as the strength to live free and without illusions.”

— Erich Fromm, Credo

(via howitzerliterarysociety)

Oct 18

“Now, like the slowest worm, we sense; but like the mightiest god, we know.” — William H. Gass, Omensetter’s Luck (via robcam-wfu)

Oct 17

[video]

“Cities controlled by big companies are old hat in science fiction. My grandmother left a whole bookcase of old science fiction novels. The company-city subgenre always seemed to star a hero who outsmarted, overthrew, or escaped “the company.” I’ve never seen one where the hero fought like hell to get taken in and underpaid by the company. In real life, that’s the way it will be. That’s the way it always is.” —

Octavia E. Butler, Parable of the Sower

(via subtle-queen)

Oct 16

artishardgr:

Salvador Dali, White Calm 
1936

artishardgr:

Salvador Dali, White Calm

1936

(via dappledwithshadow)

Here

Then one day it happens: two birds
flying from point A to point B

          fall in love with the idea of point C.
          No wind but what’s winged into being.

On this they rise. Below them, small
as mustard seeds, whales and narwhals

         roll to show their bellies, and if I lower
         this pencil, the birds are liable to chase

such whiteness. On and on they fly, over
water, for a lifetime and a half, beating

         swords into words, words into ords
         
to where I write with a pencil made

of birdseed.

Philip Pardi

Oct 15

“A young man looks the world in the face. He has not had time to polish the idea of death or of nothingness, even though he has gazed on their full horror. That is what youth must be like — this harsh confrontation with death, this physical terror of the animal who loves the sun. Whatever people say, on this score at least, youth has no illusions. It has neither the time nor the piety to build itself any. And, I don’t know why, but faced with this ravined landscape, this solemn and lugubrious cry of stone, Djemila, inhuman at nightfall, faced with this death of colors and hope, I was certain that when they reach the end of their lives, men worthy of the name must rediscover this confrontation, deny the few ideas they had, and recover the innocence and truth that gleamed in the eyes of the Ancients face to face with destiny. They regain their youth, but by embracing death.” — Albert Camus - “The Wind at Djemila” (via phiom)

(Source: sisyphean-revolt, via phiom)

Oct 14

jourdepluie91:

Armand Rassenfosse (Belgian, 1862-1934), The Death of Lovers (La Mort des amants), 1899

jourdepluie91:

Armand Rassenfosse (Belgian, 1862-1934), The Death of Lovers (La Mort des amants), 1899

(Source: amare-habeo, via uromancy)

In That Other Fantasy Where We Live Forever

we were never caught

we partied the southwest, smoked it from L.A. to El
Dorado
worked odd jobs between delusions of escape
drunk on the admonitions of parents, parsons & professors
driving faster than the road or law allowed.
our high-pitched laughter was young, heartless & disrespected
authority. we could be heard for miles in the night

the Grand Canyon of a new manhood.
womanhood discovered
like the first sighting of Mount Wilson

we rebelled against the southwestern wind

we got so naturally ripped, we sprouted wings,
crashed parties on the moon, and howled at the earth

We lived off love, it was all we had to eat

when you split you took all the wisdom
and left me the worry

Wanda Coleman

(Source: novaluenosavings, via humphreyking)

mythologyofblue:

Long ago, I was wounded.
I learned
to exist, in reaction,
out of touch
with the world: I’ll tell you
what I meant to be —
a device that listened.
Not inert: still.
A piece of wood. A stone.

-Louise Glück, excerpt from “Parados”

(via nickkahler)

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Billie Jean
Regrets

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Billie Jean

Regrets

"Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,
Strong and content I travel the open road.

The earth, that is sufficient,
I do not want the constellations any nearer,
I know they are very well where they are,
I know they suffice for those who belong to them…”

” — Walt Whitman, from Song of the Open Road (via freedom-in-the-mountains)

“Sadness was so claustrophobic.” — Kiran Desai, The Inheritance of Loss (via quoted-books)