a woman, unhinged

i am a wound walking out of hospital. i am a wound that they are letting go. about - tags

[oldsardens]

Martha Jungwirth - Ohne Titel

[funeral]

The detritus of our lives shows up in remarkable ways, linking us to affects left behind, the people, the commitments, the hopes and oppressions consciousness has forgotten or conveniently shelved. But psyche remembers and, if neglected, will escalate into psychopathology. Psychopathology, literally translated from its Greek roots, means “the expression of the suffering of the soul.” Why would the soul suffer if it did not have its own will, its own desires, its own plan—all of which are thwarted by the ministries of fate, by the derailments of our adaptations, and by our complex-driven choices.

James Hollis, Hauntings: Dispelling the Ghosts Who Ruin Our Lives

[weltenwellen]

Joanna Klink, from "Wonder of Birds“, Raptus

[worldsandemanations]

Franz Kline, Untitled,1958

[petaltexturedskies]

Virginia Woolf, Selected Letters

[intimatum]

[applesauce42069-deactivated2024]

A photo of Hersh Goldberg-Polin's bedroom - with a plaque on the desk that reads in English, Hebrew and Arabic: Jerusalem is Everyone's.

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Denise Levertov, from Candles in Babylon: Poems; “A Child,” published c. 1982

[novr-deactivated20190712]

Louise Bourgeois, I Did Everything I Could Every Day of My Life I

Fabric, 25.4 x 69.9 cm

[clementinefight]

“Don’t worry about appearing sentimental. Worry about being unavailable; worry about being absent or fraudulent. Risk being unliked. Tell the truth as you understand it.”             — Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird 

[toiich]

Solaris (1972), dir. Andrei Tarkovsky

[crucifiedlovers]

...desire reduces us to pulp.

Georges Bataille, "My Mother" (trans. Austryn Wainhouse)

[thirdity]

“As children, we have all suspected it: perhaps we are all, moving strangely beneath the sky, victims of a trap, a joke whose secret we will one day know. This reaction is certainly infantile and we turn away from it, living in a world imposed on us as though it were “perfectly natural,” quite different from the one that used to exasperate us. As children, we did not know if we were going to laugh or cry but, as adults, we “possess” this world, we make endless use of it, it is made of intelligible and utilizable objects. It is made of earth, stone, wood, plants, animals. We work the earth, we build houses, we eat bread and wine. We have forgotten, out of habit, our childish apprehensions. In a word, we have ceased to mistrust ourselves. Only a few of us, amid the great fabrications of society, hang on to our really childish reactions, still wonder naively what we are doing on the earth and what sort of joke is being played on us.”

— Georges Bataille, “The Cruel Practice of Art”

[365filmsbyauroranocte]

La maman et la putain (Jean Eustache, 1973)

[luthienne]

“This is the end, isn’t it? And you are here with me again, listening with me: the sea no longer torments me; the self I wished to be is the self I am.”

— Louise Glück, from Meadowlands

[crucifiedlovers]

You tasted it. Isn't that enough? Of what do you ever get more than a taste? That's all we're given in life, that's all we're given of life. A taste. There is no more.

Philip Roth, The Dying Animal