Daughter of the Rain and Snow

🌑 Moon-lover 🌌 Dreamer You do not beat your own heart

[chrishayley]

#the lesbian gaze

AGATHA ALL ALONG 1.05 - Darkest Hour Wake Thy Power

[warningsine]

HACKS 3.06 • Hannah Einbinder & Christina Hendricks

[nadjasofantipaxos]

nandor is so real because if I was a vampire I would wipe the memories of an entire stadium of people to avoid embarrassment too

[anotheryellowfog]

““What people had shed and left - a pair of shoes, a shooting cap, some faded skirts and coats in wardrobes - these alone kept the human shape and in the emptiness indicated how once they were filled and animated; how once hands were busy with hooks and buttons; how once the looking glass had held a face.””

— Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse

[thesphinxandherselves]

(via wordpainting)

[bostonpoetryslam]

We could talk about poetry as a rope in a storm. Poetry as one continuous mantra of mental health. Poetry as the world’s biggest, longest-running workshop on how to love. Poetry as a conversation across time. Poetry as the acid-scrub of cliche. We could say that the poem is a lie detector. That the poem is a way of thinking without losing the feeling. That a poem is a way of feeling without being too overwhelmed by feeling to think straight.

Jeanette Winterson on the poetry of Carol Ann Duffy for The Guardian  (via bostonpoetryslam)

[plum-japonais]

“We look at the world once, in childhood. The rest is memory.”

— Louise Glück, from “Nostos” in Meadowlands (via dostevsky)

[unhistorical]

Edward Hopper (July 22, 1882 – May 15, 1967)

Hopper was fascinated by what isn’t available to our senses. In his mysterious paintings, he makes felt what isn’t there, the nothing, the nothing that isn’t there. He was known to be solitary and thoughtful, like the blond woman in New York Movie. In the forties and fifties, it was easier to appreciate solitude than it is today. Hopper painted public places, rooms where people gathered, but usually with a few people or nobody in the rooms. Few people in those days went to museums during the week, and the galleries might be vacant. 

You could stand before a painting for long minutes and not hear voices. There was silence in those days. It was associated with solitude, sacredness, internal life.

Leonard Michaels, “The Nothing That Isn’t There”

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

You have a gift from above such as other people have not: you have talent. Do not disparage yourself to rouse compassion. Smash the vodka bottle, lie down and read.  Develop the aesthetic feeling in yourself. Allow your heart to ache for what the eye does not see.

Anton Chekhov, from a letter to Nikolai Chekhov written c. May 1888 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[weltenwellen]

Tracy K. Smith, Life on Mars

[memoryslandscape-deactivated202]

If I tell these private thoughts of mine, it is because I know they are not mine alone, and that practically everyone is trying to say the same things and that the writer is only a [person] who says out loud what other people think or whisper.

Eugène Ionesco, from Fragments of a Journal, trans. Jean Stewart (Paragon House, 1990)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

June weather. Still, bright, fresh. But my mind is very bare to words—English words—at the moment; they hit me, hard, I watch them bounce and spring. I detest my own volubility. Why be always spouting words? I can write nothing. Also I have almost lost the power of reading.

Virginia Woolf, from a diary entry c. April 1927 featured in Selected Diaries (via violentwavesofemotion)

[virginiewoolf]

I hate reality. I hate my reality. I do not accept my life. No! Absolutely not! I bury myself in daydreams.

Alejandra Pizarnik, from Diarios (via virginiewoolf)

[xshayarsha]

“In love with the words that create small nights in the uncreatedness of the day and its ferocious void”

— Alejandra Pizarnik, from Extracting the Stone of Madness: Poems 1962 - 1972; Small Prose Poems.

[watchoutforintellect]

Right, off to bed. So as not to sleep. To listen to the darkness, the silence, the solitude and the dead.

Samuel Beckett, from a letter to Mania Peron featured in The Letters of Samuel Beckett: Volume II 1941-1956 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[call-me-bekki]

“I want (badly) to be alone, and I want (badly) for someone to not let me be alone.”

— anne, I’m drowning

[wordsnquotes]

A writer’s heart, a poet’s heart, an artist’s heart, a musician’s heart is always breaking. It is through that broken window that we see the world …

—Alice Walker, from “Edwidge Danticat, The Quiet Stream,” The Cushion in the Road: Mediation and Wandering as the Whole World Awakens to Being in Harm’s Way (The New Press, 2013)

[wedge-of-poetry]

I make it real by putting it into words. It is only by putting it into words that I make it whole; this wholeness means that it has lost its power to hurt me; it gives me, perhaps because by doing so I take away the pain, a great delight to put the severed parts together. Perhaps this is the strongest pleasure known to me.

Virginia Woolf, Moments of Being, ‘A Sketch of the Past’ (via wedge-of-woolf)