28 July. —I am more and more unable to think, to observe, to determine the truth of things, to remember, to speak, to share an experience; I am turning to stone, this is the truth.
Franz Kafka, Diaries (via wordsnquotes)

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Stranger Things

Andulka
Peter Solarz
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
Not today Justin
h

Kaledo Art

JBB: An Artblog!
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trying on a metaphor
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Origami Around
Cosmic Funnies

pixel skylines

祝日 / Permanent Vacation

JVL

izzy's playlists!

Love Begins
Keni
seen from Netherlands
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seen from Maldives
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States

seen from Saudi Arabia

seen from France

seen from Malaysia

seen from United States
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@peggylemonknope
28 July. —I am more and more unable to think, to observe, to determine the truth of things, to remember, to speak, to share an experience; I am turning to stone, this is the truth.
Franz Kafka, Diaries (via wordsnquotes)
Well, I’m tired of fighting for everything to be better.
Me doing group work.
Dear Matt,
We went to your funeral. We got there by the skin of our teeth. Drew was late picking us up from the airport, and then we wore black suits to a shitty diner like a scene Tarantino could have written. We brought your casket into the funeral hall to “Magic” by Coldplay. Drew told us how much you hated this song, and the thought of playing it for you made us laugh so hard, we couldn’t help ourselves. Everyone else laughed, too.
Pat and Drew stood at the lectern and talked about the kind of person you were: someone who loved to have control, hated authority, and constantly pushed against limitation. Someone who never did anything half-assed. You believed above all in fun and good feelings. You had a primal love of things that were repugnant to most. You were also profoundly hedonistic. I once saw you consume a chunk of roquefort that made my eyes water.
At the dive bar after the service, your mom told me you had been identified as a gifted child when you were 7, which I didn’t know, although it made a lot of sense. Somehow in your short 33 years, you brought your immeasurable talent and unique personality to the Canadian military, to Toronto’s restaurant industry, and to teaching yoga to the city’s most beautiful hipsters. To our devastation, you also became addicted to opiates. It began with a yoga injury and a prescription, and it turned into the only thing that ever dominated you. You had tried to laugh it off in the beginning, remember? You knew how gross it was. “I would never inject,” you said. I was mad at you then. I was terrified.
I understand that when you realized you couldn’t control your drug use anymore, you took matters into your own hands. You did it so that your friends and family wouldn’t have to watch you suffer. Even your parents understand. They’re amazing, by the way.
You hurt us when you left. I doubt I’m the only one you infuriated more than once. But you also welcomed me into your home just months after we met. When Pat and I fell in love, you were genuinely excited for us. You could have hated me so easily if you’d wanted to. But you always chose love first, which is why you were better than most people.
Pat is a different person today than he was last week. He really thought you would still be here when we were all old. I’m mad at you for breaking his heart, but I hope to forgive you someday. You still helped to make him the man he is, and I love him more than anything. And on the bright side, we still have a lifetime’s worth of stories where you are the instigator, the agitator, the hero. And stories don’t die.
We started with a song that you hated, but we ended with a song that you loved.
I wonder what the hell I’m looking for.
"I’m trying to get back into the workforce."
Paul Redican
Fog
Cartoon by Edward Steed. For more: http://nyr.kr/ZdqYBe
High school girls learn the art of automobile mechanics. Grace Hurd, Evelyn Harrison, Corinna DiJiulian and Grace Wagner at Central High, Washington D.C., 1927 -
via reddit
Read More
Where the Wild Things Are (2009)
Lauren Bacall, 1945
So painfully appropriate.
The last panel. I cannot stop laughing
This will never not make me laugh. I just love them SO much.
I've been thinking about the past year and what it's meant for me, and I've been coming up blank. No major accomplishments, no milestones, no new friends. It feels like a dud year. I catch myself wondering what it would be like to have a ring on my finger, even though I know I don't want a ring on my finger. I feel I have no stories to tell, and I'm jealous of other people's stories, even when I abhor them.
Then, while steeping a cup of tea on a quiet night in my little kitchen, I hear Chomsky speaking on the radio. I turn up the volume. He's talking about the politics of privacy, about citizenship and technology and war. He's talking about the need to be informed and defend our rights. And I get his historical references and I know these names and I can follow along. And I care. I have feelings about it. I want to listen. A year ago, that would not have been true. I just would not have allowed myself to think about it. It would have been too much, too inaccessible, too distant, too real.
That is what 2014 has been for me — getting to a place I understand. Not about knowing, exactly, but letting myself ask questions and sitting uncomfortably on a lack of certainty. I've been consistently noticing limits, and trying to draw a picture of the world in spite of them.
My goals for 2015 aren't grand. I hope I can find a way to write again, and to think less about myself, and to be better at dealing with the not-knowing. I'd like to meet some people I can really laugh with, uncontrollably and unapologetically. And I hope I find a way to eat better. There's too much sugar in my diet.