semicolonist

celebrating the written word

[fy-perspectives]

[semicolonist-blog]

Everything changes when you start to emit your own frequency rather than absorbing the frequencies around you, when you start imprinting your intent on the universe rather than receiving an imprint from existence.

Barbara Marciniak

[leeeyuck]

[witchoria]

[literarymiscellany]

Some Extensions on the Sovereignty of Science

[semicolonist-blog]

The smallest muscle in the human body is in the ear.

It is also the only muscle that does not have blood vessels;

It has fluid instead. The reason for this is clear: The ear is so sensitive that the body, if it heard its own pulse,

Would be devastated by the amplification of its own sound. In this knowledge I sense a great metaphor,

But I do not want to be hasty in trying to capture or describe it. Words are our weakest hold on the world.

—  Alberto Ríos

[semicolonist-blog]

Mad Girl’s Love Song

I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead; I lift my lids and all is born again. (I think I made you up inside my head.) The stars go waltzing out in blue and red, And arbitrary blackness gallops in: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. (I think I made you up inside my head.) God topples from the sky, hell’s fires fade: Exit seraphim and Satan’s men: I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. I fancied you’d return the way you said, But I grow old and I forget your name. (I think I made you up inside my head.)

I should have loved a thunderbird instead; At least when spring comes they roar back again. I shut my eyes and all the world drops dead. (I think I made you up inside my head.) — Sylvia Plath

[semicolonist-blog]

When thinking about life remember this: no amount of guilt can solve the past and no amount of anxiety can change the future.

[vvni-deactivated20150516]

[wordsnquotes]

In books we never find anything but ourselves. Strangely enough, that always gives us great pleasure, and we say the author is a genius.

Thomas Mann

[ifpaintingscouldtext]

[semicolonist-blog]

Caravaggio, Bacchus, 1595

[betype]

[semicolonist-blog]

Experiments by Will Lanham

[bookmania]

If there is no love in the world, we will make a new world, and we will give it walls, and we will furnish it with soft, red interiors, from the inside out, and give it a knocker that resonates like a diamond falling to a jeweller’s felt so that we should never hear it. Love me, because love doesn’t exist, and I have tried everything that does.

Jonathan Safran Foer, Everything Is Illuminated

[semicolonist-blog]

I really wondered why people were always doing what they didn’t like doing. It seemed like life was a sort of narrowing tunnel. Right when you were born, the tunnel was huge. You could be anything. Then, like, the absolute second after you were born, the tunnel narrowed down to about half that size. You were a boy, and already it was certain you wouldn’t be a mother and it was likely you wouldn’t become a manicurist or a kindergarten teacher. Then you started to grow up and everything you did closed the tunnel in some more. You broke your arm climbing a tree and you ruled out being a baseball pitcher. You failed every math test you ever took and you canceled any hope of ever being a scientist. Like that. On and on through the years until you were stuck. You’d become a baker or a librarian or a bartender. Or an accountant. And there you were. I figured that on the day you died, the tunnel would be so narrow, you’d have squeezed yourself in with so many choices, that you just got squashed.

Carol Rifka Brunt, Tell the Wolves I’m Home

[mjtj]

[semicolonist-blog]

Mariana Camacho

[arxitektur]

[semicolonist-blog]

One Last Poem for Richard

December 24th and we’re through again. This time for good I know because I didn’t throw you out — and anyway we waved. No shoes. No angry doors. We folded clothes and went our separate ways. You left behind that flannel shirt of yours I liked but remembered to take your toothbrush. Where are you tonight?

Richard, it’s Christmas Eve again and old ghosts come back home. I’m sitting by the Christmas tree wondering where did we go wrong.

Okay, we didn’t work, and all memories to tell you the truth aren’t good. But sometimes there were good times. Love was good. I loved your crooked sleep beside me and never dreamed afraid.

There should be stars for great wars like ours. There ought to be awards and plenty of champagne for the survivors.

After all the years of degradations, the several holidays of failure, there should be something to commemorate the pain.

Someday we’ll forget that great Brazil disaster. Till then, Richard, I wish you well. I wish you love affairs and plenty of hot water, and women kinder than I treated you. I forget the reason, but I loved you once, remember?

Maybe in this season, drunk and sentimental, I’m willing to admit a part of me, crazed and kamikaze, ripe for anarchy, loves still.

— Sandra Cisneros

[dailydesigner]

[semicolonist-blog]

Pablo & Rusty’s by Manual