music from another room
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❣ Chile in a Photography ❣
🪼

⁂
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occasionally subtle

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hello vonnie
art blog(derogatory)
AnasAbdin
Cosimo Galluzzi
Lint Roller? I Barely Know Her
Show & Tell
Jules of Nature
Stranger Things

ellievsbear
almost home
ojovivo
todays bird

JVL

seen from Iceland

seen from France

seen from Japan
seen from Netherlands
seen from Mexico

seen from Netherlands
seen from Poland
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Romania
seen from United States

seen from Uruguay

seen from Iceland
seen from United States
seen from United Kingdom
seen from United States
seen from Uzbekistan

seen from Sweden

seen from India

seen from United States
@sokers
music from another room
don’t be a jerk
真夏の通り雨
"I do not desire to walk on water," said Siddhartha. "Let old samanas content themselves with such tricks.
Siddhartha by Hermann Hesse
12 hours
12 hours driving non-stop to go from one gig place to another gig place. 12 hours spent at the office trying to figure out how to apply the Organization’s rules and at the same time be fair, whatever that means. A separation of 12,000 km by car, or 12 hours on a direct flight. Arguably also a separation of 12 years of choices, comprising 12 million bifurcations. But choices should primarily be understood in the framework of “things just happen”. Or maybe not. Maybe they are in one of those moments of re-living the past, partly because they like to watch alternative futures play out in their head. By they I mean me, at least potentially, as all these distances in time and possibility imply infinite versions of the same story. In fact, versions could diverge so much that calling them the same story would be hard for one within a version. But then not even within a version one could be. One would have to be within something else entirely. What is the moral of this story? I might be that by using the past to consider life in potential, the potential of one particular life is disregarded as a result. Or it might be that clinging to the concept of potential itself is what prevents potential to realize itself. In any case, contradictions are always, if fleetingly, liberating. As are word games.
whywhywhywhywhywhywhyyyy
RESTless
My focus seems to have taken a vacation this week and I can't find my usual work rhythm. I don't know how better to explain it; I feel restless. But at the same time I can't seem to get enough sleep, either. Go figure.
Yesterday was the first day of Spring, but it is still cold here. We had up to 2 feet of snow last week, and that has yet to melt.
Do you know if XXXXXX has a new girlfriend? I haven't had Facebook for years now and I don't miss it...until times like these where I wish I could check in on the lives of the people I care about. I can only see his profile picture has changed, and it's of him kissing a girl. So maybe he has a new love. But I know you two don’t talk, so my asking you is useless.
I feel I'm constantly battling these two sides of myself: satisfaction vs. dissatisfaction. Sometimes I feel that my friends are progressing and leaving me behind, too busy leading the lives they've always wanted to lead. XXXXXX is finally moving away from teaching and is looking into graduate programs for counseling, and last year moved in with her boyfriend. XXXXXX moved to Boston two years ago and is striving towards her career. I look up to them. They don't seem to fear anything.
There seems to be a general consensus (or maybe it's just me) that a geographical move indicates progress. Geographically speaking, I haven't moved in the past three years. Does that mean I'm "settled" (in the bad sense), stagnant? I don't feel the same, I don't think I'm the same. But it's hard to tell. I'm constantly with myself - I'm always hanging out with me. It’s not as easy to point out the differences in myself than say, a friend who I haven't seen in a long time and I can say unequivocally, "She has changed." So I'm left wondering.
And I don't think of him as much as I used to. Hearing his name doesn't devastate me, I have lost feelings of possession. But your new haircut stunned me; you look good, slightly older, good. You are probably not the same as I remember you, but who knows. My dreams of you haven't stopped, though. They are usually too embarrassing to talk about. Most of my memories with you are too embarrassing or emotionally charged in some way for me to think about without getting worked up. I was near Hamilton Street the other weekend, and I saw the ghosts of you, of our friends, of myself. Almost got out of the car and walked to the front door. Hey, you'd say surprised, but lazily, in that certain way that is uniquely yours. You'd touch your lips to try to suppress a smile. And you'd invite me in. The cabinet doors would all be unhinged, the living room and kitchen a mess. But your room was always safe, and still would be. We’d dissolve into the flower patterned comforter your mother picked out for you.
And I sometimes think what I shouldn’t, and what I believe to be untrue: Maybe you didn’t blow it with me; maybe I blew it with you.
But I'm happier alone, happier living selfishly.
I hope you're happy, too. Not you, but you, the one I'm writing to, the one I wanted to hear from.
Maybe life is just a string of missings. Missing people, places, times, smells. I live too much in the past.
Anyway, I liked that movie because I felt all of the possibilities of what could’ve been in one, sad melody and I left the theater in tears, in catharsis.
What do I think about when I think about my thoughts
1 - Going through the whole work day thinking about "Disgrace" or thinking about why am I thinking so much about "Disgrace". Well, "when all else fails, philosophize".
2 - Why do so many people that I find interesting like la la land? They certainly do not provide very good answers when asked about it. Why would I ask them that question in the first place? And worse, why would I try to assess the quality of an answer to a question on la la land? Do I wanna watch it that much?
3. I like having written, but don't enjoy writing so much. I like having studied, but don't like studying that much. I guess I do like reading, and I do like having read. Does that mean I should read less, and write and study more? Shit, I like having liked Murakami, but don't like him anymore that much, and most definitely don't like disliking him. I guess this was ambiguous: what I meant was that what we turn out to be is never what we wanted to turn out to be, but it is a non-deterministic function of the latter, I guess.
All women think they are different; they all think there are some things that will never happen to them; and they are all wrong.
The Woman Destroyed, Simone de Beauvoir
summertime nostalgia
Brooklyn Hanami
Mozambique, 2016
Cover of a cover - Lana Del Rey/Leonard Cohen Chelsea Hotel No. 2
We all have history. You can think you’re over your history. You can think the past is the past. And then something happens, often innocuous, that shows you how far you are from over it. The past is always with you. Some people want to be protected from this truth.
- Bad Feminist, Roxane Gay