#chris townsend

[bogusjourney]

There's Nothing You Can Do

Chris Townsend X Reader

TW: mentions of s*icide, mentions of drinking, mentions of car accident

Content: Permanent Record (1998), short story (361 words), angst, I CAN'T WRITE </3

I also didn't proofread this 💀😭, written at 2am because I had an idea and watched Permanent Record last night. ENJOY!!

The earthy smell of rain filled the air, and the dim, flickering street lights illuminated the scene. The pavement was coated in a thin layer of water, and the puddles in the dips of concrete reflected the shine of car and traffic lights.

The weight of Chris' shoulders fell upon yours as he laid his head and wet eyes on you, the stream of tears seeping in through the thin material of your flannel. His words were unintelligible, every breath shallow and quick, as he choked on each syllable he tried to express. His arms wrapped around you like he swore to never let go, almost as if he'd lose someone else if he did.

The whole world around you began to stop. Passers-by and loud trucks faded into oblivion, and the only things that orbited you were Chris’ tears and the memories of David Sinclair.

“I should've told him. I should've… I'm his best friend…” He managed to speak, barely legible through his vigorous crying.

You reassuringly patted him on the back, but in his dazed state, he turned both of you around as he made you stare at the rusty metal car. The one he drove in. Drunk.

At this point, he bordered screaming rather than sobbing, “And I almost hit his fucking brother! I'm such an asshole! Fuck! Fuck me! I'm a fuc—”

More aggressive sobs. His string of cursing was immediately put to a halt by his cries, his grip on you becoming tighter, as if that could happen. It was hard to tell if it was the grief or alcohol that spoke in the moment, or maybe it was both, but either way, his mental state crumbled by the second.

“It's… it's not okay, I know, but David would've wanted this to be … perfect.” You whispered to him, his breathing slowly steadying.

“But… but…” His breathy rebuttals failed to come out.

You shushed him, “He's already gone. He told us what to do. He wanted us to continue.”

The street lamp above you two flickered for the last time. The sidewalk was shrouded in darkness. It felt like an abyss, but an abyss of strange comfort.

[haydenanhedonla]

i want what he's on

[russellmoreton]

TOWARDS A NEW INTERIOR : Photography and the temporality of territory Metaphysics/Atmospheric Cosmogonies.Blurring divisions and drawing attention to the temporality of territory, the ongoing experience of space as changing instead of space defined by the anxiety about the presence/absence of things. Francesca Woodman, Chris Townsend. 1999.

Spatial themes of inside/outside, negotiations between the physical, phenomenal and a metaphysical world.

TOWARDS A NEW INTERIOR An Anthology of Interior Design Theory Lois Weinthal

EXTREME METAPHORS Interviews with J.G. Ballard 1967-2008 (via A Situated Practice : Making/Spatial Agency)

[bones-n-bookles]

The Backpacker's Handbook: Second Edition, by Chris Townsend, 1997

A HEFTY book that was gifted to me by a lady at a yardsale

[watchoutforintellect]

I feel like I’m floating in plasma I need a teacher or a lover I need someone to risk being involved with me. I am so vain and I am so masochistic. How can they coexist?“

Francesca Woodman, from a journal entry featured in Francesca Woodman by Chris Townsend

[millionsmillions]

What do the manifold forewords to his translated works tell us about reading Nabokov’s novels? One of their most striking and most consistent features is not that they are an exercise in how to read, but rather that they instruct in how not to misread.

The Man Behind the Masks: On Nabokov’s Forewords

[sesiondemadrugada]

Shopping (Paul W.S. Anderson, 1994).

[watchoutforintellect]

I was (am?) not unique but special. This is why I was an artist … I was inventing a language for people to see the everyday things that I also see … and show them something different … Nothing to do with not being able “to take it” in the big city or w/ self doubt or because my heart is gone.

Francesca Woodman, from her final journal entry c. January 1981, featured in Francesca Woodman by Chris Townsend