[brutalistinteriors]

Hotel Holiday (former Holiday Inn), Sarajevo. Ivan Štraus.

[thelastpictureshow93]

THE WINTER of 2016 was the last one that felt real, where I only read James Joyce and smoked cigarettes with my 66 year old landlord and wore turtlenecks. Everything then had a texture- our sprawling four floored Edwardian house, the ancient rugs and cavernous ceilings and candelabras and artwork from comic books and horror movies. The house was always warm and dark and creaky. We always watched Jessica Harper movies. I was really into tarot. I kept sleeping with the sweet guy who was also terrible, but it was nice having someone come over whenever I felt like it, in that sprawling house.

At the very top of the hill, the house with the turret. Walking home alone at night I would try and run up the hill, even though no one was ever awake.

[kitty-n-classe]

Jeanne Moreau

[cactuslegs]

[barcarole]

Melancholy II, Edvard Munch, 1898.

[devoutjunk]

[elisabeth-reidy]

Marguerite Duras, The Lover

[thunderstruck9]

Rufino Tamayo (Mexican, 1899-1991), Dos hombres en un paisaje [Two men in a landscape], 1977. Oil and sand on canvas, 98 x 130 cm.

[kittenmeats]

“Possession” (1981) - Andrzej Zulawski

[this-is-persona-non-grata]

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest (1974)

[criterionfilms]

Photogaphed outside of the 1974 Academy Awards

[therumpus]

After all that death, survivors went elsewhere, sunk in sadness—or stayed, doesn’t matter. Any way you spin it, your ancestors GAVE YOU BLOOD. By that I mean their veins pumped life, left residue. They gave birth after the white smeary possibility of you, and you got through ancestor after ancestor after ancestor until you started existing, as you, specifically, where you are among the plants and walks and river walks and things. Let’s take me for instance. Like a case study, kind of.

THE SATURDAY RUMPUS ESSAY: The Living Wound by Chelsea Hicks Bryan  (via therumpus)

[thefilmstage]

A new poster for Julia Ducournau’s Raw, one of our 15 must-see films of March.

[lifeinpoetry]

I don’t care about self I want out / of my story

Maggie Nelson, from “20 Minutes,” Something Bright, Then Holes (via lifeinpoetry)

[durgapolashi]

Frank O'Hara

[gretchen-anner]

She only believed in proximity, in confessions born in the darkness of a bedroom, in the quarrels born of alcohol, in the communion born of exhausting walks through the city.

Anais Nin || Sabina (via gretchen-anner)

[paradoxicalsentiments]

my favorite Frank O'Hara poem