FLUXX;

where is the exit door?

[thesplitself]

[thesplitself]

Pendulum, FKA twigs

[thesplitself]

notes to self: make more to-do lists, actually mark things off ‘em, make more lists in general even just for the fun of it sometimes, write things down everywhere wherever and especially in your notebook, get out more, experiment with your in-the-moment expressions more, do the opposite of what you think feel you should do just because you can do things like that, dig further into your creations, follow through more, feel good more, exercise more, do the mundane things you neglect more, wash your hair, comb it out, brush your teeth, sleep more, engage in little tiny everyday rituals, embarrass yourself every day, make yourself uncomfortable every day, regret something every day, try to have some fun, create the space for intimacy, listen more intently, speak more deliberately, stop protecting yourself, stop holding yourself together, stop destroying yourself carelessly (it’s cool if it’s with care though), reach more, touch more, feel more, give more, do that thing you said you’d do last year before it felt like too much or like you were not enough, give in less to temporary emotions, give out more to strong feelings of connection, say you’re sorry, forgive them and you and it and everything (maybe), meditate on everything, intellectualize nothing (okay, some things, less things), let it go, and of course all the other useless things that matter so much to you too

[thesplitself]

The Wind Song, Gigi Masin

[thesplitself]

The Only Thing, Sufjan Stevens

[parergonal]

The more you delve into your loneliness, like that tree, the more longing takes you with motherly tenderness to its country which is made of transparent, fragile material. Longing has a country, a family, and an exquisite taste in arranging wild flowers. It has a time chosen with divine care. A quiet mythical time in which figs ripen slowly and the gazelle sleeps next to the wolf in the imagination of the boy who did not witness a massacre. Longing takes you around its country like a tour guide in heaven. It takes you up to a mountain where you used to take refuge and wallow in wild plants until your pores soak the smell of sage. Longing is smell.

In the Presence of Absence

Mahmoud Darwish

Transl. from the Arabic by Sinan Antoon

(via parergonal)

[thesplitself]

Visit Original Link

[goodgeology]

I have no creative use for guilt, yours or my own. Guilt is only another way of avoiding informed action, of buying time out of the pressing need to make clear choices, out of the approaching storm that can feed the earth as well as bend the trees. If I speak to you in anger, at least I have spoken to you…Guilt is not a response to anger; it is a response to one’s own actions or lack of action. If it leads to change then it can be useful, since it is then no longer guilt but the beginning of knowledge. Yet all too often, guilt is just another name for impotence, for defensiveness destructive of communication; it becomes a device to protect ignorance and the continuation of things the way they are, the ultimate protection for changelessness.

—Audre Lorde, “Sister Outsider” (via goodgeology)

[violentwavesofemotion-deactivat]

Unless you are terribly, terribly careful, you run the danger — without even knowing it is happening to you — of slipping into the fatal error of reflecting the public taste instead of creating it. Your responsibility is to the public consciousness, not to the public view of itself. You can’t involve yourself with the vicissitudes of fashion or critical response. You are a creator; there is a certain responsibility which comes with it. I survive almost any onslaught with a shrug, which must appear as arrogance, but really isn’t because I’m not an arrogant person. When you create something, you make a set of assumptions — that you have something to say, that you, perhaps, know how to say it, that it’s worth saying, and that maybe someone will come along for the ride. That’s all. And then you go about your business, assuming you’d be the first to know if your talent has collapsed.

Edward Albee, Conversations with Edward Albee by Philip C. Kolin, 1988 (via violentwavesofemotion)

[gwranda]

Melancholia is, I believe, a musical problem: a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops of water falling from time to tired time. For this reason the outside, seen from the melancholic inside, appears absurd and unreal, and constitutes ‘the farce we must all play’. But for an instant—because of a wild music, or a drug, or the sexual act carried to a climax—the very slow rhythm of the melancholic soul does not only rise to that of the outside world: it overtakes it with an ineffably blissful exorbitance, and the soul then thrills animated by delirious new energies.

Alejandra Pizarnik, from “The Bloody Countess” (1971)

[thesplitself]

Sunday October 23, 2011.

Part of our spooky Halloween concert, this is an arrangement of the beautiful anthem, “Come Sweet Death” by J.S. Bach.

The choir sings it through once as written. Then, we repeat it a 2nd time with interpretive hand movements, which illustrate the words and emotions of the music.

We then repeat it a 3rd time, each individual singer at their own pace, to illustrate the individual journey we each have to make towards death.

The effect is eerie, as the harmonies become very dissonant, but also moving, as the chords resolve sweetly at the end.

As you will notice, we were all in costume for this concert - (And the audience was invited to dress up too). It was our most theatrical concert to date. We all had tremendous fun putting on this show, getting into the Halloween spirit, as well as enjoying the music.

i love this.

[thesplitself]

Fratres for Cello and Harp, Arvo Pärt George Durham, cello Kihwa Lee, harp

[the-tesseract]

NINA SIMONE TALKIN REALNESS.

[thesplitself]

how strange, connection, seems so haphazard. entranced by how we live.

[thesplitself]

[murmuragainst-blog]

[biandlesbianliterature]

As a queer, you read into texts. You hope that something is gay. Like you hope someone is. Scrutinizing for signs and signals. You read too much into things. And so, you take something you love and you read gay romance and subtext into it. And it’s not there enough—you simply read some more in. Rewrite it.

“The Monster Queer Is Camp” by Paul Magrs in Queers Dig Time Lords. (via fuckyeahlesbianliterature)

my life on blast