mariana

my photography, and probably some writing and other stuff as well

[thisfamilycomputer]

gospel.exe

God used to live in your family computer

You left the door half open so I couldn’t see her

She’d peel herself raw and your mother would hate it 

Lick your wounds bloody, your eyelashes glitter

Etch her name underneath the table 

you’ll move in five years and

God will stay in those antiquated windows

Before you pull the plug

She whispers “you’re Cristo”

[thisfamilycomputer]

gig pix I took / Tanzana / milange

[thisfamilycomputer]

The Arson - written 6 years ago by 15yo me

She suffocated every second, burning inside and out. The lights popped, and the untouched carpet didn't look as clean and unmarked as before. Hot tears evaporating off of her face, sweat covering her clothes, and an agonizing, muted scream leaving her stinging throat, crawling slowly from dry, pale lips. Thinking through her actions would've kept her safe and sound, but now she stood in the middle of a burning building, emptied minutes before the crime. Elena crawled across the previously well-decorated living room that was now covered in ashes and violent flames, breaking her pink — ever-so-carefully painted acrylics, forcing her natural brittle nails to crack at the ends, bleeding onto wherever they touched. Everything at that moment seemed to match; the cracks on the nails and the walls, Elena’s slow crawling that mimicked the trajectory of her hot tears, which almost refused to vanish with the burning fire, and the most disturbing of it all, her screams of remorse ghoulishly harmonizing with the fearful yelling she could hear from the neighbours.

 Her skin was feeling softer; she could feel it melting and sticking, and her fingertips hurt, but she was blinded by the black smoke that now intertwined with her hair, lungs, and bloodshot eyes. She flung herself on walls she sensed not to be ablaze, her instincts struggling to cling to her will to live. Every time she'd hit a wall and feel the future bruises, -- if there'd be any future at all -- her lips would outline a smile, as she knew that feeling pain meant that she was still feeling, which consequently meant she was still living. What was she thinking, what had she done, why did she do it, those and a thousand more questions swirled through her mind like a violent hurricane, whipping permanent scars onto her conscience, her moral compass, the memories of everything that led her to that moment. But there was no time to have meaningful insights of why had she had set that place on fire, and why had she done it in such a random place, no means to kill, no will driven by a plan or a grudge held long past, because now Elena Lopez was not a woman, or an architect, or any other meaningless label she had held such regard for, for now, she was a criminal and a lost figure in the middle of a fire. 

The door couldn’t have been more than two meters away from Elena, it seemed far but for a fraction of a second she could almost feel her fingers tightening around the old brass knob, her hopes were higher than before, her chapped lips started bleeding on consequence of the smile she drew out of momentaneous joy; at that moment the tears that left her eyes were not solely from the aching smoke but from relief. But all of that took her energy away, and then there, so close to the door, to her freedom breath, she fell, chest facing up, on the floor. She could still feel, and she was still conscious, but for how long? She turned her stomach to the carpet and started crawling again. Her arms were shaking, and her crying became louder, desperate even. She started once again screaming, calling her mother, praying for God to spare her from such miserable self-inflicted death. The door, blurred in her sight, was getting closer when she felt her left ring finger nail snap out of her. She looked down and saw the bloody, broken nail on the carpet, a little attached to the nerves that once belonged embedded onto her now disgustingly ensanguined finger. She opened her mouth and widened her eyes to release an agonizing scream, desperate, in excruciating pain. The anguishing feeling rushed through her veins and made her curl up for a couple of seconds, and the amount of blood she saw leaving her own body made her want to vomit, but she could not give up so close to the door that could determine her future -- or the lack of it all.

[thisfamilycomputer]

i made this video in St Andrews, went to see my friend in a sunny day and wax remaniscent about all the juvenile things I accomplished in that ancient town. every beach there has been marked with some sort of teenage lustful -- rather, gluttonous -- celebration and/or abject memories of improprieties of sorts.

The music is something my dearest flatmate made for a different project, something about people and nature and gender, how we pick and choose from our surroundings to dress ourselves... but that doesn't matter right now, what matters it is good music, and since i didn't use it for that first failed project i want to give it the honour of doing something good again.

I hope the attempt of lyrical writing on the first paragraph goes appreciated. It is really hard to attempt poetically describing getting blackout drunk in the dead of winter with people you're not sure you like very much or to talk about getting fingered in a bench without sounding like a mid-2010's fanfiction paragraph. nevertheless I did, and now I've explained it in a way that kills all the magic. and when I think about it, those moments were magic at the time -- until they weren't.

[weltenwellen]

Ilya Kaminsky, from “A City Like a Guillotine Shivers on Its Way to the Neck”, Deaf Republic

[thisfamilycomputer]

notes app poetry that I submitted as a creative writing assignment for university.

I think there's maybe more to the poem, a longer version on a different notebook or something... alas, this is all '60s worship, 70s memorabilia, useless and exploitative nostalgia from a time that seemed too good to be true in terms of the art coming out of it - and that's probably because it was. A tribute to psychedelia

"Queen says no to pot-smoking FBI members" is one of my favourite quotes ever, thank you to the Get Back documentary for giving us this gem.

I'm missing a couple albums from my Pink Floyd collection, and if I don't get myself a copy of wish you were here soon I will regret it.

For Syd, I loved you... (this is a double reference, only understood by a niche of people so small it might as well not be a reference but more of an inside joke)

[thisfamilycomputer]

I was in London recently, a three day trip that felt much longer, or maybe much shorter.

I think I was far too unwell inside to be my kindest self, I think I hurt people I love a little bit; but I think everything will be okay and I will be forgiven for it.

I will always remember what it was like to be in a beautiful city whilst being kind of an arsehole.

[saintdollanganger]

[barelyatouch]

<33

[thisfamilycomputer]

on the Paris subway & the Glasgow streets

[thisfamilycomputer]

light leaks and exposed first frames from a couple different reels

[thisfamilycomputer]

more exposed first frames

these are perhaps a bit less exciting

[thisfamilycomputer]

I have lost my appetite for spring

[thisfamilycomputer]

there are larger repercussions for a culture steeped in irony than just boring movies

Mina Le

[thisfamilycomputer]

fabulous fabulous stuff - been on repeat since I've been back from home

[thisfamilycomputer]

I have been on bed rest for about a week, here's a couple photos I took of things on my bed, of what surrounded me this whole time (this very very dragging time, it has felt so much longer than seven days)

[thisfamilycomputer]

Joan Didion gets interviewed by Andy Warhol

some of my favourite snippets of their conversation from Interview mag

[weltenwellen]

Nikki Giovanni, The Collected Poetry, 1968-1998

[thisfamilycomputer]

light leaks and exposed first frames from a couple different reels