1. "Help me
    translate loss the way this land does—
    flood, earthquake, landslide—
    terrible, and alive."
    — Deborah A. Miranda, from “Old Territory. New Maps.” (via proustitute)
  2. likeafieldmouse:

    Alberto Giacometti - Man Walking (1957)

    (via cavetocanvas)


  3. "Now that I’ve met you, would you object to never seeing me again?"


    Magnolia (1999) 

  4. acionnae:


    From Inflammatory Essays, 1978
    offset prints on colored paper
    17 x 17 inches

  5. ideageneration:

    Jenny Holzer, Untitled, from Survival Series, 1983-85

    (Source: phillips.com)


  6. Meditations in an Emergency

    Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French?

    Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there’ll be nothing left with which to venture forth.

    Why should I share you? Why don’t you get rid of someone else for a change?

    I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

    Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don’t I? I’m just like a pile of leaves.

    However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes—I can’t even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there’s a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. Do they know what they’re missing? Uh huh.

    My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them still. If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I would stay at home and do something. It’s not that I’m curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it’s my duty to be attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the earth. And lately, so great has their anxiety become, I can spare myself little sleep.

    Now there is only one man I like to kiss when he is unshaven. Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How best discourage her?)

    St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How I am to become a legend, my dear? I’ve tried love, but that hides you in the bosom of another and I am always springing forth from it like the lotus—the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, “to keep the filth of life away,” yes, there, even in the heart, where the filth is pumped in and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in that department, that greenhouse.

    Destroy yourself, if you don’t know!

    It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you’ve set. It’s like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.

    "Fanny Brown is run away—scampered off with a Cornet of Horse; I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho’ She has vexed me by this Exploit a little too.—Poor silly Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her.—I wish She had a good Whipping and 10,000 pounds."—Mrs. Thrale.

    I’ve got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I’ll be back, I’ll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don’t want me to go where you go, so I go where you don’t want me to. It’s only afternoon, there’s a lot ahead. There won’t be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in the lock and the knob turns.

    Frank O’Hara 


  7. "We die with the dying:
    See, they depart, and we go with them.
    We are born with the dead:
    See, they return, and bring us with them."
    — T. S. Eliot, from “Little Gidding” in The Four Quartets (via proustitute)

  8. "Desire doubled is love and love doubled is madness."
    — Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband (via proustitute)

  9. "

    The best reason to live is that there is no reason to live.
    I walked to your apartment in the late night.
    Flowers I didn’t plant began to be flowers
    and I was a color and then I was none.
    Conrad said, let the train take you anywhere.
    I passed all the old stops. With you I liked being nowhere
    and with you I live nowhere now.

    The best reason to paint is that there is no reason to paint.
    Keith Haring wrote that, it could be about us.
    I go into churches and I go into bars:
    I feel the time stop.
    To feel — you can’t stop at some point.
    Stop time. Time stops you.

    No one will let you through if you don’t walk your own sadness.
    No one will let you touch them if you’re a person at all.

    And you. You, you, you
    you can read these lines in any order
    because I want to leave nothing out anymore
    and there’s nothing here.
    Words are just words. I got nowhere.
    Some new thing — everything I need to feel
    I feel twice and risk three of. Some new thing —
    how there’s more here without us at all.

    — Alex Dimitrov, from Some New Thing (via bbook)

    (Source: violentwavesofemotion, via bbook)


  10. "I’m moved by everything broken and crippled. Since that’s how we really are."
    — Anna Kamienska, from “In That Great River,” trans. Clare Cavanagh (via proustitute)