I just think blood’s neat :]
— Adrienne Rich, from “Integrity.”
that pose was too cute, had to make it fitzier...
Oh, what a happy fate, to sit in the silent room of an ancestral house among the quiet things in their abiding places, and to hear the tits sounding their first notes outside in the green and sun-shot garden, and away in the distance the village clock. To sit and gaze upon a warm strip of afternoon sunlight and to know a great deal about girls from the past and to be a poet. And to think that I too might have become such a poet if I had been able to live somewhere, anywhere on earth, in one of the many closed-up country houses that no one looks after. I would have required only one room (the sunny room under the gables). There I would have lived with my old things, my family portraits, my books. And I would have had an armchair and flowers and dogs and a stout stick for the stony paths. And nothing else. Nothing but a book bound in yellowish, ivory-coloured leather with old-style floral endpapers: in this I would have written.
from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rainer Maria Rilke
“JAW BONE” MOUTHPIECE | S/S 1998 SHAUN LEANE for ALEXANDER MCQUEEN
“Cast and polished aluminum, with broken and missing teeth, attached to the face with curved metal ear-loops and hooks.” [width: 6″]
Sketch
Is it possible to develop a voice in writing with such coherence and quiet authority that I can do away with narrative structure? (Plot?) In the dream story, all that’s holding it together now is the voice, and maybe the imagery—holding it together against its own tendency to fragment, to fly apart. The pieces want to return to some other order—not with each other—but I compel them quite quietly to hold together my way.
from One Day I'll Remember This Diaries 1987–1995 by Helen Garner
Im enjoying the longevity of tumblrs recontextualization style of humor. a seemingly innocuous post followed by like "posts that a gnome would make" or like "are you a phone"