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Big Black Sunshine

[Beauty chased by tragic laughter]

"It was autumn, the springtime of death. Rain spattered the rotting leaves, and a wild wind wailed. Death was singing in the shower. Death was happy to be alive."
- Tom Robbins, from Still Life with Woodpecker (Bantam Books, 1980)

(Source: apoetreflects, via feedingthewolf)

"I’m disappearing, avoiding most things."
- Syd Barett (via ledzepplica)

(via englishmajorinrepair)

"I burn, I freeze; I am never warm. I am rigid; I forgot softness because it did not serve me."
- Deathless, Catherynne M. Valente  (via onlinebabe)

(Source: deermoon, via onlinebabe)

"Today, there was no patience for people, or ringing machines, or knocks at my door. My only need was for sleep. I felt nothing and only wanted to be filled with more emptiness. I desired nothing but my books, my bottles, my music and my words. There was no one in existence who I wished to speak to. They simply wouldn’t understand me. And there was nothing anyone could say to convince me that there was any place beyond my door that was safer than the space behind it."
- B.B. Sunshine - Mr. S
"I am a writer of fiction and so I am a liar too and invent from what I know and that I’ve heard. I’m a liar. My excuse is that I make the truth as I invent it truer than it would be. That is what makes good writers or bad."
- Ernest Hemingway, from True At First Light (via violentwavesofemotion)

(via staticdistort)

nuclearharvest:

by Valerie Patterson

nuclearharvest:

by Valerie Patterson

(Source: 2headedsnake, via therosesign)

Tagged with:  #phantasms

Son - III

She returned with a large plastic bin cradled in her arms. Looked even angrier than before she left. The bin was yellowed and cracked in a few places. She said: Take your shit! and launched the bin at my head. One of the corners of its lid caught me in my eye. This was much more painful than I expected it to be. 

I rubbed my throbbing eye and looked down at the spilled contents. A tiny sky blue jumper, some little deeper blue blankets and one pair of black baby shoes. They looked worn and discolored, not unlike the bin that must have held them for years. I looked back at my mother, still rubbing my eye (more out of confusion than to ease pain). I asked her: Were these mine?

She nodded and said: I don’t want this here anymore. But what she meant to have said was: I don’t want you here anymore.

I said: So, what the fuck am I supposed to do with this now?

My mother said: I don’t care. Burn them. Bury them. I don’t give a shit. You’re not my son. You’re nothing to me! Ok? Nothing. She threw her hands out and waved them at me like she was trying to drive out an animal and said: Dead to me. Dead.

She slammed the door. Locked each of the three locks: click, click, click.

I knelt down and collected the jumper, then the blankets, and rolled them into a ball that I tucked under my arm. Scooped up the baby shoes with my right hand. I stood up and stared at the door for a good minute. I whispered: Bye, Mom. Turned and walked down the stairs in slow steps.

(Source: bigblacksunshine)

"I could paint for a hundred years, a thousand years without stopping and I would still feel as though I knew nothing."
- Paul Cézanne (via feellng)

(via englishmajorinrepair)

"Loneliness has followed me my whole life. Everywhere. In bars, in cars, sidewalks, stores, everywhere. There’s no escape. I’m…lonely…My life has taken another turn again. The days can go on with regularity over and over, one day indistinguishable from the next. A long continuous chain. Then suddenly, there is a change."
- Taxi Driver (1976), Dir. Martin Scorsese (via wordsnquotes)

(via jessthebestmess)

Son - II

It had been years since I faced my mother.

I was just outside the entrance to her crumby, cluttered studio apartment. Half-drunk, barely able to pick out the words she flung at my face, but certain that the majority of them were f-bombs and demeaning in some form.

I was returning a check she had sent me. She wanted me to speak to my “connection” at the bank I once worked at as a humble teller. Convince him that he should cash it. So she could buy a plant. I explained that, while the check had her name on it, it was meant to be used as payment for utilities. It was issued by the state for this purpose alone. Using it for any other reason would be unethical. Not too mention illegal.

I also may have mentioned the fact that she already had enough goddamn plants.

This sent her into one of her classical performances. She said, "gimme the fuckin’ check!" and tore the blue slip of paper out of my hand. Told me to wait at the door; she wanted to give me something.

As she walked away, I peered in and saw that things had worsened. The apartment was spotless, but not an inch of wall or carpet was uncovered. Bags of clothes, piles of Christmas decorations, of magazines, pyramids of shoes, of blankets, of plates, columns of reeds and candles. And then there were the plants. Lots and lots of plants. Mostly ferns. From floor to ceiling. Wall to wall. Inescapable. An Olympic gymnast couldn’t make it across the place without tripping and hitting the ground.

(Source: bigblacksunshine)

Anonymous said: describe yourself in a metaphor.

feedingthewolf:

I’m not good with metaphors but,

I feel like I am a black tulip flower raised in a garden of sunflowers, in constant search to feel the warmth of the sun.

I love this, S.

Romina Meric

Romina Meric is a Turkish painter. She studied at Brandeis University and Yale University. Her psychologically charged paintings ask a key question, as Meric puts it: not so much “Do you understand what I’m feeling?” as “How do I make you feel?” Since graduating she has shown her work in many group shows in New York and her work is in the collection of the Rose Art Museum, the Jimenez-Colon Colleccion, as well as private collections.

(Source: asylum-art, via trapt-in-darkness)

ax-salvo:

This looks awfully familiar…

ax-salvo:

This looks awfully familiar…

(Source: wtfchrisstuff)

Tagged with:  #selfies
"I am a sea with its breezes and its seagulls , with its raging and quiet waves , with its depth and vastness But without beach , without ports and boats I dwell in a shell"
- Featured poet of the week: Miral, a.k.a. meandthebirthofmywords (via middleeasternjournal)

(Source: meandthebirthofmywords, via anaorkid)

subwaytiles:

George’s Bath, Corinna Kern

2014