We Await Silent Tristero's Empire
Suddenly, no, at last--


→ Aug 2014

advesperate — v. to grow dark, to become night

→ Aug 2014 "As seen in the responses to Ferguson, many liberals today excel at aping leftist aesthetics in order to earn trust into a community while simultaneously resurrecting anticommunist slurs like “outside agitator.” They pulverize words like “intersectionality” into a meaningless oblivion, and turn them into signals that, yes, they have also taken a Sociology 201 class. They ‘get it.’" —

Love Me, Ferguson, I’m a Liberal | Jacobin

This is a really good article about how slandering socialist and communist groups as “outside agitators” has been used historically to put distance between black people/people of color and revolutionary socialism (and the two have an intertwined history). Communism has always been portrayed as being brought to the US from “foreigners” (e.g. in the 1900s it was Italians) and as being anti-American. also this quote = tumblr.

(via marxvx)

(via the-pleasures-of-reading)

→ Aug 2014 nevver:

I should just sleep

nevver:

I should just sleep

(Source: twitter.com, via avesilves)

→ Aug 2014 blastedheath:

Roberto Basilici (Italian, 1882-1929), "À Rudolf Zwintscher. Souvenir de l’atelier Sabatté“, 1904. Pen and India ink on paper, mounted under mat, 12.5 x 31.8 cm.

blastedheath:

Roberto Basilici (Italian, 1882-1929), "À Rudolf Zwintscher. Souvenir de l’atelier Sabatté“, 1904. Pen and India ink on paper, mounted under mat, 12.5 x 31.8 cm.

(via journalofanobody)

→ Aug 2014

i’m going through book boxes that belonged to my stepmother’s mother, an english professor. there are these very old but sturdy 1929 anthologies of english literature in small red binding with the inscribed gold titles of ‘the beginnings to 1500,’ ‘the renaissance,’ ‘the eighteenth century,’ etc. also in almost perfect condition is a boxed copy of great expectations with an intricate cursive ‘C D’ on the cover and illustrations by edward ardizzone - these very delicate and subdued watercolors. and just the best rubáiyát complete with the marbled cover and patterned page frames. lytton strachey’s queen victoria, a 1913 leather bound george eliot. i’m looking for dante.

→ Aug 2014

Swallowtail [Live] by The Brian Jonestown Massacre
→ Aug 2014 saloandseverine:

Sergei Parajanov by Lana Gogoberidze

saloandseverine:

Sergei Parajanov by Lana Gogoberidze

→ Aug 2014 "They came into the Rue Vaneau from the Rue de Varennes. It was drizzling and La Maga clutched Oliveira’s arm even tighter, pressing herself against his raincoat, which smelled like cold soup. Étienne and Perico were arguing over the possibility of explaining the world through painting and words. Oliveira put his arm carelessly around La Maga’s waist. That might be an explanation too, an arm squeezing a thin, warm waist. As they walked he could feel the light play of her muscles, a sort of monotonous and persistent speech, an insistent Berlitz, I-love-you, I-love-you. Not an explanation: a pure verb, to-love, to-love. “And always following the verb, the copulative,” Oliveira thought grammatically. If La Maga could only have understood how suddenly he was bothered by obedience to desire, “useless solitary obedience,” as a poet had once called it, a waist so warm, wet hair against his cheek, the Toulouse-Lautrec way that La Maga used to walk snuggled up to him. In the beginning was the copulative, to rape is to explain, but not always the other way around. To discover the anti-explanatory method, so that this I-love-you, I-love-you would be the hub of the wheel. And Time? Everything begins again, there is no absolute. Then there must be feed or feces, everything becomes critical again. Desire every so often, never too different and always something else: a trick of time to create illusions. “A love like a fire which burns eternally in the contemplation of Totality. But suddenly one breaks out into wild babble.”" — Julio Cortázar — from Hopscotch trans. Gregory Rabassa
→ Aug 2014 "Thus they went along, Punch and Judy, attracting each other and repelling, as love must do if it is not to end up as calendar art or a pop tune. But love, that word …" — Julio Cortázar — from Hopscotch trans. Gregory Rabassa
→ Aug 2014 "

I touch your mouth, I touch the edge of your mouth with my finger, I am drawing it as if it were something my hand was sketching, as if for the first time your mouth opened a little, and all I have to do is close my eyes to erase it and start all over again, every time I can make the mouth I want appear, the mouth which my hand chooses and sketches on your face, and which by some chance that I do not seek to understand coincides exactly with your mouth which smiles beneath the one my hand is sketching on you.


You look at me, from close up you look at me, closer and closer and then we play cyclops, we look closer and closer at one another and our eyes get larger, they come closer, the merge into one and the two cyclopses look at each other, blending as they breathe, our mouths touch and struggle in gentle warmth, biting each other with their lips, barely holding their tongues on their teeth, playing in corners where a heavy air comes and goes with an old perfume and a silence. Then my hands go to sink into your hair, to cherish slowly the depth of your hair while we kiss as if our mouths were filled with flowers or with fish, with lively movements and dark fragrance. And if we bite each other the pain is sweet, and if we smother each other in a brief and terrible sucking in together of our breaths, that momentary death is beautiful. And there is but one saliva and one flavor of ripe fruit, and I feel you tremble against me like a moon on the water.

" — Julio Cortázar — from Hopscotch trans. Gregory Rabassa 
→ Aug 2014 sacredfemininegypsyheart:

Gagik Gasparyan

sacredfemininegypsyheart:

Gagik Gasparyan

(Source: helycharlotte, via tectusregis)

→ Aug 2014 "

"The worst part of all this," he thought, "is that it always ends up in the Animula vagula blandula. What is there to do? With that question I’ll never get to sleep. Oblomov, cosa facciamo? The great voices of History stir us to action: revenge, Hamlet! Shall we avenge ourselves, Hamlet, or settle for Chippendale, slippers, and a good fire? The Syrian, after all, made the scandalous choice of Martha, as is well known. Will you give battle, Arjuna? You cannot deny values, reluctant king. Fight for fight’s sake, live dangerously, think about Marius the Epicurean, Richard Hillary, Kyo, T. E. Lawrence … Happy are those who choose, those who accept being chosen, the handsome heroes, the handsome saints, the perfect escapists."

Perhaps. Why not? But it’s also possible that your point of view is the same as that of a fox as he looks at the grapes. And it also might be that reason is on your side, but a lamentable and mean little reason, the reason the ant uses against the grasshopper. If lucidity ends up in inaction, wouldn’t it become suspect? Wouldn’t it be covering up a particularly diabolical type of blindness? The stupidity of a military hero who runs forward carrying a keg of powder, Cabral, the heroic soldier covering himself with glory, is hinted to be a revelation, the instantaneous melding with something absolute, beyond all consciousness (that’s a lot to ask for in a sergeant), face to face with which ordinary vision, bedroom insight at three o’clock in the morning and with a half-smoked cigarette, is about as good as a mole’s.

He spoke to La Maga about all this. She had awakened and was snuggling up against him, mewing sleepily. La Maga opened her eyes and remained thoughtful.

"You couldn’t do it," she said. "You think too much before you do anything."

"I believe in the principle that thought must precede action, silly."

"You believe in the principle," said La Maga. "How complicated. You’re like a witness. You’re the one who goes to the museum and looks at the paintings. I mean the paintings are there and you’re in the museum too, near and far away at the same time. I’m a painting. Rocamadour is a painting. Étieene is a painting, this room is a painting. You think that you’re in this room, but you’re not. You’re looking at the room, you’re not in the room."

"This girl could leave Saint Thomas way behind," Oliveira said.

"Why Saint Thomas?" asked La Maga. "That idiot who had to see to believe?"

"Yes, sweet," said Oliveira, thinking that underneath it all La Maga had hit upon the right saint. Happy was she who could believe without seeing, who was at one with the duration and continuity of life. Happy was she who was in the room, who had the freedom of the city in everything that she touched or came in contact with, a fish swimming downstream, a leaf on a tree, a cloud in the sky, an image in a poem. Fish, leaf, cloud, image: that’s it precisely, unless …"

" — Julio Cortázar — from Hopscotch trans. Gregory Rabassa
→ Aug 2014 "To do. To do something, to do good, to make water, to make time, action in all of its possibilities. But behind all action there was a protest, because all doing meant leaving from in order to arrive at, or moving something so that it would be here and not there, or going into a house instead of not going in or instead of going into the one next door; in other words, every act entailed the admission of a lack, of something not yet done and which could have been done, the tacit protest in the face of continuous evidence of a lack, of a reduction, of the inadequacy of the present moment. To believe that action could crown something, or that the sum total of actions could really be a life worthy of the name was the illusion of a moralist. It was better to withdraw, because withdrawal from action was the protest itself and not its mask." — Julio Cortázar — from Hopscotch trans. Gregory Rabassa
→ Aug 2014

i completed woolf’s orlando on the summit of el capitan - no, i didn’t climb, but because our original trip failed due to a broken water filter, we spent that night in the funniest campsite headed by an old dirt bag, salt dog, trigger fingered guy named andrew who could tell a story and also a detailed description of how he’d like to fuck anais nin - but he mentioned that he was going to el capitan next week and the trailhead was at the campsite - about nine or so miles with two thousand feet of elevation gained - so my friend and i went. i told myself that i would remember the scene because i have difficulty maintaining or recollecting images of beauty - but i think i am. we slept beneath the stars in a rock shrine that a climber had constructed and watched the sun descend past the bands of gradient pinks and half dome all emblazoned and the endurance of the gnarled pine trees

now i’m in portland for a week before school starts to see my family’s new house. it’s in a nice neighborhood, but i haven’t yet found old men willing to play chess with me

→ Aug 2014

apocalypse (n.) late 14c., “revelation, disclosure,” from Church Latin apocalypsis "revelation," from Greek apokalyptein "uncover, disclose, reveal," from apo- “from” + kalyptein "to cover, conceal" (see Calypso). The Christian end-of-the-world story is part of the revelation in John of Patmos’ book “Apokalypsis" (a title rendered into English as "Apocalypse" c.1230 and "Revelations" by Wyclif c.1380). Its general sense in Middle English was "insight, vision; hallucination;" meaning "a cataclysmic event" is modern. As agent nouns, apocalypst (1829), apocalypt (1834), and apocalyptist (1835) have been tried. 

(Source: etymonline.com)