• The Thing in Spring: May 13,14,15 in Peterborough   6 years 32 weeks ago

    I don't know if we are still at school for this, but all the semi-local people should definitely an organize a trip to this for the weekend. I could probably even put a few people up at my house for the weekend. It sounds really super awesome totally cool.

  • and miles to go before i sleep   6 years 32 weeks ago

    mhmmm. also happens to be my favorite.

  • and miles to go before i sleep   6 years 32 weeks ago

    Isn't that the Whitman poem from Death Proof? If so touche.

  • Photos from Lucubrations Trip: LOOKING: Figurative Paintings" by Kimberly Kersey Asbury   6 years 32 weeks ago

    these are cool. i like the dreaminess to them. light diffusing filter? 

  • If You Aren't Living Passionately, What The Hell Are You Doing?   6 years 32 weeks ago

     Love this. The night was fantastic. It was a good ending opener for a strange and enjoyable year at chapel arts.

    Next year, things will be just as great.

  • disillusionment   6 years 35 weeks ago

    Talk about contrast between background and foreground, gives me chills.

  • Napkin Writer   6 years 35 weeks ago

    Drinking black tea sounds a lot like how I drink crappy instant coffee.

  • tender is the night   6 years 36 weeks ago

    sleep  

    the buzz of grainy darkness

    in the corner

    of my room

    whispers "love"

    to me

                           empty

     but it is

     

  • thingsorganizedneatly   6 years 36 weeks ago

    I feel the urge to get coffee at a place that begins with the word tea.

  • thingsorganizedneatly   6 years 36 weeks ago

    I feel the urge to move things around into a random configuration here! ;) 

  • Part One: Trapped By A Dream   6 years 39 weeks ago

    I like this poem, and I like it even more with the introduction to it. The social conventions that make us present even our poetry in certain ways, according to certain conventions are all just lies to pen us in. 

  • she-ghost   6 years 40 weeks ago

    that is gorgeous and so fitting. thank you! 

     

    "i hunger for your sleek laugh and your hands the color of a furious harvest.

    i want to eat the sunbeams flaring in your beauty."

    -pablo neruda

  • she-ghost   6 years 40 weeks ago

     

    This little fragment of another poem came to mind when I saw this image

     

     

    pause  and    breathe

    in this delicious instant
    in this now
    populated with the
    fragrance of departure.
    warmed outlines of bodies
    on rumpled sheets still warm
    in the yellowslanting rays
    moments
    after you’ve left
     
     

     

  • Thrown   6 years 42 weeks ago

    She would not say of any one in the world now that they were this or were that. She felt very young; at the same time unspeakably aged. She sliced like a knife through everything; at the same time was outside, looking on. She had a perpetual sense, as she watched the taxi cabs, of being out, out, far out to sea and alone; she always had the feeling that it was very, very dangerous to live even one day. Not that she thought herself clever, or much out of the ordinary. How she had got through life on the few twigs of knowledge Fräulein Daniels gave them she could not think. She knew nothing; no language, no history; she scarcely read a book now, except memoirs in bed; and yet to her it was absolutely absorbing; all this; the cabs passing; and she would not say of Peter, she would not say of herself, I am this, I am that.

    She remembered once throwing a shilling into the Serpentine. But every one remembered; what she loved was this, here, now, in front of her; the fat lady in the cab. Did it matter then, she asked herself, walking towards Bond Street, did it matter that she must inevitably cease completely; all this must go on without her; did she resent it; or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely? but that somehow in the streets of London, on the ebb and flow of things, here, there, she survived, Peter survived, lived in each other, she being part, she was positive, of the trees at home; of the house there, ugly, rambling all to bits and pieces as it was; part of people she had never met; being laid out like a mist between the people she knew best, who lifted her on their branches as she had seen the trees lift the mist, but it spread ever so far, her life, herself. But what was she dreaming as she looked into Hatchards’ shop window? What was she trying to recover? What image of white dawn in the country, as she read in the book spread open:

    Fear no more the heat o’ the sun
    Nor the furious winter’s rages.

     

    Virginia Woolf Mrs Dalloway

  • Sketchbook Links   6 years 45 weeks ago

    DEADLINE EXTENDED TO Jan 17TH (due to natural disasters)

    You still have time to mail Sketchbooks to Brooklyn!

    see NEW details here

     

    Biocard deadline is now February 1st!

     

     

  • tidal   6 years 45 weeks ago

    All hands on deck

    Abandon all Ships

    Times have changed

    What was a beautiful tidal occurrence

    Is no longer.

  • The A-Side is Ok, But the B-Side is Where Its All At, Guy.   6 years 45 weeks ago

    Woah I didn't even realize I did that! The central stanza of 4 lines was just an issue of spacing that I didn't catch until you pointed it out, but now I'm definitely keeping it!

     

    I've been getting into vinyl albums lately and I like the idea of sides, its almost like having 2 CDs because you have to get up and change the side, which gives each album 2 different feelings depending on the side.

  • tidal   6 years 45 weeks ago

    roaring of the surf

    always in my ears

    silence speaks no more

  • The A-Side is Ok, But the B-Side is Where Its All At, Guy.   6 years 45 weeks ago

    I like how each of the stanzas has two lines, an A-side and a B-side, except for the one central stanza with 4 lines, which cuts the poem into two sides!

     

    It's funny that there really are no sides to albums anymore, but maybe that obsolesence of sides was part of the message.

  • the sky sings a ballot for you   6 years 46 weeks ago

    So the 3rd stanza reminds me of a common theme of positive hardcore music. "Vote with each beat of your heart" its a personal statement, full of courage and optimism even though the statement itself doesn't say vote for what specifically. Its almost like the intent is more important than the reason for our the outcome.

     

     

    On a stage once

    I only heard one phrase

    In their entire set

    "Do Something."


    Hold those words close.

    Live life

    Show the world

    You care.

  • marrow   6 years 46 weeks ago

    From Sartre's Nausea

     

    This root—there was nothing in relation to which it was absurd. Oh, how can I put it in words?

    Absurd: in relation to the stones, the tufts of yellow grass, the dry mud, the tree, the sky, the green

    benches. Absurd, irreducible; nothing—not even a profound, secret upheaval of nature—could

    explain it. Evidently I did not know everything, I had not seen the seeds sprout, or the tree grow. But

    faced with this great wrinkled paw, neither ignorance nor knowledge was important: the world of

    explanations and reasons is not the world of existence. A circle is not absurd, it is clearly explained by

    the rotation of a straight segment around one of its extremities. But neither does a circle exist. This

    root, on the other hand, existed in such a way that I could not explain it. Knotty, inert, nameless, it

    fascinated me, filled my eyes, brought me back unceasingly to its own existence. In vain to repeat:

    "This is a root"—it didn't work any more. I saw clearly that you could not pass from its function as a

    root, as a breathing pump, to that, to this hard and compact skin of a sea lion, to this oily, callous,

    headstrong look. The function explained nothing: it allowed you to understand generally that it was a

    root, but not that one at all. This root, with its colour, shape, its congealed movement, was . . . below

    all explanation. Each of its qualities escaped it a little, flowed out

    of it, half solidified, almost became a thing; each one was In the way in the root and the whole stump

    now gave me the impression of unwinding itself a little, denying its existence to lose itself in a

    frenzied excess. 

    . . .

    But as soon as you held on to them for an instant, this feeling of comfort and security gave

    way to a deep uneasiness: colours, tastes, and smells were never real, never themselves and nothing but

    themselves. The simplest, most indefinable quality had too much content, in relation to itself, in its

    heart. That black against my foot, it didn't look like black, but rather the confused effort to imagine

    black by someone who had never seen black and who wouldn't know how to stop, who would have

    imagined an ambiguous being beyond colours. It looked like a colour, but also . . . like a bruise or a

    secretion, like an oozing—and something

    else, an odour, for example, it melted into the odour of wet earth, warm, moist wood, into a black

    odour that spread like varnish over this sensitive wood, in a flavour of chewed, sweet fibre. I did not

    simply see this black: sight is an abstract invention, a simplified idea, one of man's ideas. That black,

    amorphous, weakly presence, far surpassed sight, smell and taste. But this richness was lost in

    confusion and finally was no more because it was too much.

    This moment was extraordinary. I was there, motionless and icy, plunged in a horrible ecstasy.

    But something fresh had just appeared in the very heart of this ecstasy; I understood the Nausea, I

    possessed it. To tell the truth, I did not formulate my discoveries to myself. But I think it would be

    easy for me to put them in words now. The essential thing is contingency. I mean that one cannot

    define existence as necessity. To exist is simply to be there; those who exist let themselves be

    encountered, but you can never deduce anything from them. I believe there are people who have

    understood this. Only they tried to overcome this contingency by inventing a necessary, causal being.

    But no necessary being can explain existence: contingency is not a delusion, a probability which can

    be dissipated; it is the absolute, consequently, the perfect free gift. All is free, this park, this city and

    myself. When you realize that, it turns your heart upside down and everything begins to float . . .

     


  • See Me   6 years 49 weeks ago

     that's really cool!

  • Course in History of American Musical Theater   6 years 49 weeks ago

    The number for this course is MU 241.

  • Affliction   6 years 50 weeks ago

    These are so nicely done. I'm envious of your ability to shoot yourself so honestly.  The inner strength really comes through.

  • Under the Influence: Boredom (At Work)   6 years 50 weeks ago

    Bravo!