Jakub Schikaneder (1855-1924, Czech painter)
Jakub Schikaneder - Dead Girl (1909)
tomorrow I’m flying to Spain. this is the first time i’ve flown since i was like…two years old. me siento como voy vomitar. de volar no tengo miedo pero quien sabes que podria pasar? un ave podria volar dentro de el motor. conmigo podrias enamorar una chica muy chula con pelo rojo y nalgas deliciosa o un baron con una verga grandisimo. eso seria bien, pero no estoy con animo de amar! hasta Madrid con seguridad!
in other words, tumblr hiatus. byebye. :)
you’re ever wanking and like, not feeling it, but then keep trying and feel yr cock losing enthusiasm and you just stop, dick in hand, just staring, hoping someone would walk in to console you
seasonal affective disorder
staved the hum of the sun
under black juglan in bloom
these boys practicing their picknrolls
these girls bronzing their jumpshots
where there is a hoop i see iterations of youth
where there is a fountain i see thirsty united states
grass hill sloped to water trough, that is, a river
carry me home into sediments, water of gray east
i lute with a hand of dirt a mouth of air a mind of slate
this is a time when i am more myself when you describe me
this is why we argue, to work at love my love
no, i can’t undo what the high light will do to me, but
summer shaves the cotton sky pink for a few months
and i am i once more with piscine distinction
you, though, say what a whirr was that season,
impatient to do it all over again
Out Hud “It’s For You”
in my freshman year at Brooklyn College I became friends with the singer of the somewhat recently broken up Out Hud, Phyllis Forbes. we met in an intro to creative writing course. she was interesting, a little dreary eyed and large haired. her jeans never seemed to conform around her body. and for some reason she really seemed more interested in me, seeking me out as if she saw something within herself in me. it took her a while to mention she was in Out Hud. the revelation came after a comfort had grown such it that showed the years between us, a comfort that had planted itself curiously. and this was before facebook’s dominion, in the age of myspace, in the dying moments of AIM. the word hipster wasn’t in full swing yet, and when one listens to Out Hud, it sounds like an authentic attempt at a sound without the burden of antecedents. anyway, around this time, she began to offer me prescription meds and seemed to be loosing a grip on things. she looked ever more tired, frequently displaced. her presence became sort of predatory to me, and granted, i was young, only eighteen or nineteen, and perhaps misread her intimacy for something i could not placate. my heart was elsewhere, afraid to experiment. alas, though, i think i did misread her. she seemed lonely and caught in the net between band life and real life, to which she now i believe has gotten her MFA at the CUNY Grad center. i don’t know what made me think of her tonight, but as i reflect on our brief, cursory friendship, it gives me occasion to realize how much of an asshole i am to perfectly kind people who really just want to be my friend.
Pond - Moth Wings
posted this sometyme ago i think maybe but why not again i mean its the thing
The organizing principle of the subject’s process and the signifying process [signifiance] is negativity. A principal borrowed from Hegel, negativity is the “time of dissolution of structure” (translation of Kristeva, 1977, 16). This principle clarifies how signification is recast, since it tends to dissolve all subjective unity. “[N]egativity is the concept that represents the irreducible relation of an “ineffable” flux […]”
George goes to take a shower, but discovers that the hot water is broken in his building. He shrugs it off and figures one of his neighbors will call the super. Later, he finds that there is also no hot water in his office’s bathroom, but writes it off as a strange coincidence, and is sure that someone else is already taking care of it. He stops at the coffee maker on his way to his desk and pours himself a cup. When he goes to take a sip, he finds it’s almost ice cold, despite the fact that he watched the pot finish brewing as he approached. Worried there might be something wrong with his sense of touch, he wanders around groping objects of varying temperatures, but they all seem to feel as he expects. The metal hood of a car is hot under his hand; an ice cube is cold. But every liquid he tries seems frigid.
Kramer pokes and prods at an ingrown hair in his belly, but has trouble pulling it out. When he finally manages to wrestle it from under his skin, the resulting strand is seemingly endless. He pulls it out for hundreds of feet before finally giving up.
Jerry suspects that his apartment has somehow expanded by an inch in every direction overnight. The others don’t notice any difference and dismiss his claim as crazy, but he sets up an elaborate system of measuring tools for verification. The next day, he checks the devices and finds that his apartment has grown four inches from the previous night. He shows his results to George, who is too concerned with his own problems to care. Another night passes, and Jerry wakes up in an enormous bedroom over twice as big as the one he remembered falling asleep in. He tries to get in touch with the others, but nobody answers his calls or returns his messages. At a loss, he decides to stay awake the following night to try to catch whatever is happening. At 2:47 AM, a soft rushing sound begins, and the walls and ceiling suddenly stretch away from him at an alarming rate. He’s left in a cavernous, dark room of indiscernible size, the doors and windows of which are so far away that he can’t make them out with the light of his flashlight. Terrified and alone, he begins the long trek in what he hopes is the direction of the front door.
A man in overalls taps George on the shoulder on his way home from work and tells him that he’s heard his hot water is broken. George nods and leads him to his apartment, bringing him into the bathroom once inside. As George bends over to turn on the tub faucet, the man yanks up the back of his shirt and feels around on his lower back. George remains still, too stunned and confused to react. After a few minutes of strange noises and sensations, the man tucks his shirt back in, taps him on the back, and tells him, “try it now.” George pokes his hand into the running water. It’s piping hot.
Kramer bursts into Jerry’s apartment to show him the hair, but is surprised to find an impossibly enormous, dark room. He grabs a flashlight from his own apartment and rushes back to hunt for his friend. Tying the end of his hair to the doorknob as a tether, he begins his expedition. After hours of searching, he finally spots Jerry in the distance.
Elaine dates a guitar virtuoso, thrilled by the potential of his “magic fingers”, but is disappointed when the man refuses to interact with her using his hands out of fear of a career-wrecking injury.
Jerry is thrilled to see Kramer approaching, his first sign of human contact in almost three hours. He hollers excitedly, waving his flashlight around and jumping up and down. Kramer jogs toward him, a relieved smile on his face, suddenly collapsing into a bloody pile of chunks.