we don’t have to go without

20.12.13

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Without by Sampha

I see the pictures that you fake,
the darkness in your days don't change, they don’t change
what I’m saying, won't you say it
you need somebody
that comes along to say
that you are going to be ok

memphis

13.12.13

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Memphis

I'm a fever in your chest

13.12.13

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Yonderly

13.12.13

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Mentally or emotionally distant; absent-minded.



via A-Z of Unusual Words

connecting people

12.12.13

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Krzysztof Kieślowski
Different people in different parts of the world can be thinking the same thoughts at the same time. It's an obsession of mine, that different people, in different places, are thinking the same thing, but for different reasons. I try to make films which connect people.

by Krzysztof Kieślowski (via)

Deep memory is a polyphony of voices

5.12.13

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(...) everything you read might end up in your work whether you're aware of it or not. At the same time the reader brings their own readings into the reading of a new work and might identify echoes the writer never interacted directly with. When you read an author, let's say author X, you might be reading so many other authors indirectly, and all these authors were in turn reading other authors that you as a reader might too have read. So, you, as a reader, find these echoes there that perhaps author X never intended. It's all really promiscuous and confusing; an orgy of voices making up a unique voice. Reading might be one of the most promiscuous activities as you get to be intimate with all these voices replayed in your head with your own voice.


Susana Medina (via debunking the anxiety of influence)

a lifetime of longing

21.11.13

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My ears hear what others cannot hear; small faraway things people cannot normally see are visible to me. These senses are the fruits of a lifetime of longing, longing to be rescued, to be completed. Just as the skirt needs the wind to billow, I'm not formed by things that are of myself alone. I wear my father's belt tied around my mother's blouse, and shoes which are from my uncle. This is me. Just as a flower does not choose its color, we are not responsible for what we have come to be. Only once you realize this do you become free, and to become adult is to become free.

creative women are putting forth more complicated versions of femininity

19.11.13

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Brit Marling

The bigger the stretch or the farther away it is from you, the most pleasure you get in the attempt to reach for it and get yourself around it. I never want to do something that I've done before, and I never want to do something that I feel comfortable with...you can find the things that feel like a stretch for you and then push it even further...it's exciting that more women are writing because I think we're desperate to understand ourselves, and I think men want to understand their wives and their girlfriends and daughters and sisters better. I think these movies are starting to show something. Creative women are putting forth more complicated versions of femininity.


Brit Marling (via BlackBook)

ron fucking swason

15.11.13

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ron swason

I wanna get completely off the grid.

(...)

how are you gonna post photos of the dope food at restaurants you're at and all the cool places you're stutin' in?

food is for eating. places are for being. end of discussion.


in Parks and Recreation (S06E03)

my everyday life

15.11.13

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or how my age and height never fail to amaze people.

instrutor de condução,
então, já acabaste o 12º ano?

eu,
já sou licenciada (...) há dois anos.

Set my spirit free, Set my body free

11.11.13

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I'm standing on a stage
Of fear and self-doubt
It's a hollow play
But they'll clap anyway

(...)

I'm living in an age
Whose name I don't know
Though the fear keeps me moving
Still my heart beats so slow

(...)

My body is a cage
We take what we're given
Just because you've forgotten
That don't mean you're forgiven

i'm quite normal until i go mad

7.11.13

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Did you study poetry at all?

Hell no, I detest most poetry. Ancient, modern. I can’t read it, I can’t stomach it. I just stay away from all academic training. I try to stay away from poets. And short story writers. And novelists. I’d rather get drunk with a plumber. Or even a cop.


More Sublime, Charles Bukowski (via Beautiful Voices Project)

the light bulb swinging like a metronome

3.11.13

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slipping away
disappear, disappear
tell nobody

the only thing is not to melt in the meanwhile

3.11.13

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I don't know why we live - the gift of life comes to us from I don't know what source or for what purpose; but I believe we can go on living for the reason that (always of course up to a certain point) life is the most valuable thing we know anything about and it is therefore presumptively a great mistake to surrender it while there is any yet left in the cup.


Henry James: Selected Letters (via Letters of Note)

Oh, how they come and go

31.10.13

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Betty said she prayed today
For the sky to blow away
Or maybe stay
She wasn't sure.

without

31.10.13

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And I sit here without identity: faceless.
My head aches.

The Unabridged Journals, Sylvia Plath

a self, every moment it exists, is in a process of becoming

29.10.13

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for the self [kata dynamin - potentially] is not present actually, it is merely what is to come into existence. in so far, then, as the self does not become itself, it is not itself; but to not be oneself is exactly despair.


The Sickness Unto Death, Søren Kierkegaard

Don't you forget about me

25.10.13

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i won't
won't tell nobody

Tonight

25.10.13

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I want to resemble a sort of liquid light which stretches beyond visibility or invisibility. Tonight I wish to have the valor and daring to belong to the moon.


A Writer’s Diary, Virginia Woolf

Nietzsche lo pone en duda

22.10.13

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untitled

cualquier nexo es alquitrán

tienes el estómago lleno

Nietzsche lo pone en duda

by santosxpecadores

a hole that extends to the center of the earth

22.10.13

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I cannot really play. Either at piano or at life; never, never have I been able to. I have always been too hasty, too impatient; something always intervenes and breaks it up. But who really knows how to play, and if he does know, what good is it to him? Is the great dark less dark for that, are the unanswerable questions less inscrutable, does the pain of despair at eternal inadequacy burn less fiercely, and can life ever be explained and seized and ridden like a tamed horse or is it always a mighty sail that carries us in the storm and, when we try to seize it, sweep us into the deep? Sometimes there is a hole in me that seems to extend to the center of the earth. What could fill it? Yearning? Despair? Happiness? What happiness? Fatigue? Resignation? Death? What am I alive for? Yes, for what am I alive?

The Black Obelisk, Erich Maria Remarque

pornography is full of men who if you were to diagnose them would basically be diagnosed as psychopathic

15.10.13

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1 comentário


When I asked male interview subjects what they would like to do in bed, "ejaculation on a woman’s face" was most often at the top of their lists. But when I asked them what the attraction of this act was and whether it meant anything, their initial response was puzzlement. They had never given it much thought. With time for reflection, however, most came up with answers very similar to those of the pornographers I interviewed: it is about controlling women, doing something disgusting to them. It’s like spitting or urinating on them.

Thus something unsettling about gender relationships mediated by pornography is revealed: on-screen male domination is sugar-coated -- portrayed as causing women ecstasy -- which in turn arouses further desire on the part of the male viewers: the desire to experience the pleasure derived from control and aggression. And deep down, these viewers understand it. "The second you have an orgasm and that passion sinks out of your body, and you’re still watching the movie, you start to really see what’s going on," one male college student said. "This is not sexy. This is not sex. This is not how I want to experience sex."

- Chyng Sun (via)




The first thing you notice in pornography - there's no such thing as a woman. There's lot of bitches, whores, cunts and cum dumpsters. No women. The reason for that is because the level of abuse and violence is so profound that you have to make sure that the guy who is jerking off to that woman does not look for one minute into her eyes and see a human being, because it may kill his erection stone-dead.

(...)

[quoting pornographer Jules Jordan]

One of the things about today's porn, the extreme market, the gonzo market, so many fans want to see much more extreme stuff that I'm always trying to figure out how to do something differently.

What he's saying is that they cannot keep up with the violence that the fans want. Now they have a problem and I'll tell you what the problem is. The problem is that this is a multi-billion dollar a year industry. They have to keep within the law.
They can't kill her really because now there's nothing short, there's nothing left to do to her, they have done everything conceivable that you could do to the female body and men want more.
So they have to stay within the law but they don't know what to do. So what do they do? They change the law.

- Dr. Gail Dines (via)


*i'm starting to see a pattern on my tumblr's dashboard.*

that suffocating moment...

13.10.13

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when you feel your heart aching with all its strength,
like you can sense something terrible happened somewhere, somehow,
but you have no idea what or to whom.

Call your name two, three times in a row...

13.10.13

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Charlotte, Charlotte, Charlotte

why do you make everything sound so good?


quem cala consente.

9.10.13

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hoje no centro de saúde, após 3 tentativas falhadas de me medir a pressão arterial, 3 vezes a enfermeira exclamou

está morta. não oiço nada.

eu calei-me.

Love In The Sky

8.10.13

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i think I've looped this short version of the song 40 times already. just today.


em busca do sentido

8.10.13

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O sofrimento de alguma forma deixa de ser sofrimento no momento em que encontra um significado, tal como o significado do sacrifício.
(...)
A preocupação principal do homem não é obter prazer ou evitar a dor, mas sim ver um significado na sua vida. É por isso que o homem está mesmo pronto a sofrer, sob a condição garantida, de que o seu sofrimento tem significado.


Em Busca do Sentido, Viktor Frankl

You don't possess life; life expresses itself through you.

6.10.13

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Observe your own body. It breathes.
You breathe when you are asleep, when you are no longer conscious of your own ideas of self-identity.
Who, then, is breathing?
The collection of information that you mistakenly think is you is not the protagonist in this drama called the breath.
In fact, you are not breathing; breath is naturally happening to you.
You can purposely end your own life, but you cannot purposely keep your own life going.
The expression, ‘my life’ is actually an oxymoron, a result of ignorance and mistaken assumption.
You don't possess life; life expresses itself through you.
Your body is a flower that life let bloom,
a phenomenon created by life.


The Twelve Enlightenments, Ilchi Lee

finding a place where the beam of light can be caught

5.10.13

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Art flies around truth, but with the definite intention of not getting burnt. Its capacity lies in finding in the dark void a place where the beam of light can be intensely caught, without this having been perceptible before.

Blue Octavo Notebooks, Franz Kafka

nos tempos livres

2.10.13

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Tarkovsky

Andrei Tarkovsky (via)

She couldn't hold on to it and make sure it never changed.

30.9.13

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I think she was afraid to love sometimes. I think it scared her. She was the type to like things that are concrete, like the ocean. Something you could point to and know what it was… And I think that’s why she struggled with love. She couldn't touch it. She couldn't hold on to it and make sure it never changed.

The Dead-Tossed Waves, Carrie Ryan

It's All Matter

29.9.13

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We're all the same
And all so very different
Divine by design
It all intertwines
Ain't nothing new
But we always changing
Moving
Still water's soft
Yet so hard

So what is love?
What is it?
What's is love, what is it?
Cool on the outside
Hot in the middle
Cool on the outside
Hot in the middle
You ain't even gotta try
All you gotta do is realize
You ain't even gotta try
All you gotta do is realize

Eh, it's all matter

Oh one great big small thing
Like pollen in the sping breeze
A spec of dust in this vast universe
Just like a rain drop
Dropped in the sea of consciousness
It's all matter
Eh, it's all matter

Celestial Dynamics

26.9.13

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so beautiful.

(via)

creating oneself endlessly

25.9.13

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for a conscious being, to exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.

by Henri Bergson (via)

updates

23.9.13

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diz que actualizei o meu portfolio e a minha barra de ligações aqui do blog

criei um instagram

actualizei as minhas playlists no youtube (porque não tenho mais nada que fazer)

e espero em breve ter tudo preparado para finalmente ter a minha loja no society6 a funcionar.

já agora, apelo a quem usa o spotify que me adicione porque aquilo por lá está muito triste e singelo.

If I had to define myself?

23.9.13

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I'd walk out the door wihout a word.
I don't define myself.

by Luis Buñuel

Strange Flowers

23.9.13

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Strange Flowers

by Olaf Hajek

It is really a matter of ending this silence and solitude, of breathing and stretching one's arms again.

23.9.13

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Mark Rothko

I'm not an abstractionist. I'm not interested in the relationship of color or form or anything else. I'm interested only in expressing basic human emotions: tragedy, ecstasy, doom, and so on.

by Mark Rothko

i want Shields B-Sides now!

21.9.13

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healing the rupture

21.9.13

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Fiction and poetry are doses, they’re medicines. And what they heal is the rupture reality makes on the imagination.

by Jeanette Winterson (via)

por onde deambulei esta passada quinzena

16.9.13

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2 comentários


Fóia

Monchique

Silves

Silves

Lagos

Lagos

note to self: editar uma mixtape com as músicas que ouvi repetidamente este verão.

Learn your way around loneliness.

31.8.13

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Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience. But never again use another person’s body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.

Eat, Pray, Love, Elizabeth Gilbert

Stray Dogs

31.8.13

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Stray Dogs

In anger my hair stands on end
And as the rain stops
I launch a shrill cry at the heavens
My valiant heart loses hope
My exploits are naught but mud and dust
And my wanderings but a could under the moon
Regret may turn my still-young head grey
O vainglorious pain!

trailer

"Angelo, that's Twin Peaks"

30.8.13

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this gives me shivers everytime. perfect.


(via)

I don't like the idea of "understanding" a film.

27.8.13

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I don't believe that rational understanding is an essential element in the reception of any work of art. Either a film has something to say to you or it hasn't. If you are moved by it, you don’t need it explained to you. If not, no explanation can make you moved by it.
by Federico Fellini

Lose yourself in the hollow, frigid darkness of the night.

23.8.13

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A strange gratitude

23.8.13

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Kiss your demons
One by one
On the head

They have paved your way-
They have helped you survive-
No matter how dysfunctionally.

Remember you are here
Sometimes in spite of them
Sometimes because of them.

Honor where you have been,
Who you have been, and what you have done to get to this moment

(via)

do we share the same secret without knowing it? wear the same disguise?

23.8.13

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How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn't they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?

White Noise by Don DeLillo (via)

we are not static

13.8.13

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We are not landscapes, skyscrapers, monuments. We are not static. In the silences between the words said and the words unsaid, the real silences - the truth gently rises to the top. The truth we are all too terrified to face. Maybe some of us have known the truth, some of us might have tried to believe in other truths, appropriate them, make them our own, crush the blue prints and gulp them down with soda.

There are no blue prints for this life. There is no map, no matter where you have booked your tickets to. There is no certainty, no matter what marriage vows you have made. There is nothing but you and I and this moment. Time, he is restless. He will not stand still, he will not wait. This moment, it is. It is. Ephemeral.

Then we close our eyes. The ceiling, the now. Tomorrow, we will be other people. Wearing other masks, feeling someone else’s hurt, lightening someone else’s load. But tomorrow, with certainty, we will other ourselves from ourselves. In somnolence, we disintegrate, sand through fingers - only to reintegrate, molecules intact, but never the same.

Tomorrow will come. And maybe, many other tomorrows. And maybe yesterdays will come to naught. And memories, faded polaroid pictures. Or plastic, burning; emitting that distinct smell that seeps into you and stays within you.

But now, Time will tell you. He is running to the door. And he is winking at you. He is mocking you. He is telling you things you do not want to hear.

You shut your ears, and pretend not to listen. Time is a clown, and we are all laughing our way through one big joke.


(via)

film music in the raw, as rough and unpolished as Cassavetes' movies

5.8.13

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No One Around to Hear It (demo) by Bo Harwood

Cassavetes and Hardwood
Like the films of John Cassavetes, the music that Bo Harwood recorded is very special for reasons hard to explain. Raw, unrefined, yet holding tremendous emotional power within such simple musical structures, it beautifully complimented the unique work Cassavetes and company were creating in front of the camera.

To the Present Tense

31.7.13

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By the time you are
by the time you come to be
by the time you read this
by the time you are written
by the time you forget
by the time you are water through fingers
by the time you are taken for granted
by the time it hurts
by the time it goes on hurting
by the time there are no words for you
by the time you remember
but without names
by the time you are in the papers
and on the telephone
passing unnoticed there too

who is it
to whom you come
before whose very eyes
you are disappearing
without making yourself known?




To the Present Tense, W.S. Merwin

Amberay

31.7.13

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1 comentário



twit

19.7.13

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1 comentário


from now on I shall doodle my twits.


Fuck The Pain Away

The visible carries all the invisible on its back

18.7.13

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Each word, as someone once wrote, contains the universe.
The visible carries all the invisible on its back.
Tonight, in the unconditional, what moves in the long-limbed grasses,
                                                                    what touches me
As though I didn’t exist?
What is it that keeps on moving,
                                          a tiny pillar of smoke
Erect on its hind legs,
                               loose in the hollow grasses?
A word I don’t know yet, a little word, containing infinity,
Noiseless and unrepentant, in sift through the dry grass.
Under the tongue is the utterance.
Under the utterance is the fire, and then the only end of fire.


A Short History of the Shadow, Charles Wright

Am I losing control?

15.7.13

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Am I losing my mind?
Cause this thing called time's an illusion that we all trust

new shapes from old

15.7.13

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Nothing retains its form; new shapes from old.
Nature, the great inventor, ceaselessly contrives.

In all creation, be assured, there is no death—no death,
but only change and innovation; what we people call birth
is but a different new beginning; death is but
to cease to be the same.

Perhaps this may have moved to that and that to this,
yet still the sum of things remains the same.



Ovid, Metamorphoses, Pythagoras (via)

meanwhile, the world goes on

9.7.13

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Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting---
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.


Wild Geese, Mary Oliver (via)

Local Natives nas ruas do Porto

9.7.13

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that awkward moment

8.7.13

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when your mother gets home and tells you about the boy from your hometown, that was nearly your age, and threw himself from his balcony to his death.
and then you decide to distract yourself on youtube to find out this video from zefrank that ends with an animation that pretty much resembles what you've been told.
yesterday was a weird day, and today feels even weirder. oh well.

Above all, do not lose your desire to walk.

30.6.13

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Everyday, I walk myself into a state of well-being & walk away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it. But by sitting still, & the more one sits still, the closer one comes to feeling ill. Thus if one just keeps on walking, everything will be all right.

by Søren Kierkegaard (via)

A feeling like all the surfaces inside you have been rubbed raw

28.6.13

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It starts in the morning as soon as you wake up. You see the sun through the curtains, it’s a beautiful day maybe, it doesn’t matter. You turn over to see if you can sleep some more but it’s already too late for that. The day is upon you. You want to hide, to curl up in a ball, but that’s not what you really want either. After all. It doesn’t stop your mind, does it? It doesn’t stop the ache. It’s not an escape. The whole day in front of you. How will you bear it. You want to escape, but there’s no place you can go where it won’t be with you.

The Dogs of Babel, Carolyn Parkhurst

we all make mistakes, we do

28.6.13

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Please sleep softly
Leave me no room for doubt

the present is forever

26.6.13

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With me, the present is forever, and forever is always shifting, flowing, melting. This second is life. And when it is gone, it is dead. But you can’t start over with each new second, you have to judge by what is dead. It’s like quicksand…hopeless from the start. A story, a picture, can renew sensation a little, but not enough. Nothing is real except the present, and already I feel the weight of centuries smothering me. Some girl a hundred years ago once lived as I do. And she is dead. I am the present, but I know I, too, will pass. The high moment, the burning flash come and are gone, continuous quicksand. And I don’t want to die.


Journals (1950-1955), Sylvia Plath (via)

hope you stay.

20.6.13

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2 comentários


oh I know you can hear me all those million miles away.

hi again, familiar feeling.

18.6.13

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A solidão envolve-o, encerra-o dentro de si mesmo, e com isso vem um terror pior do que tudo o que conhecera até então. Causa-lhe perplexidade mudar tão rapidamente de um estado para outro, e durante muito tempo alterna entre os extremos, não sabendo qual é o verdadeiro e qual é o falso.

Fantasmas, A Trilogia de Nova Iorque, Paul Auster

For women who are tied to the moon, love alone is not enough.

12.6.13

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You rare girl, once again, you have a body that belongs to no lover, to no father, belongs to no one but you. Wear your sorrow like the lines on your palm. Like a shawl to keep you warm at night. Don’t mourn the love that is lost to you now. It is a book of poems whose meters worked their way into your pulse. Even if it has slipped from your hands, it will stay in your body.
You loved a man who treated you like absinthe, half poison and half god. He tried to sweeten you, to water you down. So you left. And now you have your heart all to yourself again. A heart like a stone cottage. Heart like a lover’s diary. Hope like an ocean.


Anais Nin, numa carta a Clementine von Radics (via)

And despite everything I'm still human

7.6.13

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Underneath the skin there's a human
Buried deep within there's a human
And despite everything I'm still human
But I think I'm dying here

Waking up like an animal
I'm all ready for healing
My mind's lost with nightmares streaming
Waking up (kicking screaming)

Take me out of this place I'm in
Break me out of this shale case I'm in

to begin the day

4.6.13

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You go downstairs and prepare a pot of coffee, the strongest, blackest coffee you have made in years, figuring that if you flood yourself with titanic doses of caffeine, you will be lifted into something that resembles wakefulness, a partial wakefulness, which will allow you to sleepwalk through the rest of the morning and on into the afternoon. You drink the first cup slowly. It is exceedingly hot and must be swallowed in small sips, but then the coffee begins to cool down, and you drink the second cup more rapidly than the first, the third more rapidly than the second, and swallow by swallow the liquid splashes into your empty stomach like acid. You can feel the caffeine accelerating your heart rate, agitating your nerves, and beginning to light you up. You are awake now, fully awake and yet still weary, drained but ever more alert, and in your head there is a buzzing that wasn't there before, a low-pitched mechanical sound, a humming, a whining, as if from a distant, out-of-tune radio, and the more you drink, the more you feel your body changing, the less you feel that you are made of flesh and blood. You are turning into something metallic now, a rusty contraption that simulates human life, a thing put together with wires and fuses, vast circuits of wires controlled by random electrical impulses, and now that you have finished the third cup of coffee, you pour yourself another - which turns out to be the last one, the lethal one. The attack begins simultaneously from the inside and the outside, a sudden feeling of pressure from the air around you, as if an invisible force were trying to push you through the chair and knock you to the ground, but at the same time an unearthly lightness in your head, a vertiginous jangle thrumming against the walls of your skull, and all the while the outside continues to press in on you, even as the inside grows empty, ever more dark and empty, as if you are about to pass out. Then your pulse quickens, you can feel your heart trying to burst through your chest, and a moment after that there is no more air in your lungs, you can no longer breathe. That is when the panic overwhelms you, when your body shuts down and you fall to the floor. Lying on your back, you feel the blood stop flowing in your veins, and little by little your limbs turn to cement. That is when you start to howl. You are made of stone now, and as you lie there on the dining room floor, rigid, your mouth open, unable to move or think, you howl in terror as you wait for your body to drown in the deep black waters of death.


Winter Journal, Paul Auster

I'm feeling it

23.5.13

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everytime this song starts playing I have chills all over my body.

Be Free, A Way by The Flaming Lips

The most heavenly sound that exists in the present. I imagine that the universe is coalescing in my heart of hearts when i am in contact with this beautiful melody.

I reject the label atheist

22.5.13

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Brian Cox
I reject the label atheist because defining me in terms of the things I don’t believe would require an infinite list of nouns

by Brian Cox (via)

after all I am nothing but an empty void

12.5.13

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for, still, I can affirm nothing about myself which would be really myself; nothing, either, which would be permanent; nothing which would be secure against criticism and the passage of time. Hence the craving to be confirmed from outside, by another; this paradox, by virtue of which even the most self-centred among us looks to others and only to others for his final investiture.


Homo Viator, Gabriel Marcel (via)

sighs

7.5.13

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Bela Tarr

I have nothing to do with the filming community in Budapest. They don't like me, because I don't make conventional films. I can't talk with them about films, because I live and think differently than them. They are film makers and I am not. I don't know what I am.

Béla Tarr

we all derive from the same source

4.5.13

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Every man, when he gets quiet, when he becomes desperately honest with himself, is capable of uttering profound truths. We all derive from the same source. There is no mystery about the origin of things. We are all part of creation, all kings, all poets, all musicians; we have only to open up, only to discover what is already there.


by Henry Miller (via)

i totally forgot to die today.

3.5.13

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- tu hj nao tinhas de morrer cedo?

como se a música não fosse já adictiva o suficiente

2.5.13

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now I can pick which version of Get Lucky to listen to according to my mood.

If I'm feeling nostalgic I can go with the cover from Daughter

or if I'm feeling more energetic I just go with the original from Daft Punk

how cool is that?

one time i was crying and it was really windy and my tears hit the man standing behind me on the face

2.5.13

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comic via

I totally fell in love with this

29.4.13

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Smoke by Twin Sister

Lightly, lightly

29.4.13

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It’s dark because you are trying too hard. Lightly child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. I was so preposterously serious in those days, such a humorless little prig. Lightly, lightly – it’s the best advice ever given me. When it comes to dying even. Nothing ponderous, or portentous, or emphatic. No rhetoric, no tremolos, no self conscious persona putting on its celebrated imitation of Christ or Little Nell. And of course, no theology, no metaphysics. Just the fact of dying and the fact of the clear light. So throw away your baggage and go forward. There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair. That’s why you must walk so lightly. Lightly my darling, on tiptoes and no luggage, not even a sponge bag, completely unencumbered.

Island, Aldous Huxley (via)

Swan swan tell me where do you sail to when the sun goes

22.4.13

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Neste mundo não existe a bondade absoluta nem a maldade absoluta.

22.4.13

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O bem e o mal não são entidades estáticas e intangíveis, mas sim valores que estão sempre a trocar de lugar e de posição. O que hoje é considerado o «bem» pode transforma-se no «mal» enquanto o diabo esfrega o olho. O mesmo acontece no mundo que Dostoiévski descreve em Os Irmãos Karamázov. O importante é preservar o equilíbrio entre esse bem e esse mal em perpétuo movimento. O facto de um dos dois se inclinar demasiado para um lado dificulta a conservação da moral realista. Sim, o bem é o equilíbrio em si mesmo.


1Q84, Haruki Murakami

i suppose it never does.

21.4.13

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(...) though she pushed her voice out as far as possible until sometimes it became a bird and flew away, she thought it doubtful whether it ever reached the person she was talking to.

The Voyage Out, Virginia Woolf

twit

20.4.13

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é normal uma pessoa começar a chorar a ouvir a Retrograde do James Blake à uma da manhã ou isto é só a TPM a dar-me cabo do sistema hormonal?

Suddenly I'm hit
Is this darkness of the dawn
And your friends are gone
When you friends won't come

just how far is the sky?

20.4.13

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My heartbeat has reached the epitome of rottenness; It is no longer part of my heart. Time for the shadows to come and grab me by the brain. Dearest, I am asking you again: Just how far is the sky?

Selected Letters, Friedrich Nietzsche (via)

diabos em forma de gente

17.4.13

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2 comentários


Quando não consideramos que o homem diante de nós é um ser humano, poucas serão as restrições que a nossa consciência imporá ao nosso comportamento para com ele.

Cidade de Vidro, Trilogia de Nova Iorque, Paul Auster

one day

14.4.13

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There is a sadness in this world, for we are ignorant of many things. Yes, we are ignorant of many beautiful things - things like the truth. So sadness, in our ignorance, is very real.
The tears are real. What is this thing called a tear? There are even tiny ducts - tear ducts - to produce these tears should the sadness occur. Then the day when the sadness comes - then we ask: 'Will this sadness which makes me cry - will this sadness that makes my heart cry out - will it ever end?'
The answer, of course, is yes. One day the sadness will end.

in Twin Peaks

I'm tired of my cave.

14.4.13

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querido diário

12.4.13

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4 comentários


o meu primeiro dia como proprietária de um velocípede de duas rodas não podia ter corrido melhor.
no regresso a casa estatelei-me de tal forma à beira da estrada que até parei o trânsito. foi um sucesso, portanto.

How Japan’s modern master revives our taste for everyday life

8.4.13

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I grew up on a steady diet of movies that made everyday life seem less and less interesting. But along the way, I encountered films that offered a different sensibility. I found that when I left the cinema after watching these films, everyday life didn’t seem more dreary or bland, but more meaningful and savoury. In a way, these films helped restore my taste for the everyday.

ler o resto do ensaio aqui

A Journey Through the Moonlight

8.4.13

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In sleep when an old man's body is no longer aware of its boundaries, and lies flattened by gravity like a mere of wax in its bed... It drips down to the floor and moves there like a tear down a cheek... Under the back door into the silver meadow, like a pool of sperm, frosty under the moon, as if in his first nature, boneless and absurd.

The moon lifts him up into its white field, a cloud shaped like an old man, porous with stars.

He floats through high dark branches, a corpse tangled in a tree on a river.


by Russell Edson

O anjo de pedra

4.4.13

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Tinha os olhos abertos mas não via.
O corpo todo era a saudade
de alguém que o modelara e não sabia
que o tocara de maio e claridade.

Parava o seu gesto onde pára tudo:
no limiar das coisas por saber
- e ficara surdo e cego e mudo
para que tudo fosse grave no seu ser.


As mãos e os frutos, Eugénio de Andrade


* mais uma vez, obrigada Ó

art is making

3.4.13

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Jean Renoir
To the question “Is cinema an art?” my answer is, “What does it matter?” You can make films or you can cultivate a garden. Both have as much claim to be called art as a poem by Verlaine or a painting by Delacroix.
If your film or your garden is a good one it means that as a practitioner of cinema or gardening you are entitled to consider yourself an artist. The pastry-cook who makes a good cake is an artist. The ploughman with an old-fashioned plough creates a work of art when he ploughs a furrow. Art is not a calling in itself but the way in which one exercises a calling, and also the way in which one performs any human activity. I will give you my definition of art: art is “making.” The art of poetry is the art of making poetry. The art of love is the art of making love.

by Jean Renoir (via)

dos sinais?

3.4.13

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não sei o que fiz ao meu MusicBee que ele quer à força toda que eu oiça a
Find It Of Use dos Radiation City.
bem posso tentar reproduzir outra música qualquer que ele pimbas! toca sempre a mesma.

então está bem. I’ll find it of use.

on silence

2.4.13

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It must be immense, this silence, in which sounds and movements have room, and if one thinks that along with all this the presence of the distant sea also resounds, perhaps as the innermost note in this prehistoric harmony, then one can only wish that you are trustingly and patiently letting the magnificent solitude work upon you, this solitude which can no longer be erased from your life; which, in everything that is in store for you to experience and to do, will act an anonymous influence, continuously and gently decisive, rather as the blood of our ancestors incessantly moves in us and combines with our own to form the unique, unrepeatable being that we are at every turning of our life.


Letters To A Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke

bad seeds

28.3.13

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Elena

- Where does all this come from?

- Where do you think? Genes, Dad, heritage. Rotten seed. We're all bad seeds. Subhuman.

- Go on and have some babies. Maybe they'll turn out different.

- Different from everyone else? There's no such thing as 'different'. And I don't feel like experimenting in that area: it's painful, and expensive, and pointless.

- What is it with you and 'pointless'? Dumb excuses. You're just trying to avoid being responsible.

- Dad, it's irresponsible to produce offsprings that - you know - are going to be sick and doomed, since the parents are just as sick and doomed. And only because cosi fan tutte; because there is some apparently 'higher meaning' to it all, which is not ours to comprehend. After all we are merely the executors of this higher purpose. Shit's gotta be tasty, millions of flies can't be wrong. And, anyway, the world will end soon enough, in case you haven't heard.

- You know, it's strange, but listening to you, I feel a lot better.

- See, that's exactly why you breed: to suck the life from your children. And then you're surprised: "Where does all this come from?"

- Katya, you're such a twit sometimes.

- Thanks.

- I love you very much.



in Elena

So many constellations

27.3.13

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So many constellations that
are held out to us. I was,
when I looked at you - when? -
outside by
the other worlds.

O these ways, galactic.
O this hour, that weighed
nights over for us into
the burden of our names. It is,
I know, not true
that we lived, there moved,
blindly, no more than a breath between
there and not-there, and at times
our eyes whirred comet-like
toward things extinguished, in chasms,
and where they had burnt out,
splendid with teats, stood Time
on which already grew up
and down and away all that
is or was or will be -,

I know.
I know and you know, we knew,
we did not knew, we
were there, after all, and not there
and at times when
only the void stood between us we got
all the way to each other.



by Paul Celan

nunca mais é abril

27.3.13

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2 comentários


preciso de mais faixas dos The Knife para intercalar com a

já lá vão 7 anos...

the ugliness completes reality

25.3.13

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Dylan Nice
We all think a thousand thoughts every day that aren't our own, live out narratives not of our own invention, inhabit bodies preloaded with behaviors not of our choosing. Those bodies depend upon social and economic structures possessed of a psychology to which we either submit or suffer the life of an invalid. That's all pretty banal, boilerplate I'm-a-modern-human stuff, but its banality doesn't alleviate its problemness.

That said, I find the prospect of being alive, of having a life, cripplingly beautiful. The girl who bagged my groceries tonight at the Hy-Vee had a face that arrested me for a full second, long enough to provide the sufficient beauty for a great deal more suffering at my own hands or by the grip of history. I'm not indignant. I'm a little in love with how fucked up and strange everything is e.g., America, the Hy-Vee, its plastic bags swirling in the great Pacific garbage vortex. The ugliness completes reality, makes it worthy of love.

I think it's my nature to reject any prescriptions to tidy it up. I'm repulsed, on some level, by preciousness, by ploys to anesthetize the experience of life via beauties that aren't also very cruel. I guess the book was a love letter to experience, a thank you for not taking it easy on me.


Dylan Nice numa entrevista à Bookslut

Let Us Consider

24.3.13

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Let us consider the farmer who makes his straw hat his
sweetheart; or the old woman who makes a floor lamp her son;
or the young woman who has set herself the task of scraping
her shadow off a wall....

Let us consider the old woman who wore smoked cows’
tongues for shoes and walked a meadow gathering cow chips
in her apron; or a mirror grown dark with age that was given
to a blind man who spent his nights looking into it, which
saddened his mother, that her son should be so lost in
vanity....

Let us consider the man who fried roses for his dinner,
whose kitchen smelled like a burning rose garden; or the man
who disguised himself as a moth and ate his overcoat, and for
dessert served himself a chilled fedora....


by Russell Edson

everything is beautiful except when we forget our own human dignity

21.3.13

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The leaves did not stir on the trees, cicadas twanged, and the monotonous muffled sound of the sea that rose from below spoke of the peace, the eternal sleep awaiting us. So it rumbled below when there was no Yalta, no Oreanda here; so it rumbles now, and it will rumble as indifferently and as hollowly when we are no more. And in this constancy, in this complete indifference to the life and death of each of us, there lies, perhaps a pledge of our eternal salvation, of the unceasing advance of life upon earth, of unceasing movement towards perfection. Sitting beside a young woman who in the dawn seemed so lovely, Gurov, soothed and spellbound by these magical surroundings - the sea, the mountains, the clouds, the wide sky - thought how everything is really beautiful in this world when one reflects: everything except what we think or do ourselves when we forget the higher aims of life and our own human dignity.

The Lady With the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904, Anton Chekhov

untitled

21.3.13

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untitled
by Maria Loureiro

remember to pull away the coverings

20.3.13

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As I get older, I find I get more and more disagreeably solitary; In fact I foresee the day when I shall have gone too far into myself that there will no longer be anything to be seen of me at all. Will you, please, remember to pull away the coverings from time to time? Or I shall get quite lost.

Vita Sackville-West numa carta a Virginia Woolf (via)

quem canta seus mal espanta.

15.3.13

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2 comentários


e diz que agora para além de cantar também danço, o que tem resultado num bom antidepressivo.

fica aqui um pequeno memo com as minhas fontes de inspiração.

#1
#2
#3

I knew something was wrong

12.3.13

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the day I tried to pick up a
small piece of sunlight
and it slithered through my fingers,
not wanting to take shape.
Everything else stayed the same—
the chairs and the carpet
and all the corners
where the waiting continued.

by Dorothea Grossman (via)

cassavetes at work

4.3.13

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John Cassavetes

já disse que adoro este homem? I shall say it again.

I won't call my work entertainment. It's exploring. It's asking questions of people, constantly. How much do you feel? How much do you know? Are you aware of this? Can you cope with this? A good movie will ask you questions you don't already know the answers to. Film is an investigation of our lives. What we are. What our responsibilities in life are - if any. What we are looking for. Why would I want to make a film about something I already understand? People have said that my films are very difficult to watch, that they're experiences you are put through rather than ones you enjoy, and it's true.
(foto via criterion)

das músicas orgásmicas.

2.3.13

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acho que já ouvi esta música umas 30 vezes ontem à noite.
e retomei hoje a maratona.

Ingenue by Atoms for Peace

and it's live

2.3.13

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3 comentários


(aconselho a que vejam o vídeo em fullcreen)

Monica Gabriel is a Portuguese artist who did a very simple and touching video of my song "Unbedingt" ("The Boy who cried wolf"). A sort of Haïku, where a single tear is more powerful than any other word.

*thank you for your kind words Fred
**damn it, I misspelled the name of the song at the end...

one can choose simply to live in the mystery

24.2.13

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Luis Bunuel

All my life I've been harassed by questions: Why is something this way and not another? How do you account for that? This rage to understand, to fill in the blanks, only makes life more banal. If we could only find the courage to leave our destiny to chance, to accept the fundamental mystery of our lives, then we might be closer to the sort of happiness that comes with innocence.

Fortunately, somewhere between chance and mystery lies imagination, the only thing that protects our freedom, despite the fact that people keep trying to reduce it or kill it off altogether. I suppose that's why Christianity invented the notion of intentional sin. When I was younger, my so-called conscience forbade me to entertain certain images -- like fratricide, for instance, or incest. I'd tell myself these were hideous ideas and push them out of my mind. But when I reached the age of sixty, I finally understood the perfect innocence of the imagination. It took that long for me to admit that whatever entered my head was my business and mine alone. The concepts of sin or evil simply didn't apply; I was free to let my imagination go wherever it chose, even if it produced bloody images and hopelessly decadent ideas. When I realized that, I suddenly accepted everything. "Fine," I used to say to myself. "So I sleep with my mother. So what?" Even now, whenever I say that, the notions of sin and incest vanish beneath the great wave of my indifference.



Luis Buñuel (via)

Words should only be used when we need to delve deeper into the heart of things

21.2.13

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Robert Bresson
Words should say everything an image can't. Before having characters speak, we should examine everything they could express, with their eyes, above all with body language, certain kinds of interaction, certain ways of behaving. Words should only be used when we need to delve deeper into the heart of things. In short, ideas must be expressed on film using appropriate images and sounds, and dialogue should only be used as a last resort.
Robert Bresson

my heart beats faster as time slows

21.2.13

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twit

20.2.13

categorias:

2 comentários


a criatura que mantém este blog é estúpida o suficiente para começar a enfardar comida por não conseguir decifrar se está com fome ou com cólicas.
yup.

Does the cosmic space, we dissolve into, taste of us then?

17.2.13

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1 comentário


For our part, when we feel, we evaporate; ah, we
breathe ourselves out and away; with each new heartfire
we give off a fainter scent. True, someone may tell us:
you're in my blood, this room, Spring itself
is filled with you... To what end? He can't hold us,
we vanish within him and around him.

The Second Elegy, Duino Elegies, Rainer Maria Rilke

nos tempos livres

17.2.13

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Thomas Edison

Thomas Edison a domir a sesta (via)

i prefer drawing to talking

17.2.13

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by Alexandra Levausseur

Protective Gear
Hunting Season Summer Games II

sometimes I creep the shit out of me

15.2.13

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3 comentários


ontem, perto da meia-noite, a contemplar o céu estrelado, dou por mim a olhar fixamente para o astro que aparenta brilhar com maior intensidade e começam-me a surgir imagens do filme Melancholia, enquanto a minha mente divaga sobre como seria se naquele preciso momento aquele pontinho luminoso começasse a crescer a olhos vistos, movendo-se em direcção à Terra.

no dia seguinte, Meteoro na Rússia causa 514 feridos.

I then began again to think about the bottom nature in people

13.2.13

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I began to get enormously interested in hearing how everybody said the same thing over and over again with infinite variations but over and over again until finally if you listened with great intensity you could hear it rise and fall and tell all that that there was inside them, not so much by the actual words they said or the thoughts they had but the movement of their thoughts and words endlessly the same and endlessly different.

Selected Writings Of Gertrude Stein

These are vengeful or resentful people.

11.2.13

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It is not as if they were undergoing the effects of their past, but as if they could not be done with the current and present wound they cannot keep themselves from scratching over and over again.

The Fold, Gilles Deleuze

Isolation can put a gun in your hand

10.2.13

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it can put a gun in your hand
it can put a gun in your hand

a ouvir From the Sun do novo álbum dos Unknown Mortal Orchestra

I Don’t Want To Be Loved. I Just Want To Be Untangled.

10.2.13

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Screw falling in love. My heart itself is already in tangles. A web of nonsense
and a drawerful of necklace chains that I will never
have the patience to separate. I am sounds mixed with
different mediums of light. Six thousand eight hundred
dialects of flesh that I don’t have enough time to
translate into words. This dictionary of skin is unreadable and
Latin is dead because of what we never had the balls to
tell each other.
I am swearing off of love because everything inside of me
is oil and vinegar and I no longer believe that it’s morally correct
to fall in love with the intent of both destroying and rebuilding
another human being. I am a forest fire and an ocean, and
my favorite color is the same as the color that hurts me the most.

I don’t want your sentimentality. Quit looking at me intending
to melt me. We all know it’s working. We all know what this heart
is capable of unfolding.

I am not as strong as my words pretend to be. Not
as quiet as these caesuras promise. This heart is a patchwork quilt of people
that leave different shades of blue inside of me.

The drowning. Your skies.
The outline of a blue jay on a porcelain plate.

For now, I am closing off these bones for someone who will know
how to trace me without me ever telling them what I look like naked.

I no longer want to seduce the words out of people just to see
if I can. The love that I’m looking for falls out of the realm of your lips
and my lips and our lips doing a dance that involves bodies and more skin
and your hair touching mine, gently, like two winds
colliding.

Screw falling in love.

It’s too much to handle when
I’m already having difficulties breathing and keeping track of my
heartbeats and making sure that my limbs are doing what
they need to be doing.

But,
men are so beautiful.

But this heart is so
fragile.

I am every vulnerability that the thesaurus has to
offer me and in a certain light it’s impossible for me not to pull you
towards me with the intent of kissing the very life
out of you.

What I’m trying to say is that you are not allowed in.
What I’m trying to say is that all I want is to open myself up and have you
rearrange me, untangle the gold chains of my heart, love me for
every shade of blue that I have hidden in the silent spaces
between parentheses.

I have sworn off of falling in love,

but I know that in the morning,
outside, in the pale frost of February,

all I’ll want is to hold another person’s hand, warm and
gloved, in their coat’s pocket.



I Don’t Want To Be Loved. I Just Want To Be UntangledShinji Moo

time out

7.2.13

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when the desire to remain by yourself is so powerful that you'd prefer to blow your brains out than exchange a word with someone.

the real pettiness of so many of our great minds

6.2.13

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Henri-Frédéric Amiel
At the bottom of the modern man there is always a great thirst for self-forgetfulness, self-distraction; he has a secret horror of all which makes him feel his own littleness; the eternal, the infinite, perfection, therefore scare and terrify him. He wishes to approve himself, to admire and congratulate himself; and therefore he turns away from all those problems and abysses which might recall to him his own nothingness. This is what makes the real pettiness of so many of our great minds, and accounts for the lack of personal dignity among us – civilized parrots that we are – as compared with the Arab of the desert; or explains the growing frivolity of our masses, more and more educated, no doubt, but also more and more superficial in all their conceptions of happiness.

from Amiel's Journal by Henri-Frédéric Amiel

I Will Wade Out

3.2.13

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i will wade out
                          till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
                                           Alive
                                                      with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
                                           in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
                                                Will i complete the mystery
                                                of my flesh
I will rise
                After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
              And set my teeth in the silver of the moon


by E. E. Cummings

Events can creep up on you without you even noticing.

3.2.13

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2046
in 2046

Stardust

1.2.13

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triggered by the death of Dutch graphic designer Arjan Groot, who died aged 39 on 16th July 2011 from cancer (...) the film's story centers on the idea that in the grand scheme of the universe, nothing is ever wasted and it finds comfort in us all essentially being Stardust ourselves.

It's not the job of films to nurse people.

25.1.13

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Claire Denis
With what's happening in the chemistry of love, I don't want to be a nurse or a doctor, I just want to be an observer. I do believe that this kind of love exists and has nothing to do with taboo*. I don't think cinema is there to victimize or accuse people. Cinema has another aim.

from Spectacularly intimate: an interview with Claire Denis

*sobre o tema incesto

There will be no other reality tonight.

23.1.13

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I want to tear myself from this place, from this reality rise up like a cloud and float away, melt into this humid summer night and dissolve somewhere far, over the hills. But I am here, my legs blocks of concrete, my lungs empty of air, my throat burning. There will be no floating away.

from The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini