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
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
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
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)
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)
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)
White Noise by Don DeLillo (via)
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)
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)
No One Around to Hear It (demo) by Bo Harwood
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.
Subscrever:
Mensagens
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