I feel unspeakably lonely. And I feel—drained. It is a blank state of mind and soul I cannot describe to you as I think it would not make any difference. Also it is a very private feeling I have—that of melting into a perpetual nervous breakdown. I am often questioning myself what I further want to do, who I further wish to be; which parts of me, exactly, are still functioning properly. No answers, darling. At all.
A Self Portrait in Letters, Anne Sexton
If you're going to try, go all the way. Otherwise, don't even start. This could mean losing girlfriends, wives, relatives and maybe even your mind. It could mean not eating for three or four days. It could mean freezing on a park bench. It could mean jail. It could mean derision. It could mean mockery — isolation. Isolation is the gift. All the others are a test of your endurance, of how much you really want to do it. And, you'll do it, despite rejection and the worst odds. And it will be better than anything else you can imagine. If you're going to try, go all the way. There is no other feeling like that. You will be alone with the gods, and the nights will flame with fire. You will ride life straight to perfect laughter. It's the only good fight there is.
Factotum, Charles Bukowski
Factotum, Charles Bukowski
He learns how much of what he has taken for granted was by its own nature neither eternal nor necessary but thoroughly temporal and contingent. He learns that the solitude of the self is an irreducible dimension of human life no matter how completely that self had seemed to be contained in its social milieu. In the end, he sees each man as solitary and unsheltered before his own death. Admittedly, these are painful truths, but the most basic things are always learned with pain, since our inertia and complacent love of comfort prevents us from learning them until they are forced upon us.
Irrational Man: A Study in Existential Philosophy, William Barrett
Irrational Man: A Study in Existential Philosophy, William Barrett
recentemente decidi voltar a praticar programas de modelagem 3D,
e como autoditacta que sou decidi que ia aprender a mexer no V-Ray sozinha.
após muita frustração e tentativa falhada (e uns quantos tutoriais depois) lá consegui produzir um render que me agradasse.
como capa do livro usei um design dum concurso que ganhei há uns tempos atrás (de que falei aqui)
e como autoditacta que sou decidi que ia aprender a mexer no V-Ray sozinha.
após muita frustração e tentativa falhada (e uns quantos tutoriais depois) lá consegui produzir um render que me agradasse.
como capa do livro usei um design dum concurso que ganhei há uns tempos atrás (de que falei aqui)
coisas estranhas acontecem enquanto durmo.
ultimamente tenho ido para a cama com tampões nos ouvidos pois é a única forma de conseguir dormir no quarto ao lado de alguém com bronquite.
hoje não foi excepção. lembro-me perfeitamente de moldar a cera dos tampões e certificar-me que ficavam bem presos.
até aqui tudo bem, não fosse o acordar às 4 da manhã com a minha avó a tossir e sem tampões nos ouvidos.
o meu primeiro instinto foi de apalpar a cama toda à procura deles, que seria o sitio lógico para onde teriam desaparecido, mas nada.
quando finalmente desisto e estico a mão para acender a luz, qual não é o meu espanto quando os vejo cuidadosamente alinhados sobre a mesa de cabeceira.
devo ter ficado uns 30 segundos imóvel a olhar os tampões e a pensar como raio lá foram parar.
mais um mistério para juntar às formas estranhas como acordo a meio da noite.
começo a achar que sou sonâmbula.
ultimamente tenho ido para a cama com tampões nos ouvidos pois é a única forma de conseguir dormir no quarto ao lado de alguém com bronquite.
hoje não foi excepção. lembro-me perfeitamente de moldar a cera dos tampões e certificar-me que ficavam bem presos.
até aqui tudo bem, não fosse o acordar às 4 da manhã com a minha avó a tossir e sem tampões nos ouvidos.
o meu primeiro instinto foi de apalpar a cama toda à procura deles, que seria o sitio lógico para onde teriam desaparecido, mas nada.
quando finalmente desisto e estico a mão para acender a luz, qual não é o meu espanto quando os vejo cuidadosamente alinhados sobre a mesa de cabeceira.
devo ter ficado uns 30 segundos imóvel a olhar os tampões e a pensar como raio lá foram parar.
mais um mistério para juntar às formas estranhas como acordo a meio da noite.
começo a achar que sou sonâmbula.
It is a bit embarrassing to have been concerned with the human problem all one's life and find at the end that one has no more to offer by way of advice than "Try to be a little kinder."
Aldous Huxley
John had a vision. He wasn't afraid, in the name of his obsession, to make a fool of himself. And if, as someone said, ‘Man is God in ruins,’ John saw the ruins, and he saw them with a clarity that the rest of us would find unbearable. But he was drawn to the God part, man's need for love, and he was always looking for a story that expressed the stupidities, weaknesses, foibles—that got in the way of that need.
Peter Falk on John Cassavetes (via)
(...) in this world more things exist without our knowledge than with it and the order in creation which you see is that which you have put there, like a string in a maze, so that you shall not lose your way. For existence has its own order and that no man's mind can compass, that mind itself being a fact among others.
Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy
Blood Meridian, Cormac McCarthy
If you can hear the language of my sleep,
it is whispering
lonely, lonely, lonely
like a mantra, like the steady drip
of water from a leaky faucet.
I am trying to make it say your name
so that it becomes familiar with
your taste, but it's hard
when you're not here.
If you can hear the language of my sleep,
if you listen carefully, you can hear
the prayer in it,
the hallelujah, hallelujah
at 4 a.m when everything feels like an ending and I am just trying
to hold out a little while longer.
If you listen carefully, you can hear the thank you.
You can hear
the swelling of an empty ocean,
the clasped hands of a long talk
with God and my ambivalence.
This is where quiet finds its home.
This is where my poems go to die like little funerals.
This is where they go to be reborn.
Amen. Amen. Amen.
Language of Sleep, Caitlyn Siehl
it is whispering
lonely, lonely, lonely
like a mantra, like the steady drip
of water from a leaky faucet.
I am trying to make it say your name
so that it becomes familiar with
your taste, but it's hard
when you're not here.
If you can hear the language of my sleep,
if you listen carefully, you can hear
the prayer in it,
the hallelujah, hallelujah
at 4 a.m when everything feels like an ending and I am just trying
to hold out a little while longer.
If you listen carefully, you can hear the thank you.
You can hear
the swelling of an empty ocean,
the clasped hands of a long talk
with God and my ambivalence.
This is where quiet finds its home.
This is where my poems go to die like little funerals.
This is where they go to be reborn.
Amen. Amen. Amen.
Language of Sleep, Caitlyn Siehl
There's something not right about White Bear.
o segundo episódio da segunda temporada de Black Mirror é perturbador.
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