Tooth For An Eye, man.
já lá vão 7 anos...
preciso de mais faixas dos The Knife para intercalar com a
já lá vão 7 anos...
já lá vão 7 anos...
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 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
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
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
The Lady With the Little Dog and Other Stories, 1896-1904, Anton Chekhov
by Maria Loureiro
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