If | Pink Floyd
Atom Heart Mother, 1970
…and you will somehow get through
the slow days and the busy days and the dull days
and the hateful days and the rare days,
all both so delightful and so disappointing because
we are all so alike and so different.
[I am healing by mistake.]
Rome is also built on ruins.
Space is Only Noise
A tortured soul is a tortured soul and will eventually cease to function in any useful way unless they get help. Unless they sail to the land of happy every now and again, where everything is the right way up, then they will simply fall off the edge of the world. A good way I’ve found to navigate is with songs and music.
Si nous ne brûlons pas, comment éclairer la nuit ?
Like Clockwork - Queens Of The Stone Age
I think you are much braver than I am; or should I call it more philosophical? I don’t know what you feel - what strange stages of feelings one passes through, these days! I could not write about this to anyone I did not love as I love you. It is all too private and secret.
There’s nothing the matter with me. I’m mad, I suppose. I ought to have had the decency to keep away. But I wanted to see you — I wanted to tell you — I’m in love. Anyhow, I’m out of my mind. I can’t think, I can’t work, I don’t care a hang for anything in the world. One moment I’m happy; next I’m miserable. I hate her for half an hour; then I’d give my whole life to be with her for ten minutes; all the time I don’t know what I feel, or why I feel it; it’s insanity, and yet it’s perfectly reasonable. Can you make any sense of it? Can you see what’s happened? I’m raving, I know; I’m in love […]
Oskar Schuster - Les Sablons
Chelsea Wolfe - Flatlands
[A well-made human being] divines cures for injuries; he knows how to turn misfortune to his own advantage; that which does not kill him makes him stronger. He instinctively gathers his material from all he sees, hears, and experiences. He is a selective principle; he rejects much. He is always in his own company whether his intercourse be with books, with men, or with landscapes; he honours the when he chooses, when he acknowledges, when he trusts. He reacts slowly to all kinds of stimuli with that unhurriedness which long caution and deliberate pride have bred in him—he tests the approaching stimulus; he would not dream of meeting it half-way. He believes neither in “misfortune” nor “guilt”; he knows how to forget—he is strong enough to make everything turn to his own advantage.
“I say, bad weeds grow tall”
Living in globes. The childish ambition of the poet is to become someone living in space. Contrary to what he was intended to do. His first poetic operation: to submit to the invasion of himself, to combine his emotions, his pleasures in love, this side of the hidden excrement of their object, to withdraw himself by divine right from general oblivion, to dismantle himself without destroying himself.
René Char, from Moulin premier
Sofia used pigeon blood on her wedding night.
Next day, over the phone, she told me
how her husband smiled when he saw the sheets,
that he gathered them under his nose,
closed his eyes and dragged his tongue over the stain.
She mimicked his baritone, how he whispered
pure, chaste, untouched.
We giggled over the static.
After he praised her, she smiled, rubbed his head,
imagined his mother back home, parading
these siren sheets through the town,
waving at balconies, torso swollen with pride,
her arms fleshy wings bound to her body,
ignorant of flight.