gpoy, why why why is this a gpoy today
(via kittenskittenskittens)
bailey, everywhere
I'm Bailey, a small girl from a small town. I lived a year in Kyoto and I graduated from college in Chicago in June 2010. I lived in Boston for two years but it was a wash. I'm rebuilding from the ground up. I am intent on adventures. I like beautiful things, funny things, photography, Japan, and emoticaps. (I am a vegan in progress and sometimes it happens in public. I yell most frequently about religion, racism, "women's issues," feelings, and dresses.) My friends call me Etsuko. You write it like 悦子 and it is a very good name.
小さな町からの小さな女子ベイリー(悦子とも呼ばれてます、よく合った名前っす)です。一年間京都に住み、２０１０年６月にシカゴ大学から卒業しました。二年弱ボストンに住みましたが結局無駄でしたのでこれから完全なやり直し中。日常生活にも小さい冒険があると信じて過ごしています。趣味は美しいもの、おかしいもの、撮影、日本、とemoticaps。（只今ビーガン工事中でたまにその進歩も公にされます。頻繁に出て来る課題：宗教、人種主義、「女性問題」、感情、ワンピース。）どうぞ宜しくお願い致します♪
The Low Anthem - Charlie Darwin
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]The Low Anthem - Charlie Darwin
FEELINGS FEELINGS FEELINGS, IT IS FEELINGS O’CLOCK, usually feelings o’clock isn’t til eleven or so but I haven’t gotten enough sleep lately.
Away from the mountains of youth
and safety in a fragile meadow.
(this is a secret middle-of-the-night queued post because I’m just not going to feelings o’clock you guys anymore. anyway The Black Atlantic has been in my headphones all day, and, this is the kind of thing I listen to when feelings o’clock makes it hard to sleep, except I’d never heard it before, so I have been listening to it all day, and, well.)
looking at plant samples
Kim Jong Il looking at things.
Looking at plant samples.
Ladies and gentlemen I am really lonely right now but this is absolutely a tumblr worth following.
(link via seriouslyimportantthingsちゃん)
The feelings that hurt most, the emotions that sting most, are those that are absurd; the longing for impossible things, precisely because they are impossible; nostalgia for what never was; the desire for what could have been; regret over not being someone else; dissatisfaction with the world’s existence. All these half-tones of the soul’s consciousness create in us a painful landscape, an eternal sunset of what we are.
Fernando Pessoa (via thefreenomad)
I am feeling this right now and it’s so intense and overwhelming that all I know to do is write poems about it, to channel it into something else so it does not destroy me.
(via adrowningwoman)
I don’t write poetry.
(via mysticeti)
A thing about me, Internet, is that I love people very much but I do not often go out of my way to miss them, specifically. I get lonely with some regularity but it is generally quite diffuse. Only this time, I am missing certain people and it is such a lonely feeling, no wonder the children here cry sometimes.
淋しい時こそ早う寝なさいな
何待ってるか分かんない癖に待って待って待って寝ないでるなんて馬鹿なことないでしょう
なにか悪いことでも起きかねないかのような気が、仄かにするという一方でしてたまらない。
because there are seven kinds of loneliness
the receptionist keeps a basket of candy
by her desk. I keep my hair long
out of some poorly sublimated need
for tangible accomplishment. on Tuesdays,
the local crackhead calls me Miss America.
most afternoons, the jobless gather in pockets
to shout compliments to each other across Sheridan.
it sounds a great deal like seagulls calling
other seagulls over the lake, or more
accurately, around the raw ascending buildings
where they screech directions, one
to the other, headed for water that is not
the river, past the bridge and the Picasso,
over the heads of the unlisteners, headphones
tucked into our ear-beds, and this is the first
loneliness. in the dream, I pull away slowly,
and you stand there, very still. when I turn
the corner, you are still there, and the next,
still there in the rearview, then it’s not a car at all
but a movie, you’re in an airport in San
Francisco, on an ex-lover’s couch
in Seattle, it’s unseasonably cold
for October, even for Chicago.
there’s too much room on the mattress
and your shoes sit panting in the closet.
what do I know about loneliness.
you’re on your way home to me
and a kitchen where the overhead light
sighs into a dim, the spoons tuck
their worn faces away. it’s best
to argue in person, so you can see
where to aim the knives. this is the third.
I don’t know what I would name a child. four.
across the train, a grown man memorizes the pattern
of a girl’s school uniform skirt. a shirt button
is about to come undone. he leans forward
in his seat, our traincar a compression chamber
draining. five, somebody says, you have
to show up early if you want to get
the chocolate. I want to name this
something other than sorrow, tell you
I have a bird behind each knee. one
is always in a panic. the other, most often
asleep. I wish I could tell you that I know
what I’m doing. was I ever a woman
who could shave her head without flinching?
I was. this is the sixth. we have time
for mistakes. the men on the street orbit
the employment office in a set rotation
visible to none of them. what loneliness
is left? you have the most beautiful face.
Marty McConnell, the fidelity of disagreement (via grammatolatry)
It’s always like this.
I catch their scent and
old feelings come around.
Wordless:
still, we know one another,
or should.
All I want is to take my quilts,
spread them beside the porch rail,
and deep in the night,
at ease together,
speak of longing, of love.
Xue Tao, excerpt from Peonies (transl. by Jeanne Larsen)
(via grammatolatry)
