The Latest

Apr 17, 2014 / 119 notes

The day my favourite author died,
I wrote a poem about hands and
learned to love my own.

I swallowed morning like a pill
and washed it down with an afternoon
that ached of leaving.

I closed my eyes
between every conversation
and thought only of the oh damn,
the hell yeah of your spine.

I let the wind from an open window
knife me where only you had ever breathed.
I let every bus stop be home
and every cactus be a plant
worth holding to my bare chest.

The day my favourite author died,
I wondered if his hand had hung
off the side of the bed with opening lines
still curled in his wrinkles.

The day he died, my bravery
was born with a sputter and a cough
and an “I’m here now, please
use me.” And somewhere, you
yawned your way into someone else’s dreams.

Discovering Ice | Ramna Safeer (via inkywings)
Apr 17, 2014 / 100 notes
In the later part of his creative life Nietzsche suffered acutely from loneliness. Like his alter ego, Zarathustra, he found himself alone on a (Swiss) mountain top. But, intellectually at least, he accepted this condition. Since, he reasoned, a radical social critic, a ‘free spirit’ such as himself, sets himself ever more in opposition to the foundational agreements on which social life depends, he reduces the pool of possible comrades, and so of possible friends, to vanishing point.
Julian Young, Friedrich Nietzsche: A Philosophical Biography (via crematedadolescent)
Apr 17, 2014 / 8 notes
Apr 17, 2014 / 210 notes
alunaes:

kaugummi by aleksandra waliszewska on Flickr.
Apr 17, 2014 / 8,760 notes
hnnhmcgrth:

Paul Citroen - Portrait of Heinz Aron, 1922
Apr 17, 2014 / 356 notes

hnnhmcgrth:

Paul Citroen - Portrait of Heinz Aron, 1922

(via agapie)

luz-sonriente:

Frantisek Kupka 1871-1957
Apr 17, 2014 / 286 notes

luz-sonriente:

Frantisek Kupka 1871-1957

(via tronbot)

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief. Also in singing, especially when singing is not necessarily prescribed.
Mary Oliver (via introspectivepoet)

(via introspectivepoet)

Apr 17, 2014 / 33 notes
In any case no language detaches itself entirely from the precariousness of the mute forms of expression, nor reabsorbs its own contingency, nor consumes itself to make the things themselves appear, and in this sense the privilege of language over against painting or the image of life remains relative, and finally expression is not one of the curiosities that the mind can propose to examine, it is the mind’s existence as act.
Maurice Merleau-Ponty, Signes (via heteroglossia)
Mar 27, 2014 / 35 notes
I will never know how you see red and you will never know how I see it. But this separation of consciousness is recognized only after a failure of communication, and our first movement is to believe in an undivided being between us.
Maurice Merleau-Ponty (via mouthwingss)
Mar 27, 2014 / 7 notes
colin-vian:

  Gustave Courbet, Il mare (1873)
Mar 27, 2014 / 62 notes

colin-vian:

  Gustave Courbet, Il mare (1873)

One can be silent and sit still only when one has arrow and bow: otherwise one chatters and quarrels.
Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra (via merrylaughter)

(via merrylaughter)

Mar 27, 2014 / 63 notes
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.
William Butler Yeats, The Collected Poems (via merrylaughter)

(via a-weltanschauung)

Mar 27, 2014 / 365 notes
shakypigment:

Alexander the Great. From “The Book of the Master-Armorer” commissioned by Manuel I of Portugal. 1509.
Mar 27, 2014 / 28 notes

shakypigment:

Alexander the Great. From “The Book of the Master-Armorer” commissioned by Manuel I of Portugal. 1509.

Mar 27, 2014 / 202 notes

(via wood-is-good)