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seascaping: “comptine d’un autre ete”, yann tiersen
October 2009
182 posts
Swallow, Rinse, Repeat.
My grandfather maintains that anyone who still bakes cakes from scratch is an egotistical moron. Who is he/she to see him/herself as superior to decades of research, test kitchens, and food science that all stand behind the great Betty Crocker/Duncan Hines/etc. boxed bake mixes? Elitist bastards, he says. Like you can do better.
Sometimes I feel the same way about psycho pharmacology/prescription drugs. You know… happy pills. Anti-anxiety meds. Hope in a child-proof plastic jar. Just when I’m standing on the threshold of guilt and hesitation (‘it’s the easy way out! I’m treating symptoms, not problems! More herbal tea/deep breathing! Cheater cheater pumpkin eater!’), I remember that this is my life.
And it’s real.
And it’s complicated.
And I’m trying.
And sometimes a girl just has to resort to a motherfucking xanax once in a blue moon and get over herself, you know?
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Baby, It’s You - Smith: If I smoked cigarettes or maybe wore skimpy little provocative dresses, I’d dance around singing this song, non-stop, for the rest of my days.
“Books say: she did this because. Life says: she did this. Books are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren’t. I’m not surprised some people prefer books. Books make sense of life. The only problem is that the lives they make sense of are other people’s lives, never your own.”
—Geoffrey Braithwaite, narrator of Julian Barnes’ Flaubert’s Parrot (Knopf, 1984), 65. (via enormousair) (via booklover) (via haleyleigh)
“A girl came in the cafe and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a face fresh as a newly minted coin if they minted coins in smooth flesh with rain-freshened skin, and her hair was black as a crow’s wing and cut sharply and diagonally across her cheek. I looked at her and she disturbed me and made me very excited. I wished I could put her in the story, or anywhere, but she had placed herself so she could watch the street and the entry and I knew she was waiting for someone. So I went on writing. The story was writing itself and I was having a hard time keeping up with it. I ordered another rum St. James and I watched the girl whenever I looked up, or when I sharpened the pencil with a pencil sharpener with the shavings curling into a saucer under my drink. I’ve seen you, beauty, and you belong to me now, whoever you are waiting for and if I never see you again, I thought. You belong to me and all Paris belongs to me and I belong to this notebook and this pencil. Then I went back to writing and I entered far into the story and was lost in it. I was writing it now and it was not writing itself and I did not look up nor know anything about the time nor think where I was nor order any more rum St. James. I was tired of rum St. James without thinking about it. Then the story was finished and I was very tired. I read the last paragraph and then I looked up and looked for the girl and she had gone. I hope she’s gone with a good man, I thought. But I felt sad. I closed up the story in the notebook and put it in my inside pocket and I asked the waiter for a dozen portugaises and a half-carafe of the dry white wine they had there. After writing a story I was always empty and both sad and happy, as though I had made love, and I was sure this was a very good story although I would not know truly how good until I read it over the next day.”
—Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast (via jorgerodriguez) (via pedrosanchez)
“I’m gonna find me a reckless man, razor blades and ice in his eyes, just a touch of sadness in his fingers, thunder and lightning in his thighs.”
—
Cat Power, “Silver Stallion” (via zombietown)
OH SWEET JESUS YES PLEASE.
- M
(via kissandtell)
