Meta_MaTTeR
Found a new, and very dear to my heart, artist. 

Found a new, and very dear to my heart, artist. 

Scott, darling, don’t try so hard to convince yourself that we’re very old people who’ve lost their most precious possession. We really haven’t found it yet…All the fire and sweetness, the emotional strength that we’re capable of is growing and just because sanity and wisdom are growing too and we’re building our love-castle on a firm foundation, nothing is lost.
Zelda Fitzgerald to Scott Fitzgerald. (via theburnthatkeepseverything)
The human mind seeks explanations; and now that we know how to find them, we are not going to stop voluntarily. Here is another misconception in the Garden of Eden myth: that the supposed unproblematic state would be a good state to be in. Some theologians have denied this, and I agree with them: an unproblematic state is a state without creative thought. Its other name is death.
David Deutsch (via nathanielstuart)
Dance on the Floor Matt

1. I can’t sleep at night and it’s because of Hem. I lay in my bedroom in my boxers, the windows open in the winter. I sink in a tall drink, and then I dance and I die and I don’t look in the mirror. I ask Hem questions but he says nothing like some superior. He’s my hero forever, ex—& in—terior. 2. I can’t sleep at night and it’s because of her. I write and she waits—the night, it makes, everything tender, twenty something and slender—she faints as she waits, for my firearm quakes, to settle firm into faults. You’re can(n)on makes my can(y)on, she exclaims, that’s what she exalts. Love then live, she reminds me: save me the waltz. 3. I danced a pencil on a post-it a couple of weak weeks ago. The lead smeared: “I feel like Virginia Woolf / I’m princess Diana but she’s dead / You can call me Sylvia Plath / Sometimes I think it’s all in my head.” On a pad of paper I later put it in ink: “I feel like Virginia Woolf / It’s only some days I’m Sylvia Plath / Really I’m like Amelia Earhart / A bird lost somewhere on the path.” I wrote the first draft in my black car. I revised revisited it in a white airport. 4. I call all my characters Jack. That’s for you Kerouac. Actually they never keep that name. I tell them hit the road, Jack. 5. How Adam Duritz helps me die, Oberst, Conor helps me cry. And live, and believe, and bleed… I don’t know why. 6. I found Tolstoy on a pool deck in the year 2008 after Christ. I was lifeguarding. I only finished part 1 of 3 in War and Peace, but I’m a pacifist now. That has nothing to do with Tolstoy, but the reason I got into the book was because I wanted to go to War. Thanks Peter Pan Padfield. I would never shoot anyone now but myself. 7. It’s hard to follow me and I find it hard to follow myself. Actually I follow my nose like a Woolf, it’s really good for your health. Howl for me Allen Ginsberg. I wish I could write without so much God damn conscious narrates; without the nerve racking form of the globe’s imperfect Shakes; or the psychosis and macabre of these Poe mental-states. I want to write with love like Andrew McMahon. But I write more ajar like Jesse Lacey, and it’s because of Jeff Mangum. God, I have to stop listening to my iPod and taking pictures with my phone. Goodnight Brian S. Hoon and Hopkins, you sweet gin melons, you dirty blind blossoms. Fuck you Virginia Woolf. 8. Finally to infinity with Frederich Nietzche. The one too, tortured between a bucket of water or a match of ignition, a flooding all of philosophy, or a lighting fire to all of fiction. One day when I can grow a bushy mustache like him I will. And maybe that will be the day I get paid off for all my addiction. Of rhythm and rhyme and writing, you know. I already talked to a horse once in Boston. There you go.

P.S. 9. Nine is for the nine lives that cats don’t actually have. Nine is for the yellow on the table that remains after the eight ball is dropped, shot called into a bag. Nine is for the stuff you thought so hard to say, but then which people forgot right away. Nine is for the writers who save, only after they die and are withering in their grave. And nine is for the grunge and the grind, and those who know…. the father, the son, and the holy ghost. That’s Young and Vedder, and the man who sold the world in utero.

ENCORE. 10. When I was in grade school I stiched an acropolis out of squared plastic canvas. My myth was the lonely Echo, and the insanely infamous Narcissus. I also admired perséphone, and fell hard for Icarus. It never quite occured to me though that people once believed these Gods were real. And yet, it only just occured to me that the Bible’s saints were just humans, that didn’t kill, cheat, or steal. 11. It wasn’t until after high school that I understood things fall apart. And I ran into the stranger back then, but I still don’t know much of Sarte. 12. I have a black and white and wild imagination, and I don’t know who gave it to me but I’m thankful for the giver. Bless Herman Hesse. We’re all a part of the river. 13. Ken Kesey, you’re crazy. I need, to read—maybe some Aldious Huxley. Some Safran Foer. It’s about time I borrowed some Borges. Bought a bit of Bellow. Fostered some David Wallace. Got along with Green, John–I hear he’s a nice fellow. Found a thing for Finn. And Kafka, God, Kafka. Help me stop this rye-ming. Metamorphisis changed me. Please come back into my life & guide me to all the right ending(s).

M.R.

I don’t know what I may appear to the world but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy, playing on the seashore, and diverting myself, in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, while the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me. —Sir Isaac Newton

I don’t know what I may appear to the world but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy, playing on the seashore, and diverting myself, in now and then finding a smoother pebble or a prettier shell than ordinary, while the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me. —Sir Isaac Newton

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

Pablo Neruda (via man-of-prose)
7,315 plays

showslow:

Colorblind by Counting Crows 

I am covered in skin
No one gets to come in
Pull me out from inside
I am folded and unfolded and unfolding
I am colorblind
Coffee black and egg white
Pull me out from inside

In bed at 4PM
I held my pillow
and thought “oh well”
in regards to my entire life.

Tao Lin (via billowy)

******** In bed at 4AM

******** I held my laptop

******** and thought “enter”

******** in regards to anything that could put me to sleep.

M.R.

marysbrain:

Datamancer’s Steampunk Laptop

This may look like a Victorian music box, but inside this intricately hand-crafted wooden case lives a Hewlett-Packard ZT1000 laptop that runs both Windows XP and Ubuntu Linux. It features an elaborate display of clockworks under glass, engraved brass accents, claw feet, an antiqued copper keyboard and mouse, leather wrist pads, and customized wireless network card. The machine turns on with an antique clock-winding key by way of a custom-built ratcheting switch made from old clock parts.

softpyramid:

De Torbéchet, Allain & C. Man Juggling His Own Headca. 1880 Albumen silver print

softpyramid:

De Torbéchet, Allain & C. 
Man Juggling His Own Head
ca. 1880 
Albumen silver print

tattoolit:

fresh ink.
Last line of “A Clean Well-Lighted Place” by Ernest Hemingway
After all, he said to himself, it’s probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

tattoolit:

fresh ink.

Last line of “A Clean Well-Lighted Place” by Ernest Hemingway

After all, he said to himself, it’s probably only insomnia. Many must have it.

Did you know I love you so?

Does that mean I can eat you? There’s this great scene in Where the Wild Things Are where the wild thing Judith tells Max: “If I go mad and want to eat you, then you have to say, ‘Oh, okay. You can eat me. I love you. Whatever makes you happy Judith.’” 

So I mean, I am vegetarian but you are very pretty. I wouldn’t mind knowing that if need be, I could eat you. 

And our love being equal, you could eat me too.

We could eat each other. 

Ohh, just read Survivor’s Ball (or, the Donner Party). It will all make sense.