Monday, May 20th 2013
10:13 PM
“ States vote to take away my marriage rights, and even though I don’t want to get married, it tends to hurt my feelings. I guess what bugs me is that it was put to a vote in the first place. If you don’t want to marry a homosexual, then don’t. But what gives you the right to weigh in on your neighbor’s options? It’s like voting whether or not redheads should be allowed to celebrate Christmas. „
David Sedaris (via suicideblonde)
(via suicideblonde)
Sunday, May 5th 2013
2:48 AM
Roman had a series of protocols that was supposed to maintain order and balance in the world. He had an alliance with the virtuous and harmonic number four and multiples thereof and was an enemy of primes; primes the emissaries of the dark place. He would reset his alarm a fixed number of times depending on the hour it was supposed to go off, would sooner step on a nail than a crack, could not fall asleep unless he was certain every drawer and cupboard in the house was securely shut, always entered water with his left foot, and always untied knots.
Wednesday, May 1st 2013
10:22 PM
“ Dreams on waking were like empty cocoons of moths or the split-open husks of milkweed pods, dead shells where life had briefly swirled in furious but fragile storm-systems. „
Gerald’s Game by Stephen King
Saturday, April 27th 2013
12:02 PM
This scent had a freshness, but not the freshness of limes or pomegranates, not the freshness of myrrh or cinnamon bark or curly mint or birch or camphor or pine needles, not that of a May rain or a frosty wind or of well water… and at the same time it had warmth, but not as bergamot, cypress, or musk has, or jasmine or daffodils, not as rosewood has or iris… This scent was a blend of both, of evanescence and substance, not a blend, but a unity, although slight and frail as well, and yet solid and sustaining, like a piece of thin, shimmering silk… and yet again not like silk, but like pastry soaked in honey-sweet milk - and try as he would he couldn’t fit those two together: milk and silk! This scent was inconceivable, indescribable, could not be categorized in any way - it really ought not to exist at all. And yet there it was as plain and splendid as day.
― Patrick Suskind, Perfume The Story of a Murderer
Sunday, April 21st 2013
1:17 PM
So you’re on your knees? Good. Now die to yourself. To your idea of yourself. Everything you think you are, you’re not. What’s left? Find out. Stop. Stop thinking. You people all want to help someone. Help yourself first, like the airplane. Put on your own mask first. All you hear are your own crazy thoughts like a river of shit running on and on. See your thoughts for what they are. Stop your helping. Stop your planning. Give up! There’s no way out! Not for others, not for you. We are living out here at the end of the road, the end of the Earth in a place called “Paradise”. How’s it going? Perfect? No! You are madder than ever. You are tired? So lie down right here. Be like a cat. Heal yourself. There is no match for the tremendous intelligence of the body. Rest.
(via homicidalbrunette)
Thursday, April 4th 2013
7:59 PM
“ What I expect to happen is that my body will fail, my mind will cease to function and that will be that. My genes will not live on, because I have had no children. I am comforted by Richard Dawkins’ theory of memes. Those are mental units: thoughts, ideas, gestures, notions, songs, beliefs, rhymes, ideals, teachings, sayings, phrases, clichés that move from mind to mind as genes move from body to body. After a lifetime of writing, teaching, broadcasting and telling too many jokes, I will leave behind more memes than many. They will all also eventually die, but so it goes. „
Roger Ebert, “I Do Not Fear Death” (via filmprojections)
(via ragingalongborders)
Monday, March 11th 2013
7:53 PM
“ This scent had a freshness, but not the freshness of limes or pomegranates, not the freshness of myrrh or cinnamon bark or curly mint or birch or camphor or pine needles, not that of a May rain or a frosty wind or of well water… and at the same time it had warmth, but not as bergamot, cypress, or musk has, or jasmine or daffodils, not as rosewood has or iris… This scent was a blend of both, of evanescence and substance, not a blend, but a unity, although slight and frail as well, and yet solid and sustaining, like a piece of thin, shimmering silk… and yet again not like silk, but like pastry soaked in honey-sweet milk - and try as he would he couldn’t fit those two together: milk and silk! This scent was inconceivable, indescribable, could not be categorized in any way - it really ought not to exist at all. And yet there it was as plain and splendid as day. „
Perfume The Story of a Murderer by Patrick Suskind
Wednesday, February 6th 2013
5:54 PM
“ Six years earlier, I had stood in line at the Tower Records in Pasadena, California, trying to remember the lyrics to a song I’d heard on the radio. “Why do we crucify ourselves?” I sang to the cashier with pink Betty Page bangs and L7 shirt, “Every day, I crucify myself, nothing I do is good enough for you.” She huffed, I followed, “Amos,” she said, dryly, pulling it from the middle of the “A” section and handing it over. I stared, transfixed by the cover, Tori, a confident figure in blue; a small smirk on her face, as if to signify self-awareness, ‘you can’t trap a voice in a wooden box’. Much later when I finally sat down and read the actual lyrics, it turned out that I had memorized many of them incorrectly, but it didn’t change the terms of urgency and realness I’d felt at fourteen, coming through the speakers on the late night KROQ call in sex show I’d heard it on, alone in my room nearing the AM on a school night. What was important was that I had felt the connection at all. It was the first time I recognized my fear and anxieties expressed in song: invisibility, the desire to be accepted by the popular girls, a silent distance growing, concerning my day to day actions, where before there had been vocalized participation. „
Live from the Penis Gallery: Appropriate for Destruction
Monday, January 7th 2013
10:51 PM
“ The thing I like most about time is it is not real. It’s all in the head. There is no such thing as the past; it exists only in the memory. There is no such thing as the future; it exists only in our imagination. If all the watches were truly accurate the only thing they would ever say is: Now. „
Damien Echols, West of Memphis (via suicideblonde)
(via suicideblonde)
Thursday, December 20th 2012
11:29 PM
“ Every day I am in competition with myself. I always want to do things better. Life has taught me that no one will come to my rescue. After all, I discovered a long time ago that I have to create my own way and force myself to be strong enough to do the things I want. „
Noomi Rapace
read more: http://bit.ly/ZTJiE2
(via vogueitalia)
Wednesday, October 17th 2012
12:40 PM
“Can you believe it’s been over seventeen years since I’ve touched snow? Since I’ve heard that soft, comforting sound it makes as it crunches beneath your boots? It won’t be much longer. I can feel it in my bones. Soon I’ll have snow again. I’ll stand in it and look up at the stars until I can no longer feel my feet.”
- Damien Echols, Life After Death
This photo of Damien was taken at Sundance during promotion for West of Memphis. It was January 21st 2012 & the first time Damien had seen & felt snow in nearly 20 years.
Monday, October 15th 2012
10:34 PM
“ I’m also really tired of hearing some feminists say that any CHOICE made by a woman is invalid or wrong because it doesn’t line up with THEIR idea of liberated womanhood. Do you want equality and freedom of choice or do you want everyone in the sex industries and other traditionally female occupations to roll over and do what you say? If you want the latter, you are just as bad as the patriarchy that you rail so hard against.
My body, my choice
„
Stoya (via suicideblonde)
(via suicideblonde)
12:21 AM
“ Ghosts can haunt damned near anything. I have heard them in the breathy voice of a song and seen them between the covers of a book. They have hidden in trees so that their faces peer out of the bark, and hovered beneath the silver surface of water. They disguise themselves as cracks in concrete or come calling in a delirium of fever. On summer days they keep pace like the shadow of our shadow. They lurk in the breath of young girls who give us our first kiss. I’ve seen men who were haunted to the point of madness by things that never were and things that should have been. I’ve seen ghosts in the lines on a woman’s face and heard them in the jangling of keys. The ghosts in fire freeze and the ghosts in ice burn. Some died long ago; some were never born. Some ride the blood in my veins until it reaches my brain. Sometimes I even mistake myself for one. Sometimes I am one. „
Life After Death by Damien Echols
Saturday, October 13th 2012
9:43 PM
“ My life has taught me that true spiritual insight can come about only through direct experience, the way a severe burn can be attained only by putting your hand in the fire. Faith is nothing more than a watered-down attempt to accept someone else’s insight as your own. Belief is the psychic equivalent of an article of secondhand clothing, worn-out and passed down. I equate true spiritual insight with wisdom, which is different from knowledge. Knowledge can be obtained through many sources: books, stories, songs, legends, myths, and, in modern times, computers and television programs. On the other hand, there’s only one real source of wisdom - pain. Any experience that provides a person with wisdom will also usually provide them with a scar. The greater the pain, the greater the realization. Faith is spiritual rigor mortis. „
Life After Death by Damien Echols
Thursday, October 11th 2012
2:53 PM
“ As a child, I felt like a changeling at odds with the planet I arrived on. I didn’t understand the world I was born into, and that feeling of dissonance colored my youth. I saw that rigidness existed, and as a result, for me, rigidness got a bad name. Looseness was far better. And I gravitated toward a different life. „
Tilda Swinton
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