Q

Anonymous asked:

What are you looking for?

A

That’s an interesting question. What is anyone “looking for”? Like, right now, I’m looking for a mattress because I just moved into a basement and have been sleeping on the floor.

In the morning I very desperately look around my room for change to take the bus to work, because I’m too cheap for an Orca card and too stupid to realize how much money I’d save if I bought one. 


Most days I’m looking for a way to get myself to write, and what I’m looking for when I write is a very thin thread of something that will make me pretend, for just a second, that whatever bullshit I’m suffering through at that particular moment is worthwhile, simply because it’s part of some grand artistic project that I’m engaged in.

What I’m “looking for” is something that will obscure my own meaningless place within neoliberal capitalism; that will make all of the girls who left me for better men regret losing someone who was so obviously talented and intelligent; that will make my grandfather’s Alzheimer’s into something sort of beautiful instead of completely ugly; that will make my very vapid, very shallow, very selfish life into something supposedly meaningful and important.

I’m just looking for what everyone is looking for—what they’ve always been looking for, even when things like food and water were the objects of their daily struggles: something to make me forget, however briefly, that nothing really matters and that I don’t know jack shit about the universe I live in.


James Dean photographed by Sanford Roth, 1955.

James Dean photographed by Sanford Roth, 1955.

James Dean photographed by Sanford Roth, 1955.

(via jamesdeandaily)

conflictingheart:

Photography By Masashi Wakui
conflictingheart:

Photography By Masashi Wakui
conflictingheart:

Photography By Masashi Wakui
conflictingheart:

Photography By Masashi Wakui
conflictingheart:

Photography By Masashi Wakui
conflictingheart:

Photography By Masashi Wakui
conflictingheart:

Photography By Masashi Wakui
conflictingheart:

Photography By Masashi Wakui
conflictingheart:

Photography By Masashi Wakui
conflictingheart:

Photography By Masashi Wakui

Trying to write something that isn’t surreal

in the desperate attempt to make myself feel again. 

Kind of weird

how us white liberals often end up fetishizing people of color and their struggles as an avenue of self-expression and independence, as though knowing about other people’s oppression excludes us from our own complicity within it. 

My notebook has remained blank for months
thanks to the light you shower
around me. I have no use
for my pen, which lies
languorously without grief.

Nothing is better than to live
a storyless life that needs
no writing for meaning—
when I am gone, let others say
they lost a happy man,
though no one can tell how happy I was.

Ha Jin, “Missed Time,”  Poetry (July 2000). (via literarymiscellany)

(via stonyionesome)

theparisreview:

“The hardest thing in the world is simplicity.” —James Baldwin, born on this day in 1924.

“I only write when I am falling in love, or falling apart.”
— e.s. (via blvckchlorophyll)

(via morgan3llis)

lostsplendor:

New York City, 1935 via Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain

He is taking a course on Marxist ideology.
He says, “The only real solution is to smash the system and start again.”
His thumb is caressing the most bourgeois copy of the communist manifesto that I have ever seen,
He bought it at Barnes and Noble for twenty-nine U.S. American dollars and ninety-nine cents,
Its hard cover shows a dark man with a scarved face
Waving a gigantic red flag against a fictional smoky background.
The matte finish is fucking gorgeous.
He wants to be congratulated for paying Harvard sixty thousand dollars
To teach him that the system is unfair.
He pulls his iPhone from his imported Marino wool jacket, and leaves.

What people can’t possibly tell from the footage on TV
Is that the water cannon feels like getting whipped with a burning switch.
Where I come from, they fill it with sewer water and hope that they get you in the face with your mouth open
So that the hepatitis will keep you in bed for the next protest.
What you can’t tell from Harvard square,
Is that when the tear gas bursts from nowhere to everywhere all at once,
It scrapes your insides like barbed wire, sawing at your lungs.
Tear gas is such a benign term for it,
If you have never breathed it in you would think it was a nostalgic experience.
What you can’t learn at Barnes and Noble,
Is that when they rush you, survival is to run,
I am never as fast as when the police are chasing me.
I know what happens to women in the holding cells down there and yet…
We still do it.

I inherited my communist manifesto,
It has no cover—
Because my mother ripped it off when she hid it in the dust jacket of “Don Quixote”
The day before the soldiers destroyed her apartment,
Looking for subversive propaganda.
She burned the cover, could not bring herself to burn the pages,
Hoped to God the soldiers couldn’t read,
They never found it.
So she was not killed for it, but her body bore the scars of the torture chamber,
For wanting her children to have a better life than she did,
Don’t talk to me about revolution.

I know what the price of smashing the system really is, my people already tried that.
The price of uprise is paid in blood,
And not Harvard blood.
The blood that ran through the streets of Santiago,
The blood thrown alive from Argentine helicopters into the Atlantic.

It is easy to say “revolution” from the comfort of a New England library.

It is easy to offer flesh to the cause,
When it is not yours to give.

Catalina Ferro, “Manifesto” (via dialecticsof)

(via nuanced-subversion)

Been thinking about this a lot lately, particularly in regards to what’s going on between Israel and Gaza at the moment. Really easy to be a liberal from the concrete confines of your military fortress motherland. 

(via slothqueenthings)