here's a witty title

“Monody,” by Herman Melville

“ To have known him, to have loved him
After loneness long;
And then to be estranged in life,
And neither in the wrong;
And now for death to set his seal—
Ease me, a little ease, my song!
By wintry hills his hermit-mound
The sheeted snow-drifts drape,
And houseless there the snow-bird flits
Beneath the fir-trees’ crape:
Glazed now with ice the cloistral vine
That hid the shyest grape. ”

May25

1960s lyrics: we said our dreams will carry us/ And if they don't fly we will run/Now we push right past to find out/How to win what they all lost/oh-ah we know that we want more/oh-ah a life worth fighting for
1970s lyrics: Found yourself in a new direction/Aeons far from the sun/Can you come?/Would they come to breach you?/Let you know you're not the only one
1980s lyrics: You left me here alone/You left me here in the cold/You left me here by the sea/Oh well now all I wish I could see/Is you and me
2012 lyrics: Help him understand/That no floating sheet/No matter how haunting/And no secret/No/matter how nasty/Can poison your voice/Or keep you from joy
just kidding those are all from this year now stop complaining. turn off the radio and make the effort to find some good music.

May24

(via asthepoemsgo)

May24

pulmonaire:

by Maurizio Bongiovanni

(via cosmopappas)

May24

themaddphotog:

Abstract water with light from a lighthouse

May24

lyghtmylife:

Georgia OKeeffe

[American Painter, 1887-1986]

Seated Nude, 1917

watercolor on paper

Museum of Fine Arts, Boston (United States)

May24

Herman Melville, Moby-Dick (via mnemophylax)

“ There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness. And there is a Catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces. And even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar. ”

May23

stickyembraces:

Dante in Philosophy Hell, #1

May22

pisumsativa:

myasphyxiatedmind:

numberonehoffbunny:

widdershinsgirl:

bevin:

Tonight I was hit with a hand full of eggs and huge rock on my back and called “Nigger” by a white guy in the backseat of a dark blue truck as I was riding my bike on Westheimer and Jeanetta. They drove too fast for me to get the license plate number. I had to get a cop to drive me home. This night makes me wonder how blacks did it back in the day, and why the community is looking the way it is now. I am trying not to cry, but I am in physical pain from the rock and not understanding why I deserved this.

uugh

Reblogging because solidarity.

You don’t know me, but I got your back, any day, any hour, any minute.

I once saw a large truck full of african american males switch lanes, come towards where I was standing on the curb in the rain and purposefully go REALLY fast to hit a large puddle to make it splash me, then saw them roll down the windows and point at me as they laughed.

I am a single white female. I hate to bring race or anything into this and I am sure white people are just as much as ass holes but racism of any kind HAS GOT TO STOP it’s not okay no matter what race you are to hate on any other races! I have been targeted SO MANY times because I am white and female, mostly by men either white OR black doesn’t matter.

I remember once I was in a long line at McDonalds, I would have been next to be served when another lane opened up and the clerk motioned to me to step over to be served. I moved, HUGE black guy who just walked in the store (I saw him enter cause of the position of the doors) Tried to shove me away so he could get helped first. I might have made a face but I know I said, “I have been waiting I was next” he said, “I was clearly here first.” I said, “No you just came in I’ve been waiting in that line.” He gets REALLY uppity and starts shouting, “WELL WHEN YOU’RE WHITE YOU’RE RIGHT” and starts throwing this huge fit.

The cashier (she was black) tells the man that he’s being immature and that she clearly saw I was next and motioned for me to come over, that bringing race into this was not an issue. The guy would just not shut up about me being a white princess and spoiled, when dude I was at the same McDonalds he was in the same bad part of town where I always hung out cause clearly princesses eat at McDonalds in Downtown cleveland. Anyway he had to be removed claiming racial discrimination when even the other people of his race were looking at him like he was a total idiot.

Like I said this has to stop, so I reblogged to share your story as well.

You have so much fucking nerve to reblog this post with this shit. So. Much. Fucking. Nerve. Sit your fucking ass down and shut your fucking mouth.

Welp…I bookmarked this. In the event I ever get asked what derailment is, I have an exceptionally short sighted reference. Almost want to thank the derailer for helping the masses understand. Almost.

(via philosophy-of-praxis)

May22

— The Taste of Tears, Derrida

(via timeimmemorial)
People who complain about Derrida’s prose style will forever be a fucking enigma to me.

(via cosmopappas)

“ To have a friend: to keep him. To follow him with your eyes. Still to see him when he is no longer there and to try to know, listen to, or read him when you know that you will see him no longer—and that is to cry.
To have a friend, to look at him, to follow him with your eyes, to admire him in friendship, is to know in a more intense way, already injured, always insistent, and more and more unforgettable, that one of the two of you will inevitably see the other die. One of us, each says to himself, the day will come when one of the two of us will see himself no longer seeing the other and so will carry the other within him a while longer, his eyes following without seeing, the world suspended by some unique tear, each time unique, through which everything from then on, through which the world itself—and this day will come—will come to be reflected quivering, reflecting disappearance itself: the world, the whole world, the world itself, for death takes from us not only some particular life within the world, some moment that belongs to us, but, each time, without limit, someone through whom the world, and first of all our own world, will have opened up in a both finite and infinite—mortally infinite—way. That is the blurred and transparent testimony borne by this tear, this small, infinitely small, tear, which the mourning of friends passes through and endures even before death, and always singularly so, always irreplaceably. ”