the countess of monte cristo

can you take your likes off of private for a sec?

Thu, 23 May 2013 14:09:43 -0500

haha ok
http://www.tumblr.com/liked/by/kayrawan

Yesterday my creative writing teacher told us about his band and he even played a song for us. I...

Thu, 23 May 2013 14:05:19 -0500

Yesterday my creative writing teacher told us about his band and he even played a song for us. I believe that he thought we were going to judge him because of the music they make because he kept saying, “We make really weird music.” and “I don’t think y’all are going to like it.” He played this one song for us that is eight minutes long, and he told us that the lyrics were actually a poem. When he started playing the song, he walked out the room and said that he would be “right back.” I was preparing myself to hear the strangest music ever but it was actually amazing. I liked the song he played. It had an eerie feeling to it, and I felt like that I should be on shrooms listening to it. Oh and my teacher is the one who sings all the songs. When he came back in the room, he was a little stiff and everyone told him that they liked it (most of them lied to his face). But last night, I listened to all their music, and I feel odd for liking it so much but whatever. Good music brings good vibes.

violentwavesofemotion: I want you to know that I care about you. I care. I would infinitely caress...

Wed, 22 May 2013 20:19:12 -0500

violentwavesofemotion:

I want you to know that I care about you. I care. I would infinitely caress you in metaphors, I would have all the patience needed in order to stay. And I would. Because poets are right; because love is the air, the ocean and the land. Because, most of all, you are worth it. I won’t pull away; we will both let our wounds lie open. We won’t clutch our cracked hearts; we will let them heal together in silence. My heart will carry your footsteps and rising and turning, it will be wholly new. And within my body, your body will sing; and with our movements, inarticulate words will be replaced by the glorious sound of two souls waking up. I promise.

Hunter S. Thompson

Tue, 21 May 2013 11:06:27 -0500

Hunter S. Thompson

"My arms were always tight and craving to embrace: I wanted to embrace and hold the light, the wind,..."

Tue, 21 May 2013 10:59:56 -0500

“My arms were always tight and craving to embrace: I wanted to embrace and hold the light, the wind, the sun, the night, the whole world. I wanted to caress, to heal, to rock, to lull, to surround, to encompass. And I strained and I held so much that they broke; they broke away from me. Everything eluded me then. I was condemned not to hold.”

- Anaïs Nin, House of Incest

I don’t understand how some writers can write without feeling and putting their soul into...

Tue, 21 May 2013 03:58:28 -0500

I don’t understand how some writers can write without feeling and putting their soul into their work. I cannot help but be truthful when I write.

Kiko Mizuhara

Tue, 21 May 2013 00:42:34 -0500

Kiko Mizuhara

We can see the good in all when we come from a place of serenity and looking deeply within....

Tue, 21 May 2013 00:41:00 -0500

We can see the good in all when we come from a place of serenity and looking deeply within.

Sometimes we find it difficult to see the good in people, places, or situations that aren’t to our liking. We focus on the things we don’t like in our lives as a way of fueling our efforts to create change. There is nothing inherently wrong with this, and it is one way we make progress. However, if we get too caught up in this way of looking at the world, we lose touch with our ability to sit back and simply say yes to everything on our plates, which is the true starting point for all successful activity. Sometimes what we really need is to encourage ourselves to look deeply into all things in our lives to see the inherent goodness at the heart of everything.

At the core of this inquiry is the practice of unconditional acceptance, which can be scary because we feel as if we are being asked not to change the things we don’t like. But when we think this way, we are still operating on the surface of our lives. In order to feel the beauty and warmth of full acceptance, we have to be willing to sink deeper into the stratum underlying the external manifestation of our lives. This deeper place of being is the origin of all lasting change, yet its paradox is that when we are in it, we often don’t feel the need to change anything. From this place, we experience the pure beauty of the process of being alive, and we see that all things change in their own time. We don’t need to force anything. If there are things that we do need to change, from this place of serenity we create the shift easily, our hands guided by an energy that resides at the very center of our hearts.

In our active, goal-oriented culture, we learn to distrust stillness and to engage in busywork on the surface of life. This tendency can blind us to the good that lies at the heart of all things. But all we have to do to see again is stop for a moment, let go of our preconceptions and our agendas, and settle into the very center of our hearts, remembering that it is only from here that we can truly see. — DailyOM

pikeys: Bourgeois Bust - Jeff and Ilona, 1991 by Jeff Koons

Mon, 20 May 2013 22:39:31 -0500

pikeys:

Bourgeois Bust - Jeff and Ilona, 1991 by Jeff Koons

He and I can start going on adventures again. Last summer before he left for Waco, he took me to...

Mon, 20 May 2013 20:11:25 -0500

He and I can start going on adventures again. Last summer before he left for Waco, he took me to this area that was a couple of miles from his house. We walked there; sweating and talking about whatever we used to talk about then. The place was hidden behind the levee. I almost ran down there when he pointed it out to me. There were a lot of trees, sand, and rocks that surrounded the small area. The water from the river swayed upon the shore lightly. It tasted like home, yet I’ve never been there before. We sat on the rocks and watched the boats pass. We didn’t leave until the sun was starting to go down. And while we were walking back, there was a boat that was passing and a jazz band was playing on it. I told him that I wish we were on there, tapping our feet, drinking cheap wine, and watching mosquitoes resting on the rim of our glasses. He didn’t hear me. The boat occupied his attention. And tomorrow we’re going back to that sandy little place again. I’m intoxicated with excitement because I’ve been nostalgia for that place ever since.

I’ve been drowning myself in poetry lately.

Fri, 17 May 2013 01:35:13 -0500

I’ve been drowning myself in poetry lately.

We were sixteen when we met that summer. You brought ice-cold blueberries (which numbed my teeth but...

Thu, 16 May 2013 16:51:00 -0500

We were sixteen when we met that summer. You brought ice-cold blueberries (which numbed my teeth but were so very good) every time we sat under that tall, magnolia tree. Soft, white petals (that reminded me of milk) fell every now and then. You would pick them up, rub your fingers between them until mosquitoes came out and sucked our blood. You talked about selling pineapples with your dad out of a red truck, and I talked about musicians who you never knew existed. You mentioned something about your brother, and I don’t remember what it was because I was worried about the bugs that crawled up my back and stuck to my sweat as if I were syrup. When it was time for us to return back to our lives, (yours in the country where you could see meteor showers, and mine in the suburbs where a meth dealer lived across the street from me // but even though we were so different) we were both waiting for something extraordinary to happen. As for me, I am still waiting and I wonder if you are too.

Daughter — Get Lucky (Daft Punk cover)

Thu, 16 May 2013 16:28:00 -0500

Daughter — Get Lucky (Daft Punk cover)

"And this is how we danced: with our mothers’ white dresses spilling from our feet, late..."

Wed, 15 May 2013 22:54:54 -0500

“And this is how we danced: with our mothers’
white dresses spilling from our feet, late August

turning our hands dark red. And this is how we loved:
a fifth of vodka and an afternoon in the attic, your fingers

sweeping though my hair—my hair a wildfire.
We covered our ears and your father’s tantrum turned

into heartbeats. When our lips touched the day closed
into a coffin. In the museum of the heart

there are two headless people building a burning house.
There was always the shotgun above the fireplace.

Always another hour to kill—only to beg some god
to give it back. If not the attic, the car. If not the car,

the dream. If not the boy, his clothes. If not alive,
put down the phone. Because the year is a distance

we’ve traveled in circles. Which is to say: this is how
we danced: alone in sleeping bodies. Which is to say:

This is how we loved: a knife on the tongue turning
into a tongue.”

- Ocean Vuong, “Home Wrecker”

I think I’ll spend the rest of the day sitting outside while listening to Buena Vista Social...

Wed, 15 May 2013 16:13:00 -0500

I think I’ll spend the rest of the day sitting outside while listening to Buena Vista Social Club and eating peaches.

aseaofquotes: Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary

Wed, 15 May 2013 16:12:29 -0500

aseaofquotes:

Hunter S. Thompson, The Rum Diary

Chronicles, Vol. 1, Bob Dylan

Wed, 15 May 2013 16:05:00 -0500

The first thing you notice about New Orleans are the burying grounds - the cemeteries - and they’re a cold proposition, one of the best things there are here. Going by, you try to be as quiet as possible, better to let them sleep. Greek, Roman, sepulchres- palatial mausoleums made to order, phantomesque, signs and symbols of hidden decay - ghosts of women and men who have sinned and who’ve died and are now living in tombs. The past doesn’t pass away so quickly here. You could be dead for a long time.

The ghosts race towards the light, you can almost hear the heavy breathing spirits, all determined to get somewhere. New Orleans, unlike a lot of those places you go back to and that don’t have the magic anymore, still has got it. Night can swallow you up, yet none of it touches you. Around any corner, there’s a promise of something daring and ideal and things are just getting going. There’s something obscenely joyful behind every door, either that or somebody crying with their head in their hands. A lazy rhythm looms in the dreamy air and the atmosphere pulsates with bygone duels, past-life romance, comrades requesting comrades to aid them in some way. You can’t see it, but you know it’s here. Somebody is always sinking. Everyone seems to be from some very old Southern families. Either that or a foreigner. I like the way it is.

There are a lot of places I like, but I like New Orleans better. There’s a thousand different angles at any moment. At any time you could run into a ritual honoring some vaguely known queen. Bluebloods, titled persons like crazy drunks, lean weakly against the walls and drag themselves through the gutter. Even they seem to have insights you might want to listen to. No action seems inappropriate here. The city is one very long poem. Gardens full of pansies, pink petunias, opiates. Flower-bedecked shrines, white myrtles, bougainvillea and purple oleander stimulate your senses, make you feel cool and clear inside.

Everything in New Orleans is a good idea. Bijou temple-type cottages and lyric cathedrals side by side. Houses and mansions, structures of wild grace. Italianate, Gothic, Romanesque, Greek Revival standing in a long line in the rain. Roman Catholic art. Sweeping front porches, turrets, cast-iron balconies, colonnades- 30-foot columns, gloriously beautiful- double pitched roofs, all the architecture of the whole wide world and it doesn’t move. All that and a town square where public executions took place. In New Orleans you could almost see other dimensions. There’s only one day at a time here, then it’s tonight and then tomorrow will be today again. Chronic melancholia hanging from the trees. You never get tired of it. After a while you start to feel like a ghost from one of the tombs, like you’re in a wax museum below crimson clouds. Spirit empire. Wealthy empire. One of Napoleon’s generals, Lallemaud, was said to have come here to check it out, looking for a place for his commander to seek refuge after Waterloo. He scouted around and left, said that here the devil is damned, just like everybody else, only worse. The devil comes here and sighs. New Orleans. Exquisite, old-fashioned. A great place to live vicariously. Nothing makes any difference and you never feel hurt, a great place to really hit on things. Somebody puts something in front of you here and you might as well drink it. Great place to be intimate or do nothing. A place to come and hope you’ll get smart - to feed pigeons looking for handouts.

1000scientists: #8 Water and Persian Rugs, 2004Jalal Sepehr

Tue, 14 May 2013 17:09:49 -0500

1000scientists:

#8 Water and Persian Rugs, 2004
Jalal Sepehr

"Finding you was like coming home."

Tue, 14 May 2013 17:00:00 -0500

“Finding you was like coming home.”

- 6-Word Story #81

Box His lips were dusty lavender; bruised and cracked. This / is / how / I last saw him: black...

Tue, 14 May 2013 00:40:00 -0500

Box

His lips were dusty lavender; bruised and cracked.
This / is / how / I last saw him: black tuxedo,
lying on his back, and his hands were crossed over his chest.

I thought of a photograph of him when he was a child.
     His eyes were lowered, and his smooth legs were covered in dirt.
His small hands enveloped around a wooden box.

And now he was lying in one; his lifeless body resting
under the florescent light.

It had rustic, gold handles that were cold like his skeletal fingers.
     The white cushion that surrounded him was soft,
yet it tasted uncomfortable; poisoned and foul.

He didn’t rest there for long because he wanted to be burned.
      That / night / he / was going to transform into what he was
before he was born (nothing).