people run “aesthetic blogs” where they just reblog pics of like neon lights and pools of water and weird textures and stuff and i don’t really get it but i like to look at those blogs, it’s nice to know that you guys are out there, always silent, never getting into fights, just reblogging pics of wrinkled plastic bags… keep doing ur thing
“It’s a hard thing," Don Quixote instructed the saint, "for a woman to become a knight and have adventures and save this world. It’s necessary to pass through trials sometimes so perilous, you become mad and even die. Such trials are necessary.”—Kathy Acker, Don Quixote (via trans-atlantyk)
Silver rain at midnight, light on dark, flecks of red, glowing on the black road, moon hanging huge and low; a white china plate waiting to be smashed.
We drift, low and hard, hanging close to the road, our bike tires spinning silver and flicking water; cold, ice picks; onto bare legs.
The trees look purple, and their royal boughs shift and shudder, as secret creatures howl and jump, from nest to food. We push down on pedals, hoodies up, heads down, against the wind and rain, we sear a path in mercury droplets, across yellow lines, turning left, towards home.
Riding in front of me, he yells back to me. I see his face, light, glistening, a ghostly mask in the dark, but his words are eaten by the wind.
At the beginning of any text there is what remains closed, unseen. The text is born every time it’s read as we impose our own minds and ideas onto it. The text becomes a place of possibility, capable of infinite interpretation. Possibility is the child of this tension, which opposes a strict narrative thesis. Possibility is the antithesis, and without it there can be no opening. There is no-place we enter and enter at the same time, which becomes a utopia (the no place) or pure book—the book about nothing—as Jacques Derrida once noted.
“The ability of Blackness to travel to and be performed by non-Black bodies is supposed to be a triumph of post-racial politics, a feat that proves once and for all that race is not biological. Race does not have any biological basis, but I maintain that there is no triumph and no celebration when we embrace a white girl who deliberately attempts to sound like a Black girl, in a culture where Black girls can’t get no love.”—Black women are still being pushed to the sidelines. (via salon)
I should have sat in the front row at the NA meeting
I felt bad like it was my fault like i should have sat in the front row at the NA meeting not in the back That it was too hot that time we were coked and nearly-cooked-to-death-by-gigantic-outsourcer I’m almost dealing with it with my shoulders slouched In rehab there was a rock as big as a human head that you had to carry if you were hanging onto an issue like you had to carry the rock until you let go: you will enter at daybreak wheeling sunbathers weighted to diversion with do-gooders and all-knowers and the day will fade into faun while clanger counter-revolution worriers swim and hour the striplings of filth and empty overflowing rum birthdays
Odyssey Odyssey is a contemporary take on Homer’s Odyssey, performed for an audience of two in a Honda Odyssey. This work was included in The Machine Project Field Guide to L.A. Architecture, as part of Pacific Standard Time Presents: Modern Architecture in L.A., and originally performed from July 10–22, 2013.
"To build a better psych ward, a space unshackled from the inhumanity and stigmas of the "insane asylum", Kiyoshi Izumi would have to immerse himself in their world. He’d have to get on their level, the thinking went, to understand a patient’s struggles and, crucially, how those struggles could be inverted, blended, stretched, and exploded by various design quirks, ambient anomalies, temporal-spatial glitches, color schemes, light casts and any other features that to outsiders seemed mundane, but to whose grimmery existed only on wavelengths discernible to the afflicted. He’d have to conjure up not only hallucinations but also delusions and perceptual distortions distinct to psychoses. He’d have to eat acid. Or so he and Osmond and Hoffer thought. "