re : joy

The last witness of that summer of 2010. I fell fucking hard, kissed the asphalt, nicked my elbows and my knees. Cried pretty damn hard, as she scooped me off the road (in the same way J.Kennedy, in shock, turns to watch her husband's brains blow out behind him, grasps thin air, tries to scoop.) Bundles me on the back of a cab at midnight, we try to get over my fall (I can't)
Fast forward to the present, we've been merry-go-rounding that summer/fall/winter for a few years now. Got off individually at different intervals, but I think she got off for good now.

We're all bound by something, what is real life compared to this elaborate fantasy we've got ourselves in?
i'm too tightly wound.

unusual space headed trippy dreams i remember it as vividly as speeding over a collapsing bridge in a red car, the sky was blue, then green, then red and then nothingness. I was scared, alone, found in a new situation, it is too cold and i start to heave and feel nothing but hatred for everyone in the entire world

i left my heart somewhere among the 6am blue forests, quiet roads, snowed in streets. i licked the icicles on someone's frozen pipes and got my tongue stuck, drank champagne till i was dizzy, danced in clubs, slipped so many times, watched fireworks and screamed as one on new year's day.

im super super happy to go back to belonging somewhere

we are so postmodern

Creativity is uncomfortable. It is their dissatisfaction with the present that drives them on to make changes. Creative people, like those with psychotic illnesses, tend to see the world differently to most. It's like looking at a shattered mirror. They see the world in a fractured way.

( MARK MILLARD )

Got it off expose's blog this morning. we are so postmodern

A picture i did today with crystal. i love working with like-minded people. similar visual interests. There's a girl i haven't got the chance to photograph yet, she's so destructively beautiful and she writes poetry. We've never met, but we've bumped into each other without knowing. I love these girls i photograph. Half the time, they're not the typical brand of beauty but theres something else about them.. something other people don't seem to see and it frustrates me. I want to turn into a shadow, a ghost, and photograph their moments. She calls me a shadowghost. i like that term. we live in our own lonely bubbles. And maybe she would come close enough to stick, and i can feel how she's feeling and it's intense. Like a storm

in 42 days i will be gone
back to a cold, comfortable shape of a home
and to late afternoon walks in snow and running in the frozen air makes the back of my throat taste copper and spit blood. There will be the everything as I left it, the bathroom and slight hum of the washing machine when the house wakes up in the morning. Cold floorboards (i need to be reminded to wear socks) and a thorough emptiness of landscape. I remind me, one is missing, one is missing. And before i go fucking hysterical she takes the razor away again. Mary slips one into your head and you should learn to relax and get a large triple cheese pizza from the corner shop and some salad from the supermarket. 

american horror story

I've never come across another series with more beautiful quotes/script/cinematography or a soundtrack that can beat this. Not even harper's island. i love harper's island but this is .. something else




I prepare for the noble war. I’m calm, I know the secret. I know what’s coming and I know no one can stop me, including myself. I kill people I like. Some of them beg for their life. I don’t feel sad. I don’t feel anything It’s a filthy world we live in. It’s a filthy goddamn helpless world and honestly, I feel like I’m helping to take them away from the shit and the piss and the vomit that run in the streets. I’m helping to take them somewhere clean, and kind. The world is a filthy place, it’s a filthy goddamned horror show. There’s so much pain, you know? There’s so much…There is some thing about all that blood, I drown in it. The indians believed that the blood holds all the bad spirits. And once a month in ceremonies they would cut themselves to let the spirits go free. Now there is something smart about that, very smart. I like that. You think I’m crazy?

-


They say when a parent dies, the child feels his own mortality. But when a child dies, it’s immortality that a parent loses.

I think, sadness is the basis of good art
Sad people are so beautiful. Like iridescent things
sadness remains vaguely unexplored

memories are indefinite, research has shown they are malleable