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People who feel any sort of regret where you are concerned will suppose you are angry, and they will see anger in what you do, even if you’re just quietly going about a life of your own choosing. They will make you doubt yourself, which, depending on cases, can be a severe distraction and a waste of time. This is a thing I wish I had understood much earlier than I did.
Marilynne Robinson, Gilead (via devilduck)
Umberto Fiori, "Slide"

A playground, in a park. One lady
raises to the top of the slide a ball
of newspaper, gives it a kiss:
“Ready … set … go!” Another holds
a lampshade in her hands, smoothing
its chenille bangs. “My daughter,
you should see her dance—
she’s already won two prizes.”
“Did I tell you mine—he’s three—can already write?”

A girl, in line behind them with her son,
is listening. She tightens her grip on his hand,
hoping no one
will notice he’s real, and alive.

(via blogut)

“In the multiple peregrinations of love, Sabina was quick to recognize the echoes of larger loves and desires. The large ones, particularly if they had not died a natural death, never died completely and left reverberations. Once interrupted, broken artificially, suffocated accidentally, they continued to exist in separate fragments and endless smaller echoes.

[…]A partial resemblance could stir what remained of the imperfectly rooted out love which had not died a natural death. Whatever was torn out of the body, as out of the earth, cut, violently uprooted, left such deceptive, such lively roots below the surface, all ready to bloom again under an artificial association, by a grafting of sensation, given new life through this graft of memory.”

—Anais Nin, A Spy in the House of Love (via reticence-)

It’s like going around a mirrorless world asking everyone you meet to describe you and everyone says endlessly, ‘you have a face even as I do and your eyes are bluer and big’, and even, ‘my smile when I look at you is you’, but you don’t believe it and then one day you bump smack into a stone wall and no one hears you say , ‘ouch’, and your whole problem is solved.
Diane Arbus (via dialogues)

rhea137:

Giuseppe Randazzo, Stone Fields

Using algorithms to create the structure of the stones and to sort them by size according to an underlying pattern

Via

legrandcirque:

Photograph by Michael Rougier. Japan, 1964.

He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.
Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina (via absea)

zombiehypnosis:

P.M. Dawn - Set Adrift On Memory Bliss

Jonathan Galassi, from “Girlhood”

How else will you know
the color of crushed time;
how else will you feel
what it is to change and remember,
to lose and absorb
this summer inside you

(via ahuntersheart)

We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
Anaïs Nin  (via killthecashcow)
Erica Jong, Penis Envy

I envy men who can yearn
with infinite emptiness
toward the body of a woman,

hoping that the yearning
will make a child,
that the emptiness itself
will fertilize the darkness.

Women have no illusions about this,
being at once
houses, tunnels,
cups & cupbearers,
knowing emptiness as a temporary state
between two fullnesses,
& seeing no romance in it.

If I were a man
doomed to that infinite emptiness,
& having no choice in the matter,
I would, like the rest, no doubt,
find a woman
& christen her moonbelly,
madonna, gold-haired goddess
& make her the tent of my longing,
  the silk parachute of my lust,
the blue-eyed icon of my sacred sexual itch,
the mother of my hunger.

But since I am a woman,
I must not only inspire the poem
but also type it,
not only conceive the child
but also bear it,
not only bear the child
but also bathe it,
not only bathe the child
but also feed it,
not only feed the child
but also carry it
everywhere, everywhere…

while men write poems
on the mysteries of motherhood.

I envy men who can yearn
with infinite emptiness

(via leda-swanson

In the years afterward, I fled whenever somebody began to understand me. That has subsided. But one thing remained: I don’t want anybody to understand me completely. I want to go through life unknown. The blindness of others is my safety and my freedom.
Pascal Mercier (via mirroir)
Celebration when your plan is working? Anyone can do that. But when you realize that the story of your life could be told a thousand different ways, that you could tell it over and over as a tragedy, but you choose to call it an epic, that’s when you start to learn what celebration is. When what you see in front of you is so far outside of what you dreamed, but you have the belief, the boldness, the courage to call it beautiful instead of calling it wrong… that’s celebration.
“Cold Tangerines” by Shauna Niequist (via julie911)

annasintervals:

Rogi Andre  1905-1970

If I didn’t define myself for myself, I would be crunched into other people’s fantasies for me and be eaten alive.
Audre Lorde (via human-voices)

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