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vangoghsotherear reblogged bolmi:
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“We have a very important school report on turquoise jewelry due in two days, and we can’t find any books on it, and the President is having us followed. It’s too much pressure!”
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tanshoesandpinkshoelaces reblogged oldfilmsflicker:
Marisa Tomei in My Cousin Vinny.
The original Guidette Hipster.
QUEEN
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pippa-is-an-earth-nerd reblogged m0rtality:
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itsraininghens reblogged my-little-underground:
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itsraininghens reblogged fuckyeahfelines:
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“I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn’t fight.
He hadn’t fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled and barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
—the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly—
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
—It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
—if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels—until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.”— Elizabeth Bishop, “The Fish” -
The Armadillo
for Robert Lowell
This is the time of year
when almost every night
the frail, illegal fire balloons appear.
Climbing the mountain height,
rising toward a saint
still honored in these parts,
the paper chambers flush and fill with light
that comes and goes, like hearts.
Once up against the sky it’s hard
to tell them from the stars —
planets, that is — the tinted ones:
Venus going down, or Mars,
or the pale green one. With a wind,
they flare and falter, wobble and toss;
but if it’s still they steer between
the kite sticks of the Southern Cross,
receding, dwindling, solemnly
and steadily forsaking us,
or, in the downdraft from a peak,
suddenly turning dangerous.
Last night another big one fell.
It splattered like an egg of fire
against the cliff behind the house.
The flame ran down. We saw the pair
of owls who nest there flying up
and up, their whirling black-and-white
stained bright pink underneath, until
they shrieked up out of sight.
The ancient owls’ nest must have burned.
Hastily, all alone,
a glistening armadillo left the scene,
rose-flecked, head down, tail down,
and then a baby rabbit jumped out,
short-eared, to our surprise.
So soft! — a handful of intangible ash
with fixed, ignited eyes.
Too pretty, dreamlike mimicry!
O falling fire and piercing cry
and panic, and a weak mailed fist
clenched ignorant against the sky!-Elizabeth Bishop
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Don't you get over it?
The banality of existance… The constant searching for something, anything, that you’re not even sure exists. A validation for a life that, really, you never asked for. And we go on, making money for an existance that is pointless once it ends, creating other people because it brings purpose to the mundane constant ebb and flow of honest to God predictability. And those people didn’t ask for it. We bring them in because it makes us feel like we had a greater purpose. Wasted after wasting so much time, we waste away in a hole in the ground surrounded by people grieving briefly for the fact that the wasted existence has ended and now you’re there, in the ground, wasting. And they all realise, at some point, that that’ll be them. And what was the point? What a waste of time.
We spend hours, days, weeks poring over literature celebrated for its celebration of the mundane, of the simple. The very real, raw ‘middle class’ predicatability. And only then is it beautiful, this plod of time, breath, heartbeats, because its a representation of the real. So its not as confronting as realising “Hey…This is it.”
What is the meaning of life? You know why no one has answered it yet— because there is no answer.
