naivete

How I explained the difference between Punk and Rock to a friend in 6th grade

"In rock, all the songs are ‘I love you.’ In punk, all the songs are like ‘I hate you.’"

And then I proceeded to cite “All The Small Things” by Blink-182, specifically the line “She left me roses by the stairs, surprises let me know she cares,” as an example of a rock song, and “I Hate Everything About You” by Three Days Grace as an example of a punk song. 

Ohhhhh man. Those were the days.

I think the best gift that you receive as you grow older is the gift of insight. You see hypocrisy, hatred, true love, sadness, loneliness,heartache, naivete, and kindness. You are not blinded by immaturity anymore. This insight will sculpt you in ways that you do not notice until you are ready to be the person that you were always meant to be.

My eyes will never be shut again.

anonymous asked:

would you care to explain your interpretation of your "#oh be unlikely forever" tag? it's really beautiful on it's own but if you'd want to share why you made it/where that phrase came from/what it means to you, i'd love to hear it

it’s the last line of the poem “to the unlikely event" by w.s. merwin, addressing the idea of the "unlikely event" (which we use to talk about risk and horror and disaster) and how we pretend that it’s meaningful—when in fact every event is unlikely, and we live in the aftermath of every unlikely thing that went before, and what seems commonplace and predictable exists in spite of infinitesimally narrow odds. 

(someone calculated that the probability of you existing at all is the same as the probability that when 2 million people come together to each play a game with a trillion-sided dice, they all roll the dice and come up with exactly the same number. this is considered to be a generous estimate. the probability of you is basically zero—but not zero. we’re unlikely creatures with a hundred trillion cells and dreams and jokes and libraries and hot-air balloons and dancing and electricity, with four-chambered hearts and opposable thumbs. given the entropy of the universe, all the things you might be and do and feel are so unlikely as to be almost inconceivable. and yet—)

that last line is like a talisman, i think: a prayer that the bad thing won’t come; but it’s also an invocation of how near to impossibility all our moments are, how unlikely it is that we’re here at all, how astonishing it is that we’re alive and enduring and have things we fear to lose. so it’s my tag for human beings and the ways that we’re strange and brilliant and terrible and striving and fearful and brave and unlikely, and sometimes conscious of our own fragility, and wondrous by inches of infinity.

youtube

Please listen to this audio book version of Carmilla.  It’s gorgeous and there are totally moments when I think I hear Natasha Negovanlis’ throaty Carmilla voice.  Try not to die during 1:16:25 - 1:17:46 and definitely do not think of Carmilla and Laura recreating the scene in the webseries…

Tepid Cynicism

As I progress in years, I feel myself slipping into cynicism.  People no longer matter to me as much as they should; I allow them to aggravate me more than I should.  I once held the feelings of individuals above all else, but I have learned to loath.  The naivete of youth, which lead me to care and to practice patience, has left me.  I have deserted my principals.  I have abandoned my morals.  I no longer consider others’ feelings the same way I once did.  I have become self serving, and I hate it.  I am not blind to the individual tribulations of others, but I have let apathy obscure my vision.  When compared to all others, I do not believe that I behave atrociously and spitefully toward individuals. I do not deem myself a cynic.  But when I compare my current self to the way I once was, I see the marked difference.  The reality of who I am does not meet the idealized standard I have set for myself - I am not as understanding and accepting of others as I once was.  I question if one can hold on to the mannerisms of youth.  The loss of simplicity that comes with growing up may be the culprit in one’s demoralization. Instead, I have grown to disdain some and show contempt toward others.  To me, the mark of cynicism is how you treat others.  Because one cannot abuse what one loves, and one cannot exhale what one hates.  I long to view people as a once did, but as I become more aware of the faults of man, I fall deeper into cynicism. 

So I guess it’s all a game these days
Trying not to be the one who says something first
Suppressing the need to say “just come over and drink some beer”
But I don’t know the rules
I don’t even know how to fish
And as my bait is being naïve
I guess I’ll get hauled in and thrown back quite some times
Before I can finally say screw the rules,
Because you don’t care
Whether it’s been a minute or a day

When the preliminary excitement has mislead me countless times
And the involuntarily imagining of a future that’ll never exist
Has finally put me down to earth
My brain can stop pretending to like the things you like
As you finally stop speaking to me, I’ll realize I was never into it any way
And I lose another bit of naiveté
Until I’m so down to earth they might as well bury me
Cause even I don’t know who I am or what I want anymore

  • Professor:"Yeah, I've always thought it would be great to rent a car in Tangiers and drive south to Marrakech..."
  • Me:"No, no, no.... Really, no. You do not want to drive through Morocco."
  • Professor:"No, I'm fine, I was stationed in Naples once. It's gotta be the same."
  • Me & Algerian Guy:"....."
  • Algerian Guy:"Morocco is not Naples."
121*

     *

a deafening rumor 
of indecent fealty
or the other hunch 
that love is an epitaph
a querulous impulse 
full of tender rage
when flesh is dreamt 
in numinous repugnance
the quivering 
of fanatical cicadas 
levitating
summoned 
by the tender cries 
of huddled limbs

the sky 
may tune 
to another station
and decide 
the weatherman 
is right after all
it is hard 
to endure 
the monotone 
aesthetic
the residue 
of frail seductions 
like drowning 
mere inches 
beneath 
the water’s surface
a wimpling 
backstage exuent 
the shuddering 
predatory rebuke
threshing 
every forbidden 
fluttering

godless 
squatters 
with blind ears 
and deaf eyes
nameless riddles 
rusting 
in the coal moonlight
the standing indulgence 
of dogged doctrines
unavoidable eruptions 
of permissive consciences
her diesel words 
skinned 
with greasy 
conception
a bedeviled dalliance 
of fugitive courtship
his hands making 
promises 
his heart 
could not 
keep

     *