Not a single weapon nor stitch of leather, save for that of her boots, graces her form as she stands before the doors of the Sha'auvrea estate. Never one to bother with knocking when popping in unannounced is so much more fun, her patience is wearing thin. It’s been ages since she knocked on the door, probably a whole five seconds has passed, and she’s begun pacing back and forth in front of it. Whoever came up with the idea of knocking should be taken to pieces. Finally, after an eternity of about ten more seconds, she reaches for the door handle. Fuck it, this is taking too long and she needs to know.
The knock reverberated down the empty halls and finally reached Lukel’s ear. It had been a long while since anyone had knocked on his door and his curiosity was piqued, enough to remove him from the high backed chair he’d been sitting and to propel him towards the entrance.
He hesitated for only a moment, sucking in a deep breath before flinging the iron banded door open to reveal…
“Nia,” he breathed her name softly, a momentary look of surprise and shock flitting across his features before he reigned them in to a carefully composed, neutral expression. The Good Doctor wasn’t sure what to say to her, how to apologize for his absence nor even truly if she was there to welcome him back or stab him in the chest. He kind of deserved both and was more than happy to receive either.
Letters from the Depths of Solitude. 212. On Tears
Finally, a flow of tears. I think Barthes said, I love ergo I weep, or vice versa–I cry, therefore I love. It’s the statement undoubtedly surpassing in magnitude and bravery the Decartesian astute, ringing through the centuries paradox, which inspired so many thoughtful responses.
If only I remembered which statement of the two Barthes made (if any), what preceeds what. It’s nonessential, I suppose. Functions perfectly well in both directions like a good conveyer belt.
The amorous subject is a tearful subject. Everything hurts her leaving no visible trace but a reverberating pang that matches her merciless hope despite the grotesque intensity of either. In the very action of equating the two she is trying to decide if it is the hope that surpasses the despair, or to the contrary. That is, again (déjà vu), is not an issue, since neither answer would bring a solution.
The lover is a coward. Everything unrelentingly frightens her with a severe reminder of that despair to which she betrayed herself willingly, knowingly, and fully. There is no way to escape, and there is nothing to complain about. The worst that befells her, she accepts like a lamb on shaking legs. The blame is reserved by love to itself.
If I had a magical machine transforming a flow of tears into silk ribbons, their color would have been light blue–the color that in Russian, unalike in English, exists–which is the same as to say, has its own name: goluboi.
A dove of a word: golouboi, the stress is on the last “o,” rhymes with a “golden boy.” Is not it a lovely sound? I could almost rub between my fingers and feel the double surface of the light-blue stripes of fabric–slightly elastic, resilient–its two sides, silkier and rougher. The fabric emits a soft sheen of steel, and is almost as steel durable: unbreakable, everlasting ribbons. It is with them that I hold myself captive to my own desires, too many of which are incommensurable, unfulfillable, and incompatible.
the reality was, nights following games usually ended in a blur and charles figured so long as his ass still got up the following morning for his biweekly facetime call with his parents ─ then no harm, no foul. the thud of the music ( almost ) always paralleled the adrenaline still pushing through his veins, a muted smile curling along his lips only enough to give a slight indentation of a dimple into his left cheek. the echo of his laugh still reverberated through the base of his throat. although the buzz had yet to absorb him, his tongue felt heavy with liquor, his head nodding along to whatever sentences were thrown through the music.
an unfamiliar body was guided in front of him before charles’ gaze finally pulled from the triad of girls at the cusp of the bar. his eyes refrained from ogling her within the first five seconds, his mother’s lecture of respect for women fizzling out somewhere in the back of his head. charles had heard so much about her and yet nothing at all at the same time. “ fallon, right? ” opting out of a too-formal handshake, charles’ right arm opened up in offering. @sinfvlheathens
Sometimes it gets colder in Texas, and trees look like their own shadows, as is their wont on colder days. They stand slightly ringing, each branch ready to reverberate in response to the bird or cat or human or wind.
The landscape with scarce clouds elusively reminds me of the mid-spring Moscow.
the bruises of love bites left by lovers on necks and thighs; smudged lipstick from hasty kisses; blood red roses with their sharp thorns still intact; the way you hug someone you love when you reunite after a lengthy separation
polished instruments gleaming, held like the most precious of jewels by their owners; a sunny day with a clear blue sky where there are no clouds in sight; the rough script of poems penned out on scraps of paper or napkins before they're forgotten; when music is so loud that you feel it reverberating in your bones; the pale lines of fading scars
the hands of a fighter, short finger nails and bloodied knuckles; split lips that have scabbed over; the smooth and intricate lines of old weapons you see mounted on museum walls; deep trenches dug out from the earth; the way barbed wire contrasts against whatever it surrounds
loose braids with wild flowers slipped in; the majesty of tall trees stretching up endlessly towards the heavens; the wide and captivating eyes of wild deer; cloudy nights where the moon is just barely peeking through; the colorful fletching of arrows drawn back to rest upon cheeks and along jaws
the straight and steady way a soldier stands at attention; fingertips smudged with ink; a stack of books to read piled on the floor or a nightstand; eyes gleaming with the glow of new ideas; the quiet and contemplative aura of museums and libraries
the way sunlight catches dust motes in the air through the gaps in the leaves of the trees; the feeling of life you get from standing in the middle of an orchard with bees buzzing around you; crocuses and snowdrops peeking through the last dredges of winter's snow
the bleached bones of animals in the forest when moss has begun to engulf them; the way that graveyard angels look like they're weeping in the rain; the solemn aura of old churches, citadels, synagogues, temples, and mosques
the pleasure of holding something you've created in your palms; the soft glow of heated metal; the intricate beauty of cogs and gears fitting together precisely and working in tandem; the smooth and polished surfaces of high-rise business buildings
the lacy white of flowing wedding gowns; the way a couple's hands look clasped together; pairs of old wedding rings that are scratched from years of use; the feeling of surrealism that comes from looking at old family portraits; getting used to sharing a space with someone else and then seeing the mannerisms you've unknowingly adopted from them
the way that the low beam headlights of a car touch the roads that stretch ever onwards at night; old maps yellowed at the corners from their age; the way that things rush past when you look out the window of a car or train; quick hands slipping deftly into pockets and taking what they find
the light and protection of street lights in an otherwise dark city; the warmth of your bed on cold winter mornings; the heat of a fire as you sit around it with people you love; the comfort of a home-cooked meal
the way light looks when you're seeing it shine down from deep underwater; the effervescent colors of cresting waves; the eery beauty of shipwrecks; the ripples created when you trail your fingertips through still waters; dust clouds kicked up by the passing of strong hooves
the way that storm clouds darken the edge of the horizon; silhouettes framed against the sky by flashes of lightning; the splay of feathers of a bird's outstretched wings; the polished and tarnished brass of old fashioned scales
When Dr. Martin Luther King came out against the war in Vietnam in
1967, he was criticized by the mainstream press and his own advisors who
told him to not focus on “foreign” policy. But Dr. King forged forward,
and to justify his new stand, said publicly, “Like Muhammad Ali puts
it, we are all—black and brown and poor—victims of the same system of
When Nelson Mandela was imprisoned on Robben Island, he said that Muhammad Ali made him feel like the walls were not there.
When John Carlos and Tommie Smith raised their fists on the medal stand
in Mexico City, one of their demands was to “Restore Muhammad Ali’s
title.” They called Ali “the warrior-saint of the Black Athlete’s
When Student Non-Violent Coordinating Committee (SNCC)
volunteers in Lowndes County, Alabama launched an independent political
party in 1965, their new group was the first to use the symbol of a
black panther. Beneath the jungle cat’s black silhouette was a slogan
straight from the champ: “WE Are the Greatest.”
When Billie Jean
King was aiming to win equal rights for women in sports, Muhammad Ali
would say to her, “Billie Jean King! YOU ARE THE QUEEN!” She said that
this made her feel brave in her own skin.
The question is why? Why was he able to create this kind of radical ripple throughout the culture and across the world?
What Muhammad Ali did—in a culture that worships sports and violence
as well as a culture that idolizes black athletes while criminalizing
black skin—was redefine what it meant to be tough and collectivize the
very idea of courage. Through the Champ’s words on the streets and deeds
in the ring, bravery was not only standing up to Sonny Liston. It was
speaking truth to power, no matter the cost. He was a boxer whose very
presence taught a simple and dangerous lesson fifty years ago: “real
men” fight for peace and “real women” raise their voices and join the
fray. Or as Bryant Gumbel said years ago, “Muhammad Ali refused to be
afraid. And being that way, he gave other people courage.”
n. a feature
of modern society that suddenly strikes you as absurd and grotesque—from zoos
and milk-drinking to organ transplants, life insurance, and fiction—part of the
faint background noise of absurdity that reverberates from the moment our
ancestors first crawled out of the slime but could not for the life of them
remember what they got up to do.
Light Echoes Used to Study Protoplanetary Disks : This illustration shows a star surrounded by a protoplanetary disk. A new study uses data from NASAs Spitzer Space Telescope and four ground-based telescopes to determine the distance from a star to the inner rim of its surrounding protoplanetary disk. Researchers used a method called photo-reverberation, also known as light echoes.