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i’m bleeding, i’m not just making conversation

@theurbansombrero / theurbansombrero.tumblr.com

— i am a young, young person who is trying very hard
CARRIE PAGE LIVES in a rented bungalow in Odessa, Texas. The decor is spare to nonexistent. The smells are Pine-Sol, Bounce dryer sheets, something wafting up from the concrete, the mustiness inside a jar of old, dried thyme, and the rotten-banana fume of drugstore nail-polish. She wears a dirty blonde, iron-curled bob that looks inspired by photos of Miranda Lambert, three years ago, in People. Her jeans are 'heritage blue' and bootcut, size twenty-nine. Her jewelry is 'antique silver.' She’s a waitress. Her entire circumstance has the air of a great find at the thrift store. You would say: Oh, is that a new life? She would reply, with a self-conscious shrug: It’s new to me. She looks like a woman who used to be a girl named Laura Palmer.

Hawk, electricity is humming. You hear it in the mountains and rivers. You see it dance among the seas and stars and glowing around the moon. But in these days, the glow is dying. What will be in the darkness that remains? The Truman brothers are both true men. They are your brothers. And the others, the good ones who have been with you. Now the circle is almost complete. Watch and listen to the dream of time and space. It all comes out now, flowing like a river, that which is and is not. Hawk, Laura is the one.

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“You walk into this room at your own risk. Because it leads to the future. Not a future that will be but one that might be. This is not a new world. It is simply an extension of what began in the old one. It is patterned after every dictator who has planted the ripping imprint of a boot upon the pages of history since the beginning of time. It has refinements. Technological advancements. And a more sophisticated approach to the destruction of human freedom. But like every one of the super-states that preceded it, it has one iron rule. Logic is an enemy and truth is a menace.”–Rod Serling, The Obsolete Man (1961) The Twilight Zone

Amidst the glossiness of late capitalism, we are fed the notion that all difficult feelings—depression, anxiety, loneliness, rage—are simply a consequence of unsettled chemistry, a problem to be fixed, rather than a response to structural injustice or, on the other hand, to the native texture of embodiment, of doing time in a rented body, with all the attendant grief and frustration that entails.

Olivia Laing, ‘The Lonely City’  (via rojospinks)