fear soup

November 21, 2017

Life is made of fear. Some people eat fear soup three times a day. Some people eat fear soup all the meals there are. I eat it sometimes. When they bring me fear soup to eat, I try not to eat it, I try to send it back. But sometimes I’m too afraid to and have to eat it anyway.

Martin Amis
Other People

Photographs

November 21, 2017

Have you ever had the feeling that photographs are actual physical spaces? Like a tunnel or passageway into the past? That solitary frozen moment in time which, if you wished it, you could enter and live a different life?

plugged into my core

November 20, 2017

Lust was a positive high-tension cable, plugged into my core, activating a near-epileptic seizure of conviction that this was the one thing I had to do in life.

Will Self
How the Dead Live

Saturday Morning Desire

October 7, 2017

It’s a terrible thing, isn’t it? The way we love each other…

If nothing will save us from death, perhaps love will save us from life…

Books are finite, sexual encounters are finite, but the desire to read and to fuck are infinite; it surpasses our own deaths, our fears, our hopes…

Sex is art. It is all art and all life. It is everything…

A child is so strong. A child is the strongest creature on earth. A child is integrated, is its own. A child needs no loved one to share the experiencing of beauty, yet has always the underlying certainty that sharing would be easily achieved if need arose: that there is, in fact, no involuntary aloneness.

For some people, growing-up is largely a matter of the death of this certainty. A sudden death, perhaps, or perhaps a very lingering affair.

Frances Bellerby
The Little Lamps

Powerful tool…

July 30, 2017

by heart

June 27, 2017

Always learn poems by heart. They have to become the marrow in your bones. Like fluoride in the water, they’ll make your soul impervious to the world’s soft decay.

Janet Fitch
White Oleander

Books

May 25, 2017

Hill of the Magic Hare

March 8, 2017

I came across it unawares,
Still, dark sides a footfall away,
Flattened in the summer grasses.
At first I believed it dead
And walked past, face averted.
But something about the form,
Like, yet unlike a rabbit
Took me back to gaze into
A yellow eye, wild yet wise,
Before she took flight.

And afterwards I imagined life
In all the dead things I chanced upon.
Things of flesh, and bone and shell.

Nell Grey

(from Obsessed with Pipework)