'Little poppies, little hell flames,
'Little poppies, little hell flames,
Do you do no harm?
You flicker. I cannot touch you.
I put my hands among the flames. Nothing burns
And it exhausts me to watch you
Flickering like that, wrinkly and clear red, like the skin of a mouth.
A mouth just bloodied.
Little bloody skirts!
There are fumes I cannot touch.
Where are your opiates, your nauseous capsules?
If I could bleed, or sleep!—
If my mouth could marry a hurt like that!
Or your liquors seep to me, in this glass capsule,
Dulling and stilling.
But colourless. Colourless.'
Poppies in July
' "Do you believe in ghosts?"
Naturally, I was confused, not expecting such a question on a winter's morning. It seemed to me to be the kind of question to be asked around midnight. But she did not wait for an answer; she already had a new question: "Can I come tomorrow?"
Again she didn't wait for an answer, as she descended the steps.
Only afterwards, I realised I should have told her that I do believe, not only in ghosts, but also vampires, werewolves, apparitions, fairies, witches, giants, magicians, astrologers, djinns, dwarfs, meleke and angels, azdaje and dragons, Satan, Lucifer, Iblis, Behemoth, Beelzebub, Astaroth, Gabriel, Azrael, Asmodai, Dzibril, the Holy Grail, sirens, satyrs, unicorns, centaurs, minotaurs, the whole of Borges's fantastic zoo, the Bogeyman, the Golem, Puss in Boots, Baba Yaga... I should have added that I believe in life after death, Džennet and Paradise, Džehennem and Hell, the Seven Aztec Heavens, Valhalla, Ragnarok, the Eternal Hunting Ground, Hades, Bosch's paintings... and that I have no doubt about the usefulness of Dervish rituals, exorcism, spiritualism, alchemy, the Hodža's notes, cabals, atonements, spell casting, reading tea leaves and coffee grains and animals' intestines, palmistry... That I believe in all magic tricks, levitation, sawing a woman in half, the materialism of a litter of rabbits from a hat, mass hypnotism, suggestion... And especially, with all my heart, my soul and the remainder of my reason, I believe in reincarnation! For if I didn't believe in reincarnation, in a second chance, I think that depression would suffocate me.'
'All things are actually black in their own nature; they change only when you expose them to light. Because of this, Leonardo began every one of his paintings with a layer of black colour.'
- (Page 105)
I actually thought i was getting this cover:
I prefer this one but i'm not breaking my heart over the mishap.
It's the risk you take when secondhand online book shopping.
Okay, i'm kind of breaking my heart but ugh, it's so... orange.
"Mental health disorders are misunderstood, especially depression. Depression isn’t an emotion - depression is a creeping numbness that will insidiously degrade every aspect of life.
I created these images a way to express how I felt during the worst parts of my depression. The pictures portray many of the problems that surfaced during this time, like the identity crisis of medicated vs. unmedicated self, others who attribute shortcomings to moral failings, rather than to a neurological condition, the fact that these are problems that I will have the rest of my life, and the regret I feel when I look back at my mistakes, missed opportunities, and ruined friendships.
To a certain extent, I’ve dealt with depression and anxiety all my life, but it was only last year that it exploded into a serious problem. It starts slowly. Gradually I began to have less energy, and everything seemed to become a bit more difficult. I lost interest in all the things that I used to be passionate about. I became irritable, so I isolated myself from my friends in fear I would snap at them. I was just unable to “connect” with anyone else. I didn’t feel any emotions. Getting out of bed became too difficult, so I wouldn’t leave my room for days at a time. While driving, I would earnestly hope that I’d get into a fatal car accident. Over the course of a few months, the suicidal thoughts got more and more serious. It felt as if I were falling into a bottomless pit, and could only watch myself sink deeper and deeper.
At the time, no one was using the term “depression.” All I knew is that I became bad at the things I used to be good at, and I didn’t know why. I was disappointing everyone around me, especially myself. Getting help was terrifying. Because I’ve had these problems my whole life, I would always try to rationalize or ignore them, but to seek treatment meant admitting that these problems were real. It’s not like getting treated for poor eyesight or the flu. Your mind is who you are, and when it doesn’t work properly, it’s scary.
I did end up seeing a doctor, in fear that if things continued I wouldn’t be around much longer. Getting the diagnosis was a mixed bag. It was so relieving to have an explanation for so much of my past irrational behavior, but at the same time, I suddenly had to face all kinds of new problems, while still dealing with all the old ones. It was very difficult trying to articulate the difficulties of these disorders to my family and friends. I was told that I was “just being dramatic,” “just need to try harder,” and “ungrateful because other people have it worse.” It was so frustrating to not have my problems taken seriously - problems that made me want to take my own life. Since I couldn’t explain it with words, I started making photos that illustrate how these disorders have affected me.
The act of making these images has been therapeutic, and painful at times, and they serve as a reminder of how I never want to slip into that state of deep depression again. I feel quite a bit better now, but I don’t think that these disorders are something that can be cured; it’s just something that you have to deal with day by day. There are still days when I feel terrible, but I decided that suicide just isn’t an option; I’ll be sticking around one way or another."
'How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
'How astonishing it is that language can almost mean,
and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say,
God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write, and the words
get it all wrong. We say bread and it means according
to which nation. French has no word for home,
and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people
in northern India is dying out because their ancient
tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost
vocabularies that might express some of what
we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would
finally explain why the couples on their tombs
are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands
of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated,
they seemed to be business records. But what if they
are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve
Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light.
O Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper,
as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind’s labor.
Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts
of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred
pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what
my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this
desire in the dark. Perhaps the spiral Minoan script
is not language but a map. What we feel most has
no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses, and birds.'
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
- ► 2016 (685)
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- chvrches - empty threat
- all dogs - georgia
- long beard - dream
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- i don't give a twirly fuck
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- jamie hewlett
- ryan adams - bad blood (taylor swift cover)
- will samson - tumble
- phil hale
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- kwabs - make you mine
- pwr bttm // ugly cherries
- kwabs - forgiven
- nicole dollanganger - helena (my chemical romance ...
- family of the year - hero
- jesus mari lazkano
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- iain matthews - shake it
- scott pilgrim vs. the world
- ralf arzt
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- gang gang dance - mindkilla
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- megan ellen macdonald
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- børns - 10,000 emerald pools
- soak - blud
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- sigala - easy love (jackson 5 remix)
- korallreven - here in iowa
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- gramma's boyfriend - forget the stones
- buffalo tom - i'm allowed
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- the hallow
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