This year it's all about finishing those damned sequels, trilogies, tetralogies, pentalogies etc. ad infinitum.
Unfinished series make me more uncomfortable than i care to admit.
I didn't come away with a quote after reading Robin McKinley's spin on the Beauty and the Beast tale.
It happens sometimes.
Even when i've enjoyed the story, for whatever reason the language just doesn't spark anything for me.
It's a shame because a book deprived of folded corners is an upsetting sight but hopefully my very own beast (see the stupendously fluffy bastard above) will make up for the lack of pretty words.
My initial thoughts after watching the Mr. Robot season 2 finale:
It took me under a minute into the first episode of the first season to be all in.
The second season took about half a season longer but goddamnit, i'm more in than ever.
My only request for next season is that Tyrell must be in at least 90% of the episodes.
For he is a precious lunatic and i need more of him on my screen.
Magdalena Lutek aka. *Nishe
'On starless, windless nights like this
I can hear the wedding dresses
Weeping in their closets,
Luminescent with hopeless longing,
Like hollow angels.
They know they will never be worn again.
Who wants them now,
After their one heroic day in the limelight?
Yet they glow with desire
In the darkness of closets.
A few lucky wedding dresses
Get worn by daughters—just once more,
Then back to the closet.
Most turn yellow over time,
Yellow from praying
For the moths to come
And carry them into the sky.
Where is your mother's wedding dress,
Where is your grandmother's wedding dress?
Eventually they all disappear,
Who knows where.
Imagine a dump with a wedding dress on it.
I saw one wedding dress, hopeful at Goodwill.
But what sad story brought it there,
And what sad story will take it away?
Somewhere a closet is waiting for it.
The luckiest wedding dresses
Are those of wives
Betrayed by their husbands
A week after the wedding.
They are flung outside the double-wide,
Or the condo in Telluride,
And doused with gasoline.
They ride the candolescent flames,
Just smoke now,
Into a sky full of congratulations.'
On the Sadness of Wedding Dresses
'It was bitterly cold. Boy and Willow were shivering, but not just from the temperature. Row after row of lifeless stones faded away around them into the darkness of the cemetery. They had crept inside through the massive iron gates, which were not locked. They could just make out shapes from the moonlight which slanted low over the wall of the cemetery. The land sloped slightly from where they stood, so that even in the darkness they could see the stones rising away from them. There were thousands, some small and plain, some big, some carved with complex designs. Some were not stones at all but impressive tombs made of huge blocks of stone, surrounded by spiked railings. They were designed to keep people out, though Boy thought how strange they looked, like cages, as if they were actually meant to keep people in.'
The Book of Dead Days
MOSI project, Iceland
'The dead say little in their letters
they haven't said before.
We find no secrets, and yet
how different every sentence sounds
heard across the years.
My father breaks my heart
simply by being so young and handsome.
He's half my age, with jet-black hair.
Look at him in his navy uniform
grinning beside his dive-bomber.
Come back, Dad! I want to shout.
He says he misses all of us
(though I haven't yet been born).
He writes from places I never knew he saw,
and everyone he mentions now is dead.
There is a large, long photograph
curled like a diploma—a banquet sixty years ago.
My parents sit uncomfortably
among tables of dark-suited strangers.
The mildewed paper reeks of regret.
I wonder what song the band was playing,
just out of frame, as the photographer
arranged your smiles. A waltz? A foxtrot?
Get out there on the floor and dance!
You don't have forever.
What does it cost to send a postcard
to the underworld? I'll buy
a penny stamp from World War II
and mail it downtown at the old post office
just as the courthouse clock strikes twelve.
Surely the ghost of some postal worker
still makes his nightly rounds, his routine
too tedious for him to notice when it ended.
He works so slowly he moves back in time
carrying our dead letters to their lost addresses.
It's silly to get sentimental.
The dead have moved on. So should we.
But isn't it equally simple-minded to miss
the special expertise of the departed
in clarifying our long-term plans?
They never let us forget that the line
between them and us is only temporary.
Get out there and dance! the letters shout
adding, Love always. Can't wait to get home!
And soon we will be. See you there.'
Finding a Box of Family Letters
How could they sleep? All day on the radio there had been hurricane warnings. How could they leave her up in the attic in the rickety brass bed, knowing that the roof might be blown right off the house, and she tossed out into the wild night sky to land who knows where?
Her shivering grew uncontrollable.
You asked to have the attic bedroom, she told herself savagely. ‑ Mother let you have it because you're the oldest. It's a privilege, not a punishment.
"Not during a hurricane, it isn't a privilege," she said aloud. She tossed the quilt down on the foot of the bed, and stood up. The kitten stretched luxuriously, and looked up at her with huge, innocent eyes.
"Go back to sleep," Meg said. "Just be glad you're a kitten and not a monster like me." '
A Wrinkle in Time
'When they found her all she would say was, "The Rabbit. The Rabbit. The Rabbit." Over and over. When she acted like that they said she was mad. Alice knew she wasn't mad. Maybe. Not deep down. But the powders they gave her made the world all muzzy and sideways and sometimes she felt mad.
Everything had happened just as she said, when she could say something besides "Rabbit." She and Dor went into the Old City for Dor's birthday. Sixteenth birthday. Sixteen candles on your cake, a sliver of cake and a cup of tea for you, my dear. They both went in, but only Alice came out. Two weeks later came Alice, covered in blood, babbling about tea and a rabbit, wearing a dress that wasn't hers. red running down the insides of her legs and blue marks on her thighs where fingers had been.'
'It is many years before the Pied Piper comes back for the other children. Though his music has been silenced, still thousands are forced to follow him, young, old, large, small, everyone . . . even the ogres wearing ten-league boots and cracking whips, even their nine-headed dogs. We are the rats in exodus now and the Earth shrinks from the touch of our feet. Spring leaves a bitter taste. All day, rain and people fall; all night, nixies wails from the lakes. The blood-coloured bear sniffs at our heels. I keep my eyes on the road, counting white pebbles, fearful of where this last gingerbread trail is leading us.
Has the spell worked? I think so: coils of mist lap at our ankles, rising to mute all sounds, swallowing everyone around us whole. When the moment comes, we run blind, dragging the Shadow behind us, stopping only when my outstretched hand meets the rough bark of pine trunks. One step, two, and we're inside the enchanted forest, the air threaded with icy witch-breaths. The day collapses around us Phantom sentries swoop from the trees demanding names but our teeth guard the answers so they turn away, flapping eastward in search of the cloud-shrouded moon. Roots coil, binding us to the forest floor. We crouch in a silence punctuated by the distant clatter of stags shedding their antlers.
We wake, uneaten.'
Gretel and the Dark
'Quentin felt like the little boy at the beginning of The Lorax, at the mysterious tower of the dismal Once-ler. They should have been facing down bellowed challenged from black knights bearing the vergescu, or solving thorny theological dilemmas posed by holy hermits. Or at the very least resisting the diabolical temptations of ravishing succubi. Not fighting off season affective disorder.'
The Magician King
'The Grayer twins lean in, their faces shining like Christmas, and I know what they're hungry for. They pucker up their lips and suck. The round cloud stretches doughily into two smaller round clouds . . . and splits. One half of my soul goes into Jonah's mouth, and the other into Norah's. They shut their eyes like Mum did the time we saw Vladimir Ashkenazy at the Royal Albert Hall. Bliss. Bliss. Inside my skull, I howl and my howl echoes on and on and on and on but nothing lasts forever . . . The big beating heart-thing's gone, and the Grayer twins are back kneeling where they were before. Time's slowed down to nothing. The brownish moth is frozen an inch away from it. Cold bright star white. The Nathan in the mirror's gone, and if he's gone, I'm―'
'...the day was darkening outside, and as I finished that first bite, as that first impression faded, I felt a subtle shift inside, an unexpected reaction. Ad if a sensor, so far buried inside me, raised its scope to scan around, alerting my mouth to something new. Because the goodness of the ingredients—the fine chocolate, the freshest lemons—seemed like a cover over something larger and darker, and the taste of what was underneath was beginning to push up from the bite. I could absolutely taste the chocolate, but in drifts and traces, in an unfurling, or an opening, it seemed that my mouth was also filling with the taste of smallness, the sensation of shrinking, of upset, tasting a distance I somehow knew was connected to my mother, tasting a crowded sense of her thinking, a spiral, like I could almost even taste the grit in her jaw that had created the headache that meant she had to take as many aspirins as were necessary, a white dotted line of them in a row on the nightstand like an ellipsis to her comment: I'm just going to lie down.... None of it was a bad taste, so much, but there was a kind of lack of wholeness to the flavors that made it taste hollow, like the lemon and chocolate were just surrounding a hollowness. My mother's able hands had made the cake, and her mind had known ho to balance the ingredients, bit she was not there, in it. It so scared me that I took a knife from a drawer and cut out a big slice, ruining the circle, because I had to check again right that second...'
The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake
The big sister taking care of me as my wisdom teeth do their very best to saw my gums to shreds and render me pitiful.
I can only consume squishy food.
Give me all the squishy food.
And teething gel.
My gums feel... marshmallowy.
Babies get the best drugs.
- porter robinson feat. amy millan - divinity
- the finishing
- anohni - paradise
- joshua flint
- bo bartlett
- tim serrano
- rae perry
- mr. robot
- johnny flynn - raising the dead
- cherry glazerr // apocalipstick
- lucy hardie
- lutek // galvin
- jeremy geddes
- the book of dead days
- eef barzelay - gun (uncle tupelo cover)
- eef barzelay - in the aeroplane over the sea (neut...
- labbé // gioia
- merrin karras - elevate
- exam season - everything is salted caramel // pin ...
- year's end // year's beginning
- good omens
- phil collins - take me home
- xiu xiu - wondering
- endre penovác
- santa clarita diet
- wisdom or unabashed devilry?
- xiu xiu - blue frank-pink room (twin peaks cover)
- i'm dying up here
- joshua dunlop
- phox - 1936
- adam jones & k.s. rhoads - who will carry you?
- nicholas yee - stranger things cello medley
- postcard club // penelope isles - cut your hair
- the handmaid's tale
- scott pilgrim vs. the book
- tine poppe
- miranda lake
- leonardo santamaria
- nirrimi firebrace
- the weeknd vs s u r v i v e - stranger things them...
- k?d - genesis
- rick and morty and the screaming sun
- verbally hostage
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On the 17th of January 2013, i woke up to discover two unexpected gifts. I didn't see this coming. I didn't even think Armin ...
- Flaubert - George Orwell 1984 - Manual for Book Thieves - T.S. Eliot Just stealing some stuff from this isn't...
Esther Sarto Winter Painting
- about today
- alexey titarenko
- allison sommers
- art house
- bas jan ader
- beatrix potter
- beatriz vidal
- chris scarborough
- denis peterson
- design for mankind
- desiree dolron
- esra roise
- film grab
- fuco ueda
- gottfried helnwein
- insect lab
- jo fraser
- john casey
- levi van veluw
- little people
- london print club
- mark ryden
- maya kulenovic
- mother's basement
- my love for you
- noriko ambe
- phillip toledano
- pictures of walls
- piel de papel
- post secret
- rachel denny
- radical face
- sebastiaan bremer
- snjezana josipovic
- studio k
- su blackwell
- the honey trees
- tin foil sandwich
- tom bennett
- why rush?