| (no subject) |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|09:00 pm] |
just something i thought was pretty...
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| What to do... |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|11:48 pm] |
...when you have too many pretty things sitting around? Like many of you, I'm sure, I tend to have piles and piles of pretty magazine spreads and catalogue pages collected, but I'm out of wall-space, and I'm a terrible collage artist. What's your favorite thing to do with clippings and inspirational images?
Also, some photos from late-autumn park visits:
( + 4 )
Hope you enjoy, and thanks for any suggestions you might have! |
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| margaret atwood, hair jewellery |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|08:54 pm] |
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Unrequited love, at that period of my life, the only kind I seemed capable of feeling. This caused me much pain, but in retrospect I had to see the advantages. It provided all the emotional jolts of the other kind without any of the risks, it did not interfere with my life, which, although meager, was mine and predictable, and it involved no decisions. In the world of stark physical reality it might call for the removal of my ill-fitting garments (in the dark or the bathroom, if possible: no woman wants a man to see her safety pins), but it left undisturbed metaphysical counterparts. My Plutonic vision of myself resembled an Egyptian mummy, a mysteriously wrapped object that might or might not fall into dust if uncovered. But unrequited love demanded no stripteases. |
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| vladimir nabokov, lolita |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|08:53 pm] |
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I loved you. I was a pentapod monster, but I loved you. I was despicable and brutal, and turpid, and everything, mais je t'aimais, je t'aimais. |
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| janet fitch, paint it black |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|08:51 pm] |
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Nobody ever complained? Girls were kind. No one ever told him, I could barely stay awake. If only you'd come faster, I could have ignored it altogether. Girls were born knowing how destructive the truth could be. They learned to hold it in, tamp it down, like gunpowder in an old fashioned gun. Then it exploded in your face, on a November day in the rain. |
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| janet fitch, white oleander |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|08:50 pm] |
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Beauty was deceptive. I would rather wear my pain, my ugliness. I was torn and stitched. I was a strip mine, and they would just have to look. I hoped I made them sick. I hoped they saw me in their dreams. |
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| XX-40 |
[Dec. 21st, 2009|12:58 am] |
Hi, there! This my debut here, in abandonedplaces, so don't charge a lot. XX-40 is half-abandoned underground bunker in the centre of Moscow. Now it is being reconstructed and repaired.
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| Wintery pictures |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|02:43 pm] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  calm | ] |
Hi,
Yesterday we had a rather large snow here in the eastern United States and So in the afternoon i decided to go out and take pictures. ^^ The snow was really deep and therefore all of the pictures come from my back yard. I hope everyone likes them.
( Wintery pics ^^ ) |
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| urgent favour please! |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|06:54 pm] |
hi guys, it's my first time posting. 2 years ago i told my girlfriend about a quote on impossible love, i think the gist of it was (it might even have contained these exact words) "perfect in every other language"
now i need it again because we've both been wrecking our brains to remember it, any help will be appreciated. will definitely write it down this time
here are 2 quotes from chapter 9 of my favourite novel- wuthering heights
"...(H)e's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same; and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
"If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger: I should not seem a part of it."
once again, thank you so much! |
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| The Moonstone, Wilkie Collins |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|11:51 am] |
| [ | Current Mood |
| |  contemplative | ] |
Here follows the substance of what I said, written out entirely for your benefit. Pay attention to it, or you will be all abroad, when we get deeper into the story. Clear your mind of the children, or the dinner, or the new bonnet, or what not. Try if you can't forget politics, horses, prices in the City, and grievances at the club. I hope you won't take this freedom on my part amiss; it's only a way I have of appealing to the gentle reader. Lord! haven't I seen you with the greatest authors in your hands, and don't I know how ready your attention is to wander when it's a book that asks for it, instead of a person?
**
Here was a golden opportunity! I seized it on the spot. In other words, I instantly opened my bag, and took out the top publication. It proved to be an early edition--only the twenty-fifth--of the famous anonymous work (believed to be by precious Miss Bellows), entitled The Serpent at Home. The design of the book--with which the worldly reader may not be acquainted--is to show how the Evil One lies in wait for us in all the most apparently innocent actions of our daily lives. The chapters best adapted to female perusal are "Satan in the Hair Brush;" "Satan behind the Looking Glass;" "Satan under the Tea Table;" "Satan out of the Window"--and many others.
"Give your attention, dear aunt, to this precious book--and you will give me all I ask." With those words, I handed it to her open, at a marked passage--one continuous burst of burning eloquence! Subject: Satan among the Sofa Cushions.
**
When the pursuit of our own interests causes us to become objects of inquiry to ourselves, we are naturally suspicious of what we don't know. |
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| A Christmas Carol |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|03:58 pm] |
Scrooge asked the question, because he didn't know whether a ghost so transparent might find himself in a condition to take a chair; and felt that in the event of its being impossible, it might involve the necessity of an embarrassing explanation. But the ghost sat down on the opposite side of the fireplace, as if he were quite used to it.
'You don't believe in me,' observed the Ghost.
'I don't,' said Scrooge.
'What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses?'
'I don't know,' said Scrooge.
'Why do you doubt your senses?'
'Because,' said Scrooge, 'a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!' |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|12:16 pm] |
"It is not, indeed, the ghosts of the dead and the past which I think should oppress the people I see around me, but those of the children to come."
- Memoirs of a Midget by Walter de la Mare |
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| round up of 2009?! |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|11:22 am] |
FLICKR
FACEBOOK
MYSPACE
Thought maybe I would do a little round up of pretty pictures from 2009.
I also have an exhibition on 30th December @ Proud Galleries, Camden, London, 7.30pm! Maple Bee and Lilies on Mars are also playing live! Come along if you can :-)
( January )
February
( the rest ) |
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| (no subject) |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|03:24 am] |
Benedick: This can be no trick. The
conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of
this from Hero. They seem to pity the lady.
It seems her affections have their full bent. Love me?
Why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured.
They say I will bear myself proudly if I perceive
the love come from her; they say too that she will
rather die than give any sign of affection. I did
never think to marry. I must not seem proud; happy
are they that hear their detractions and can put
them to mending. They say the lady is fair; 'tis a
truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous; 'tis
so, I cannot reprove it; and wise but for loving
me; by my troth, it is no addition to her wit,
nor no great argument of her folly, for I will be
horribly in love with her. I may chance have some
odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me,
because I have railed so long against marriage. But
doth not the appetite alter? A man loves the meat
in his youth that he can not endure in his age.
Shall quips and sentences and these paper bullets of
the brain awe a man from the career of his humor?
No, the world must be peopled. When I said I would
die a bachelor, I did not think I should live till I
were married. Here comes Beatrice. By this day,
she's a fair lady! I do spy some marks of love in
her.
-William Shakespeare, Much Ado About Nothing, 2.3.217-241 |
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| Heartbreak & JSF |
[Dec. 20th, 2009|12:26 am] |
Well, I'm experienced heartbreak, and usually Elliot Perlman's Three Dollars is what I run to for comfort and realization
But this time, I find myself reading Jonathan Safran Foer's Everything Is Illuminated, I thought I'd share some lines that are popping out to me.
I'm sorry if some of these might have been posted before!
-When she woke up crying from one of her nightmares, the Kolker would stay with her, brush her hair with his hands, collect her tears in thimbles for her to drink the next morning "(The only way to overcome sadness is to consume it, he said),
-"They made love through the hole. The three lovers pressed against one another, but never fully touched. The Kolker kissed the wall, and Brod kissed the wall, but the selfish wall never kissed either back. The Kolker pressed his palms against the wall, and Brod, who turned her back to the wall to accommodate love, pressed the back of her thighs against the wall, but the wall remained indifferent, never acknowledging what they were trying so hard to do."(186)
-"She always saw through him, as if he were just another window. She always felt that she knew everything about him that could be known - not that he was simple, but that he was knowable, like a list of errands, like an encyclopedia."(169)
-"From space, astronauts can see people making love as a tiny speck of light. Not light, exactly, but a glow that could be mistaken for light-a coital radiance that takes generations to pour like honey through the darkness to the astronaut's eyes."(151)
-He awoke each morning with the desire to do right, to be a good and meaningful person, to be, as simple as it sounded and as impossible as it actually was, happy. And during the course of each day his heart would descend from his chest into his stomach. By early afternoon he was overcome by the feeling that nothing was right, or nothing was right for him, and by the desire to be alone. By evening he was fulfilled: alone in the magnitude of his grief, alone in his aimless guilt, alone even in his loneliness. I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others--the only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad. I am not sad. I am not sad. Because his life had unlimited potential for happiness, insofar as it was an empty white room. He would fall asleep with his heart at the foot of his bed, like some domesticated animal that was no part of him at all. And each morning he would wake with it again in the cupboard of his rib cage, having become a little heavier, a little weaker, but still pumping. And by midafternoon he was again overcome with the desire to be somewhere else, someone else, someone else somewhere else. I am not sad. |
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