Leaningonstrident

I have cute holidays, with my that-type of boyfriend who’d get me loads of sweets and stuffed...

Tue, 25 Dec 2012 02:42:17 -0500

I have cute holidays, with my that-type of boyfriend who’d get me loads of sweets and stuffed animals for Christmas. :))

"I wish I wasn’t a girl who needed so much, but a little free creature that slept in deserts and ran..."

Mon, 24 Dec 2012 16:38:41 -0500

“I wish I wasn’t a girl who needed so much, but a little free creature that slept in deserts and ran on clouds and lived on lilies.”

- “Violet & Claire” ~ Francesca Lia Block (via schwarze-milch)

"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another;..."

Sat, 22 Dec 2012 00:51:32 -0500

“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”

- Anaïs Nin (via moonhymns)

The woods are lovely, dark and deep, but I have promises to keep and miles to go before I sleep. Do you hear me, Butterfly? Miles to go before you sleep.

Fri, 16 Nov 2012 19:30:50 -0500

I feel as if there are rivers running through my veins. Or perhaps my veins are rivers. Suffice to say that I love watching and browsing pictures of woods as they always remind me of that line from “Death proof”. I watched it three summers ago. Now it’s november and there are lots of cats around here. They hide behind bushes and sleep on car tops after midnight. They never make a sound.

Photo

Fri, 16 Nov 2012 19:21:03 -0500

loveyourchaos: Lilybird and the Trust Fund Kid // Tim...

Wed, 05 Sep 2012 02:16:24 -0400

loveyourchaos:

Lilybird and the Trust Fund Kid // Tim Kasher

Because her heart still aches for something great
Though she’s not sure what that is
Something sacred, something sacred

And I know just what they want
And how bad they want it
I’m taunted by those same demons
Though I can’t put my finger on it

You and me, we’d do anything for
Something sacred
Yeah, you and me could make anything
Seem like something sacred
So I won’t extend my disbelief for
Something sacred
I haunt these city streets searching for
Something sacred, something sacred

Cold and catatonic

Mon, 04 Jun 2012 16:14:17 -0400

High without hopes, as loud without sounds or highlighted without paint. Either way it doesn’t make any sense and fighting it only feels like an unmade bed, a broken heel or a piece of glass in the foot. Like colours that don’t match and never will and birds that sing endless choirs of misspelled words. And the misgivings, the disillusions, the desecrations, the disabilities, disaffections, disappearances and disappointments. The disarmament that can only be discerned throughout disbeliefs and disconsolation. I am now disconnected.

What some humble mornings look like

Wed, 04 Apr 2012 03:28:41 -0400

What some humble mornings look like

Hurtsville

Tue, 03 Apr 2012 01:55:21 -0400

Usually I get out of bed without any thoughts at all. I just get out of bed and that second, I’m not thinking. At anything. At all. Today I engulfed about thirty thoughts per second, on that second and now they seem as if hanging under the sun, getting ready to dry and start walking on their own. The thought of a film noir, of a black cat, of a starry night, of a teacher, of a cup of cafe au lait, of a child, of piles of books, of a river, of a concert in the open air, of an open grave, of a redundant question, of a stupid memory, of a fucked-up remark, of my unfinished book, of my unsubmitted essays, of unwritten applications, of lost trains, of astute paintings, of Vienna, of butterscotch, of Cocorosie, of ashy rail-ways, of coaled pencil lines, of blank paper-notes,of Schopenhauer, of a black mill, of how all the songs now seem to fit, of Brod and her a hundred or so types of sadness, of my long-lost confidence in everything, of my dying dog. And they queued.

Nox Arcana

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 03:54:40 -0400

Temples topple faster than the caterpillars that circle poisonous mushrooms. Whether it aches, whether it sounds melodramatic or whether it’s painted in polichromatics, it doesn’t stop the flesh from monochroming. No ‘it’ breaks such boundary. It’s dark.

As human eyes turn to tetrachromacy, cross roads break in synesthesia. Left goes right and right goes left and there comes the third path that circles the first two. It’s made of ashes and broken dolls and uses Eco’s six walks to follow the narrative to set the disillusion. Soon, left will meet a piece of a broken doll and eliminate itself, for once meeting the path that circles the cross roads, any other path becomes irrelevant.

Right lingers for a while behind trees and lakes, staring at the mushrooms as big as Carol depicted them. But soon it intersects the ouroboros and dies in illogical, breaks the algorithm and the symbolic mathematics. All the rights will fade and so will all the lefts. No cross roads, no crossing paths, no intersections, no drawing lines, no cognitions. Just the snake. And the snake lingers itself behind trees and lakes, eating the big mushrooms without a blink of the eyelidsless eyes.

Laurie Anderson, Homeland (2010)

Mon, 19 Mar 2012 06:52:00 -0400

I like Laurie Anderson. I like her for the psych trip in The Beginning of Memory, in which ‘The thing was there was no place to land/ because there was no land./ So they just circled around and around, / because this was before the world began’, for the almost indigenous tune of Transitory Life, the mixture of violins, cellos and accordion in Strange Perfumes, then for the off-topic commercials-related electropop in Only an Expert, and other reasons. Many reasons.

The Flashbulb - Love as a dark hallway (2011)

Fri, 16 Mar 2012 03:02:00 -0400

Morning felt like The Flashbulb, even though this really smooth modern jazzy mixed with electronic doesn’t really sound like a morning pick (more likely after 9 p.m). But this always sounded so diffuse, like a shy alarm clock not meant to offend. And these alternating tracks, A Baptist Church in Georgia melting in jazz piano tunes and then Virtuous Cassette with an short (almost) synthpop theme fit so well. For mornings.

Air - Voyage dans la Lune (2012)

Sun, 11 Mar 2012 05:43:59 -0400

Air strikes back with a dose of, to my mind, fresh Air throughout Le Voyage dans la Lune, an album which keeps its nuances embedded in the downtempo, one that leads us, nonetheless, to The Virgin Suicides once again. The guitar almost sounds like fusion in Astronomic Club, the piano is solemn in Retour sur la Terre and Who am I now? - a personal favourite - starts out very much alike mornings in an indigo counterclockwise Peer Gynt. So Air almost made me smile today. Almost.

Pitch black, LuluRouge inspired

Mon, 27 Feb 2012 16:37:22 -0500

To when spiders crawl from their sumptuously dump dungeons. Not the tiny ones with fragile feet and small static heads. The monsters under the beds of every seven year-old and seven years that usually pass unnoticed. The type of spiders with empty eyes and heavy arms dragging you back to the seven years syncopation. The type of spiders that speak and walk with only two legs. That type of spiders.

Sugar cubes Voyage 34

Tue, 17 Jan 2012 07:08:18 -0500

If these were my hands and ink flooded them suddenly, if my feet were embraced by points and lines turning me into stones, would a bird come an take each pebble in its beak, then safely put it on a sea shore and cover it with sand? Well I don’t know about such metamorphosis, about such anthropomorphism of delusional creatures, both the man and the bird. Neither can I guarantee about a huge giraffe starting to eat the tree in which a dwarf found shelter, clutching each leaf with its teeth until leaving the tree leafless, with a dwarf and his little hat sleeping vertically, dreaming of the clouds barely flying with 5 meters above his head. The giraffe would eat the bird with the pebbles and I would kill the dwarf while climbing up to the clouds so as to escape the great flood of ink.

I am sad. Really.

Mon, 16 Jan 2012 16:34:49 -0500

Today I started the last semester of high school. The last semester of my senior year. The last one of my high-school life, closing up my teenage years. And I always wanted to grow up , to move on, to move fast, to be always on a rush, always accelerating. But now, please stop. Damn. THIS IS SAD.

Ophiuchus palingenesis

Wed, 11 Jan 2012 04:41:05 -0500

Arms leak, needing to hold spheres, like a human Ouroboros, biting its tail where the fingers of the left hand meet the right. Dichotomy between the human skin and the overlapping scales of the snake. Androgynous in caressing, in meeting the opposite watching from above how the skull and the neck and the entire body, except for the arms, melt away, turn into the flavorous clouds the Dark Horse recreates itself from. Shines on recklessly. And the once-human hits his seventh journey, as the metempsychosis closes upon itself, like a self-controlled wooden locker, with deep roots embedded in the Ground, like a red, flashing wound concluding inside itself, covered with thin epithelium, underneath which the volcano will sleep. The Dark Horse climbs up and reaches its place and the man starts resting under a greater placenta, breathing through the limbs of the horse and the snake that’s now dying in the arms that once transcended into Ouroborous.

Original post here: http://leaningonstrident.wordpress.com/2012/01/11/075-ophiuchus-palingenesis/

Le sacre du printemps

Wed, 04 Jan 2012 07:11:35 -0500

Haikus are writing themselves, hang on trees and slide on the back of dragonflies, endangering themselves. Words turn promiscuous as the spring dawn moves forward and unveils their bodies almost completely. Without any resentment and an eclipsed shame they dance in the scalded milk like air, breathing slowly through vocals and puns. At noon they occasionally hide beneath the leafs of plants growing in the dungeons of shores, just to rest for a while. At three o’clock they’re back, lingering around with the same promiscuity, leaving a ghost aftertaste. Some would think specters walk around foolishly, in heavy daylight, compromising the lights they’re made of, when in fact such poltergeists are the bits of haikus striking in the heat, the haikus which were given too much credit. They fall apart like illnesses, at the sunset, these worries-provoking creatures now looking like nothing but broken light bulbs with dim-lights covering their fragile bodies and vanish at midnight, returning to the humble who operated himself, who cut his throat to let the words out and create the haiku he was unable to write. Dark-blue ink tiptoed on the wooden floor.

Original post here: http://leaningonstrident.wordpress.com/2012/01/04/073-le-sacre-du-printemps/

Organic

Tue, 27 Dec 2011 16:25:17 -0500

I miss you more after 1 a.m. It’s only then, when things get quiet and real. When solitude occurs like a sharp blade on a whitened forehead, a surreal poppy in a snow field. A magic spell in a ghetto of grey bricks screaming “we dont need no education”. There’ve been enough blizzards for one winter, enough mary-go-rounds for one child. Enough kidnappers for the same butterfly, turning into a spider, crawling behind doors and promising people he is God. In the end it’s just the giant hydro molecule of a dissociative life. Utopically, turning bipolar, splitting in half, in four, in eight, in four thousand ninety-six. Becoming glass, running towards the fire and cracking itself. Foolish hydro molecule aching for reckless metamorphosis. Foolish hydromorphone molecule, defeated by my mind, after 1 a.m…

"I miss you more after 1 a.m. It’s only then, when it gets quiet and real."

Tue, 27 Dec 2011 16:06:25 -0500

“I miss you more after 1 a.m. It’s only then, when it gets quiet and real.”

- Personal…so damn personal.