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Listen, I have been educated. I have learned about Western Civilization. Do you know What the message of Western Civilization is? I am alone.
Eileen Myles (via larmoyante)
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That's my arm!

Flowering dogwood on Emily.
ryan jacob smith
portland, oregon
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[…]I will rise After a thousand years lipping flowers And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
E.E. Cummings, from “I will wade out” (via soracities)
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I once tweeted @ Applebee's about going through withdrawal in the bathroom of their Fresno location and they never got back to me about it
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Gee whiz it’s all fucking heart- breaking.
Alice Notley, from “12/9” in Grave of Light: New and Selected Poems (via proustitute)
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Leo
Imagine a vertical line drawn down the center of an ordinary sheet of paper. On one side, in obnoxiously tall letters, you’ve written: WINNING. On the other, in an equally expressive hand, is LOSING. Each title presides over a list of events that have happened, that might have happened (in distant memory and vague dreams), or that you’re pretty sure will happen (in your assessment of what you can expect from yourself and the world). I won’t presume to know which column is currently in the lead, but I will tip you off that this month these clean divisions might not stay so clean. Items in one list may suddenly jump to the other, the titles of each column may waver in and out of coherence (“HINTING” and “CHOOSING” one minute, “SPINNING” and “OOZING” the next) – most dramatically, those vertical columns may lose their rigid boundaries and form circles and even Venn diagrams, pointing you toward that paradoxical land where victory and defeat aren’t separate.
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No trauma has discrete edges. Trauma bleeds. Out of wounds and across boundaries.
Leslie Jamison, The Empathy Exams: Essays (via quoted-books)
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Sustained grief is particularly disturbing in a culture that offers a quick fix for pain. Sometimes it amazes me to know intuitively that the grieving are all around us yet we do not see any overt signs of their anguished spirits. We are taught to feel shame about grief that lingers. Like a stain on our clothes, it marks us as flawed, imperfect. To cling to grief, to desire its expression, is to be out of sync with modern life, where the hip do not get bogged down in mourning.
All About Love by bell hooks (via arabellesicardi)
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