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something ive noticed while reading dantes inferno is that there seems to be a lot of italians in hell

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if you think the posts i make are bad you should see the thoughts i am thinking. in my mind

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there are two wolves inside of me. one is wolf 359. one is wolf 359's clone that i've locked outside my space station in the middle of a solar flare.

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A painting meant to accompany a poem that inspired the movie Coraline!

La Belle Dame sans Merci, c.1901 by Frank Dicksee (English, 1853–1928)

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whoever invented cozy in bed was a genius. and whoever invented getting up should be burnt at the stake

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I Really Hate That I'm Crying Right Now.

I had a pretty damn good day and here I am, sobbing, for the first time in three weeks. The person I was when we met- I loved her, she was so excited and full of spirit and she was far from perfect but I loved her. And you fucking killed her. You killed her slowly and brutally and I will never forgive you for that. I never get to be her again. And the worst thing is that I'm not even crying for her.

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Someday

Long day on the road, long night off the road 🍁

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I don't know. It's hard to see through the weird stages of grief at this point. I'm angry and flippant or I'm calm and quietly coping or I'm feeling broken or I just feel sick physically.

This is the real challenge for me - trying to move on when I can't make any definitive decision on what the relationship was or was like. Was it good? Was it bad? How could I even classify such an intense, complex relationship? Did we ever have a chance? Would re-starting as two people being raw and honest with each other change things? Or would they continue to feel like they couldn't do the relationship right like I was unsatisfied? Would I continue to have to chase for their attention?

Since my new diagnosis and path with medication, so much inside of me has already changed. And even now, it's hard to determine whether I was overly insecure or if they really did just treat me like an option. I know what my friends are saying, what my brothers are saying. But in the relationship, things were so wonderful so often and I could see all of the love in his eyes. It was like an ocean of kindness and I just can't believe that the love and the lack of consideration could co-exist.

I know for a fact that there was so much I could have communicated that I didn't. For a long time, I thought that something was only worth bringing up if it was triggering my anxiety in some way. When in reality, I can bring up things that I'd like because it would make me feel good or respected. I don't have to be in a state of crisis to be respected. I just wish my diagnosis would have come sooner. Dwelling on the what-ifs is never healthy, but considering a second chance with this new perspective is hard to resist.

As of right now, I'm still doing my writing, every morning before work and every evening before bed. I'm also reading a fantastic book on releasing trauma within the body. I'm just trying to focus on moving forward. I have faith in myself and my desire to have a better relationship with myself and with the world. I know I can do this, I just have to keep putting one foot in front of the other.

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What is Love? (baby don’t hurt me)

When you aren’t feeling love from someone, what is love?  What is their practice to you?  I feel so confused.

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Jack Gilbert, from Collected Poems; "The Bay Bridge from Potrero Hill"

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The Lady From Shanghai

        The Lady from Shanghai is a movie often praised for its surrealist imagery and nuanced camera work.  While there’s a lot to explore about internal conflict of identity and desire, if there’s one message you can’t possibly mistake or re-interpret it is this: rich people are fucking crazy.  To give a quick summation of the plot, an Irish sailor gets wrapped up in a confusing and frankly, stupid murder plot.  There doesn’t seem to be much lead-up to the intense ending, and in all honesty, I didn’t know what kind of movie I was watching until the very end.  I’m still not sure what I watched.  The best way I could describe it is as follows: Mulholland Drive meets old Hollywood romance with a hint of hardboiled detective.  

        The film’s protagonist, Michael, is the aforementioned Irish tough guy, and while he’s a great protagonist, he’s fairly flat.  We know who he is and what he’s about, there’s not a whole lot in the movie that explores his character beyond basic needs for plot functionality.  Elsa is a different story.  She is portrayed in a way that very quietly subverts your expectations.  At the start of the film, I expected our narrator, Michael, to be the one we explored throughout the story.  Elsa, of course, would serve as the flat love interest and plot motivator.  This was, of course, standard in old Hollywood.  Instead, Michael serves as the plot mover, more than that even, he serves as the audience insert.  Just like O’Hara, we have no clue what’s really going on, and then later, the audience is made just as much a panicked fool as O’Hara after the murder.  

        Elsa becomes more and more of an enigma as the plot progresses.  During the first few scenes, she appears to be a snarky, sharp, and intellectual woman; this is what catalyzes the bond between Elsa and Michael and by extension, Elsa and the audience.  Then for the bulk of the movie, she just stands around and looks pretty.  She tries to get Michael to kiss her multiple times, each time in a different bathing suit.  Sometimes it is effective, other times, Michael knows better than to kiss the boss’ wife.  Elsa remains the longing trophy wife through the precarious voyage, through the stressful murder plotting, and even throughout Michael’s court proceedings.  It is only at the theater, sitting and hiding with Michael that she shows her true colors.  She is not just some old Hollywood beauty sitting on screen and making poor Michael O’Hara forlorn and conflicted.  Elsa is the criminal mastermind behind the whole plot!  

        Once the true nature of her identity is revealed to us, the cinematography begins to change as well.  Camera shots become more angled.  The frame is sometimes set to look up at Elsa, making her appear more powerful.  Other times, the frame looks fractured and confusing.  This effect is created by their environment; Michael, Elsa, and Arthur are all in a funhouse maze for the final confrontation, so the mirrors show any army of characters.  As Arthur shoots at Elsa, he hits one mirror after another, almost like he’s shattering the lies she’s constructed to protect herself.  All of her false identities are destroyed, one after another, until finally, she herself has been shot.  No more opulence, no more beauty, just a woman choking on her own blood in an empty circus house. 

        I think this would have shocked the 1940s audience quite a bit.  Not only was the ending of the film abstract and almost Lynchian (before its time of course), but it also shows an ugly and gruff side to women that people are still afraid to expose today.  Once again, this only contributes to my belief that this movie undeniably communicates the message that rich people are fucking crazy.  Rich men, like Arthur, are deluding themselves with younger women and commissioned company.  Rich women are money-hungry and hostile.  Of course, wealthy women don’t have to do the cooking and cleaning and child-rearing, all that can be left to maids and cooks and nannies.  They have no connection to the domestic, so how can they possibly be anything but blood-thirsty villains?  

        I digress. 

        Personally, I believe that this movie is worth watching.  This may be because I have a love for anything strange and liminal, and The Woman from Shanghai fits that category while also scratching that “Hollywood nostalgia” itch.  As far as theme goes, there’s a lot to explore here.  One could look at the strange gendered commentary, or dig into what separates the wealthy man from the common man.  Either way, you’ll have one hell of a time watching it. 

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I made my lunch today and it was a very delicious sandwich!

Anyway if you see this you have to reblog and tag with a delight from ur day -- even the littlest thing counts