mrskrstic - Tumblr blog

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uncouth and shady you ruthless, shameless ladyy rude and lazyyy anaideia is waiting in your hallwayyyy

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family tree

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six months on the prairie

Sometimes living on the Palouse is magical. How could it not be, in the languor of late summer when the morning air smells like wheat and rain! Or when it's 2am on an oddly warm midwinter night and you taste blackberry, vanilla, and lavender. The wind blows through the open window and you feel so calm, and you swear you could spend the rest of your life here, if only you never had to worry again.

But sometimes the snow doesn't quite stick. And all at once it's that blasted middle ground between November and December and all you can think about is heartbreak. You look in the mirror and feel as though you've aged five years in just a week. Were you worthy to eat at the Lord's table, you know the communion bread would taste like regret and betrayal.

It's a strange place in which ambivalence abounds. I can say with confidence I have never been so lonely and yet so content. I've been six months on the prairie, and with ten more months left I wonder what more these hills may teach me.

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Barn in the Palouse

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anyways here's my Fishers of Men moodboard expect a lot more posting of this nature since my heart is shattered and I can really only cope with it by writing

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Kt Agogo

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“Man is not an angel. It doesn’t suit him and he makes a fool of himself trying to be one. But because he believes in sin he thinks the fault is his for poorly fitting a role he was never meant to play.”

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Fyodor Dostoevsky's manuscript draft of The Brothers Karamazov. via twitter

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“With invincible force I am bound to my dear. Oh Lord, have mercy On her and on me, On her and on me. On her and on me!”

— Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoyevsky

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russian classics aesthetic

Brothers Karamazov: orthodox monasteries, deep woods, starry nights, the sound of paper being torn, dimly lit rooms, withered roses, an unfinished letter, piles of books, the sound of shattering glass, ticking of clocks in a silent house, heavy wooden furniture, the air before a storm, the smell of earth, a crowd of people dressed in black, distant murmurs, emptied streets, the fear of walking alone in dusk

Crime and Punishment: coldness of the skin against a blade, slender pale fingers and slightly shaking hands, a red stain blooming on white fabric, lonely steps in a corridor, the slow dripping of water, looking out of the window into the thickening darkness, a single dying candle on the table, listening to one’s breath and counting heartbeats, too many stairs, the desire to be invisible, a subtle memory of kind word

The Idiot: classical statues, wealth covered with dust, a dark house tainted with inherited madness, an unsettling feeling, long walks in a park, useless chatter, a silken ribbon forgotten on a bench, a melancholic face, an unexpected spring rain, the joy of reading one’s favorite book, the clarity of mind after fully perceiving the world around, looking at cloudless sky  

Anna Karenina: fields of crops, flowers brought from an early morning walk, the wind caressing a girl’s hair, a bowl of fruit, the smell of ripe pears, the clatter of a spoon against porcelain when stirring tea, children’s laughter coming from the garden, soft sunlight and white curtains, the sensation of velvet against skin, pearls from a ripped necklace spilling on marble floor, a sudden silence in a room full of people

War and Peace: a glass of wine, the brightness of  a crystal chandelier, white lace, a raging snow storm, the sound of a door being gently closed, the moment of holding one’s breath before walking in a ball room, indulging in looking at a beautiful earring against light, the sound of a saber being drawn, closing one’s eyes for a moment while dancing, the sweet smell of strawberries, a pair of gloves left on an armchair, light scent of powder

The Master and Margarita: the chaos of a lively city, ambient jazz in expensive restaurants, jumping on a moving tram, the sight of Moscow from the roof of a house, yellow flowers in a vase, leaning out of the window, shelves stacked with books, a small tin box with old photographs, strange shapes in the night sky, laughing in the middle of the night on a balcony, colorful posters for a surreptitious magician’s show floating in the wind

Eugene Onegin: a lonely mansion, reading a book in the parlor, faint piano melody lingering in falling silence, long evenings, passing seasons, discussing french novels of the moment, unspoken thoughts, leaning against the door frame, quickly averted glance, eating a peach absent-minded, bright mornings, footprints in snow, a loud gun-shot terrifying a flock of birds nearby   

A Hero of Our Time: byronic boredom, getting up late in the afternoon, the hidden unspeakable sadness of existence, shakespeare’s tragedy opened next to untouched breakfast, cigarette smoke, polished boots, walking with one’s coat wide open letting the night chill break through to the bone, carved wooden chair, fading warmth of the ashes late in the evening, the thought of farewell  

Fathers and Sons: birch groves, morning mist, moss covered stones near a  moor, scientific books, white roses, cheap champagne, shabby pocket-watch, light-hearted irony, a maladroit cello sonata, freshly mowed grass, leaving thoughts come and go, a slow yawn, picturesque plates and bowls filled with traditional dishes, drinking tea on the porch, longing for the future   

Doctor Zhivago: a strange feeling of loss, writing poems in a diary, traveling by train, the hesitation before touching someone’s hand, the gaze of one lost in thought, the warmth of cinnamon, a scarf brightly embellished with flowers, a glass of water, two people listening each on the other side of the door, a threadbare jacket, the tempting void, the evanescent serenity of yesterday  

Dead Souls: horses in a merry gallop, delicious smells mingled, grotesque and bizarre tragedy, luxurious attire cheap soul, masks, a perfumed love letter, the triumph of sarcasm, an unattached wheel rolling down a dusty road, the atmosphere of commedia dell’ arte, puzzling speeches, a baffling caricature drawn on a handkerchief   

Cherry Orchard: a lone chair in an empty room, falling blossoms, old samovar, the unsettling need for change, a mirror reflecting full moon, the disappointment of a glossy object turning worthless after second glance, a piano out of tune      

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“It is the fate of most men who mingle with the world, and attain even the prime of life, to make many real friends, and lose them in the course of nature. It is the fate of all authors or chroniclers to create imaginary friends, and lose them in the course of art. Nor is this the full extent of their misfortunes; for they are required to furnish an account of them besides.”

-Charles Dickens, The Pickwick Papers

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cant wait for grobowanie

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sacred heart

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the holy trinity in art

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love in the time of indifference

"I have now concentrated all my prayers into one, and that one prayer is this, that I may die to self, and live wholly to Him." Charles H. Spurgeon

Sometimes I feel as though I am unable to love.

It's an unnatural admission for a Christian, to be sure - for it is the essence of all that we do, the precept on which thousands of years of theology hinges upon. But if I examine myself with all honesty, I will inevitably come face-to-face with this uncomfortable truth. Empathy and compassion do not come naturally to me. I am quick to infatuation and bursts of fondness, but when it comes time for genuine Christian love, the sort that requires sacrifice and nose-to-the-grindstone commitment, I am just as quick to opt out.

And just as "love covers a multitude of sins" (1 Peter 4:8), so a lack thereof gives rise to an array of transgressions. From my lack of love comes a disdain for work of any kind, a bend towards vanity and pride, a short temper, an outlook on life that sees people as instruments rather than beloved creations of God the Father, and perhaps worst of all, a tendency to fall out of prayer at a moment's notice.

The Calvinists would say that it was total depravity at work - that I was so tainted by original sin that any attempt at goodness would shrivel up and die before I could even conceptualize it. In our present age that loves to psychoanalyze, I suspect I would garner a diagnosis pretty fast - something akin to a severe personality disorder that renders authentic love impossible. While there may be a kernel of truth to both of those statements, I think the truth is much more simple than that. I suffer from a want of love of God and others, and therein lies the meat of my struggle.

Encountering my own sin from the moment my feet hit the floor each morning cuts me to the quick. I sometimes feel so far from holiness that my heart physically aches. It is a selfish pain, one that precedes from my own ineptitude and stubbornly hangs around though it could be fixed in a moment's undertaking. My flesh simply doesn't want to do the things that are hard. I exist both in body and spirit, as if to spite the Gnostics, and because those two won't cooperate, I waste the years of my youth on nothings that will burn away come eternity.

There is no call to action in my writing tonight. Much like with most things that matter, there is no grand revelation that will suddenly set me free. I suspect that even after laying my own undoing bare, it will continue to weigh like a millstone upon my neck. I can really only blindly trust that the God that I have betrayed will extend me His nail-pierced hand, and bring love to a heart that has never known it.

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