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Irreverent Illustrated Cultural Commentary by Edward Gorey circa 1961

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Yesterday as I was leaving the bookstore, this guy ran up to me, introduced himself. He told me he was a photographer/film student and said that I had an interesting face that we wanted to photograph. I was kind of taken aback — I don’t think I’m photogenic at all! — and all this was happening as we stood in the midst of a bunch of people milling around Bloor, so I sort of just dazedly wrote my email and then my phone number (when he asked for it) down. To be fair, he initially asked if I used facebook (which I don’t), before resorting to that. I think he realised that I knew enough to be somewhat wary, so he showed me some of his work and it looked pretty legit.

My friend thinks this was a really dumb of me, and I realise how insane&classic-makings-of-a-slasher-flick-or-local-abduction/rape-on-the-five o’clock-news the events seem when I retell them, but I dunno; it doesn’t seem all that weird to me. I think that’s because I’m actually creepy in the same way. I like to turn people I don’t even know into characters. So much of the time, when I’m walking around the city or sitting in lecture or something, I see something totally perfect and I wish I had a photographic memory so I could look at it better and write them (or some aspect of them) into something later.

I don’t think he’ll end up contacting me anyway, and I’d probably end up feeling stressed out I’d ruin his pictures or something if I actually agreed to it haha. This post really has no point…I’m just starting to realise a lot of strange stuff (that I only realise is strange when I’m forced to sit down and explain it to someone) happens to me I guess.

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Your first time out of the country
of your own skin, I didn’t bring a map.

You always hated that I’d been lucky
enough to pick my way through streets

I couldn’t pronounce to find cathedrals,
graveyards. If you were a city, you said,

I’d only like to know your suburbs.

If you were a city, I said, I’d like to know
your poor neighborhoods, your inner parts.

Read your graffiti. Drink your tap water.
Feel your smog and dirt stick to my sweat.

Hear your orchestra of sirens and gunshots.
I’d know which of your streets to walk.

If you were a city, I’d expect to be robbed.

Heather Sommer, Traveler (via grammatolatry)

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[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
13 plays

A Good Place - Grizzly Bear

I woke up understated
A simple feeling, aimed at you
And my love’s gone underrated
A simple feeling, aimed at you

And it took me ages to figure out what I was supposed to know
All the sordid details of your final blow by blow

This is a hymn for you, this is a song for you..

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jesuisperdu:

see this as soon as possible if you haven’t already

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thedarlingandthedirty:

smoking cures boredom - lucky strike

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If a girl ever drives four hours alone in the dark wipe of 3am to meet you
            for brunch

if you can imagine her being too young to buy beer,

if she dances in the back without red lipstick watching your mouth

if she links a forefinger through your belt loop, follows you to a home
            on a two-lane road over dead rocks and souls left to dry,
            past red capes of dust fields,

if you pull over at the road’s split lip and she pulls over, too

if you sit by her pool, sick with no decent pool man, drinking wine
            until your teeth are bleeding without apology,

if you continue to tell stories that have no song lyrics to legacy them,

if you tap you forehead twice against the side of her bed she won’t sleep on—
            already spreading in the goodbye behind you—
            she loves you I promise, though she won’t want to admit it.

Tristan Silverman, This Is How It Will Happen (via grammatolatry)

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[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
13 plays

veryraresecrete:

Women

Black Rice

Women

Flemish Eye 2008

(Source: lookitsbaseball)

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I told her how until that moment I had not understood that this story was a story about lonely people, about absence and loss, and that that was why I had taken refuge in it until it became confused with my own life, like someone who has escaped into the pages of a novel because those whom he needs to love seem nothing more than ghosts inhabiting the mind of a stranger.

The Shadow of the Wind, Carlos Ruiz Zafón (via clavicola)