ultramaricon:

(Shamelessly dropping screenshots from my pretentious art film. I’M SO SORRY!!!!)

From “Things We Both Know (Not Our Real Names),” a poem by Roy Pérez adapted into a weird little queer art film and Finn Paul.  

That’s me and tortillero. 

(Complete poem appears in FENCE Magazine 14:1-2.)

THIS NPR ARTICLE ABOUT FIONA APPLE QUOTES SIANNE NGAI →

"You can hold yourself back from the sufferings of the world, that is something you are free to do and it accords with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could avoid."

Kafka, recently rediscovered

catzandcunts:

Hands down the best gif on the internet.

(Source: rachelpalmer)

To her surprise, when she was not asleep, he reached out and insinuated his arm around her!

     She was the only person she had ever heard of she could envy.
     About half an hour later, he approached her. His purpose was to kiss her lovingly. He said her name sweetly, which caused her to feel very fortunate.
     Perhaps this should have been brooded over—what her name is.
     Her eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, anus, legs, and other parts of her are wrongly formed.
     Her skin is extraworn, extrafaded, extraunfirm. Her character, her intellect, her health are relevant but not known now.
     He is the same size she is, or he is much smaller than she is. His skin is so different from hers.
     He is gentle. He is nervy, but this is not all that he is.

Diane Williams, 1996

Talking

declaration: The amorous subject’s propensity to talk copiously, with repressed feeling, to the loved being, about his love for that being, for himself, for them: the declaration does not bear upon the avowal of love, but upon the endlessly glossed form of the amorous relation.

Initially it is for the other that I discourse upon the relation; but this may also occur in the presence of my confidant: from you I shift to he or she. And then from he or she I shift to one: I elaborate an abstract discourse about love, a philosophy of the thing… . one might say that every discussion of love (however detached its tonality) inevitably involves a secret allocution (I am addressing someone whom you do not know but who is there, at the end of my maxims).

(Love’s atopia, the characteristic which causes it to escape all dissertations, would be that ultimately it is possible to talk about love only according to a strict allocutive determination; whether philosophical, gnomic, lyric, or novelistic, there is always, in the discourse upon love, a person whom one addresses, though this person may have shifted to the condition of a phantom or a creature still to come. No one wants to speak of love unless it is for someone.)

Barthes, 1977

(Source: slowmotionwaves, via incorrectsylviaplathquotes)

In 1975 Nicholas Nixon started photographing his wife Bebe and her three sisters every year, once a year. Always in the same order; Heather, Mimi, Bebe, Laurie. As I look through these photographs I have little arguments with myself about identification and projection, who holds who and why that might be, who takes the foreground and who seems to resist it, why sisters laugh sometimes and not others, how their laughter excludes me and how that is thrilling, whether x is the photo taken after the death of their parents or whether, in fact, their parents are not yet dead, if there has ever been a breach of trust and, if so, did it involve some man or is the truth more interesting, what it would mean if Bebe and Nixon are no longer married, what it means that I call her by her first name and him by his last, how it is you come to care about someone you don’t know. Mimi’s weight loss bothered me.