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Fran Drescher as Fran Fine in Fendi Spring/Summer 1997

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Salvador Dalí’s illustration for Alice In Wonderland,1969.

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Morocco.Rabat .A door detail in the old city

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Inst @brianp01

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Sailing the green waves.

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TRAYVON MARTIN (Walking home with iced tea and Skittles. Shot by George Zimmerman, who was found NOT GUILTY)

KEITH SCOTT (Sitting in car, reading. Shot by police officer, who was NOT CHARGED)

ATATIANA JEFFERSON (Looking out her window, shot by police officer, who is STILL UNDER INDICTMENT for murder)

JONATHAN FERRELL (Asking for help after auto accident. Shot twelve times by police, case ended in MISTRIAL)

JORDAN EDWARDS (Riding in a car. Shot in the back of the head by police officer, who was found GUILTY of murder ⭐)

STEPHON CLARK (Holdng a cel phone. Shot 8 times, 6 in the back. Officers NOT CHARGED)

AMADOU DIALLO (While taking out wallet, officers fired 41 shots by four officers, who were all ACQUITTED)

RENISHA MCBRIDE (Auto accident, knocked on door for help. Homeowner was found GUILTY of second-degree murder ⭐)

TAMIR RICE (Playing with toy gun, shot by police officer arriving on scene. Officer was NOT CHARGED)

SEAN BELL (Hosting a bachelor party, 50 rounds fired by police officers, who were found NOT GUILTY of charges)

WALTER SCOTT (Pulled over for brake light, shot in the back by police officer, who pleaded GUILTY to CIVIL RIGHTS VIOLATIONS *NOT* MURDER)

PHILANDO CASTILE (Pulled over in car, told officer he had a legally registered weapon in car. Officer ACQUITTED of all charges)

AIYANA JONES (Sleeping, accidentally shot by officer in a raid on wrong apartment. Officer CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES)

TERRENCE CRUTCHER (Disabled vehicle, shot by police officer, who was found NOT GUILTY of manslaughter.)

ALTON STERLING (Selling CDs, shot at close range while being arrested. NO CHARGES FILED)

FREDDIE GRAY (Beaten to death by officers while being transported in police van. All officers involved were ACQUITTED)

JOHN CRAWFORD (Shopping at WalMart, holding a BB gun on sale, police officer was NOT CHARGED)

MICHAEL BROWN (Shot by twelve times by officer, including in the back. NO CHARGES FILED)

JORDAN DAVIS (Killed because he was playing loud music. Shooter found GUILTY of first-degree murder ⭐)

SANDRA BLAND (Pulled over for traffic ticket, tasered and arrested. SUSPICIOUS SUICIDE while in jail. NO CHARGES)

AHMAUD AUBREY (Jogging, shot by two men who claimed they suspected him of burglaries. Both men charged with murder and aggravated assault ⭐)

BOTHAM JEAN (Shot at home, which police officer mistook for her own. Officer found GUILTY of murder ⭐)

OSCAR GRANT (Handcuffed and face-down, officer shot him in the back. Officer found GUILTY of involuntary manslaughter ⭐)

COREY JONES (Waiting by his disabled vehicle, was shot three times by police officer, who was found GUILTY of murder ⭐)

Remember them all. ✊🏻✊🏽✊🏾✊🏿

Also note, these are only the stories caught by the media and/or on video.

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Manifestações

Note: Within this series is a collection of my oldest drafts. Drafts I’ve been adding to and peeling from for what feels like centuries. This is my first brink of madness, my toying with the edge of femininity, and brief accounts of the birth of my very personal disquietude. This is my most genuine attempt to document myself, in my most vulnerable and nauseating state. Sprinkled with true narrative and a narrative of a woman I do not know. Consume with a coarse grain of salt.

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MILK AND COOKIES. Human contact once served me small doses of joy. The tediums of aimless conversation, the photos of children and pets. The glowing grins of humans speaking passionately of things that stimulate their dopamine receptors. I reminisce of my distant adoration for social affairs as a time where I had my mental shit together. Simple, breezy, worthless conversation. I enjoyed brisk walks through the minds of people I barely knew. I enjoyed holding onto irrelevant details I could let go of the second I walked away. Now, I itch for an end. I grow feverish with sensory overload. How I fucking hate the sound of the strange human voice telling the tale of its own boring experience. Filling the gap of precious silence with stale, unsuccessful comedic-relief and vague opinions about extraterrestrial life or organized faith. I don’t feel this way about humans I enjoy listening to—few and far between—and unsurprisingly enough, one’s I don’t have to listen to very often.

#personal collection #existentialism #oaknolive #nihilism #anxienty #sensory overload #poems and other thought collections #dis sum bullshit

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Manifestações

#personal collection #35mm #expired film #me

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harry gruyaert, france, paris, 1985. the 17th century bridge of “pont neuf”.

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Manifestações

Note: Within this series is a collection of my oldest drafts. Drafts I’ve been adding to and peeling from for what feels like centuries. This is my first brink of madness, my toying with the edge of femininity, and brief accounts of the birth of my very personal disquietude. This is my most genuine attempt to document myself, in my most vulnerable and nauseating state. Sprinkled with true narrative and a narrative of a woman I do not know. Consume with a coarse grain of salt.

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VAN GOGH. A creative fire within me ignites only in darkness. Only in solitude do I reach for mediums of expression. I once wrote of a time where the peak of Van Gogh’s performance relied on his progressive recovery in a psychiatric ward in France. Unfortunately my manic depression whirlwinds me into blind mania, where I’m so fucking filled with life that I couldn’t rearrange letters into fragrant sentences if I tried. The depressive phase, however, is home. It is where I spent most of my life. It is where I learned how to strike romantic chords on a stunning wooden acoustic guitar, how to enjoy the way the scent of the sitka spruce wood climbs up the canals of my sinuses. How to blend hypnotizing shades on a palette and spread them in an organization that swells my heart with cathartic relief. How to sing loudly, confidently and boldly on key without gin. How to write profoundly and flamboyantly, so that I truly believe I leave a shred of myself behind in each punctuation. How to enjoy cinematic experiences onscreen, how to analyze color schemes and wardrobes of striking french women of the 1960’s and tie small details into the rest of the plot in a way that shakes me to my core in just an hour and forty-five minutes. How to enjoy reading mind-boggling concepts in literature, and pretend I have any grasp of such intimate concepts I have no business grasping. How to be. It is only in the depressive phase of my being where I breathe—anxiously, but deeply. And that has made all the difference. Perhaps in my depressive phase is where I am most like myself, and when I am most like myself, I—ironically—am happy.

#personal collection #existential despair #existentialism #what the fuck am i even saying #oaknolive #manifestações #i be writing at times

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Anna Karina in Alphaville (1965) by Jean-Luc Godard

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from Mary Shelley’s preface to the 1831 edition of Frankenstein

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King of the jungle

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Hello Hello?