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MECHANISM OF NORMAL HEART [1930]

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#film #Youtube

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Mark Rothko, Untitled. 1969 Ink on paper The National Gallery of Art (Washington, D.C.) Gift of The Mark Rothko Foundation, Inc.

© Kate Rothko Prizel and Christopher Rothko / ARS

#art #ultra #bw

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People who don’t know anything

Will always parrot the words of someone who appeared to say something.

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Fear is the parent of cruelty, and therefore, it is no wonder if cruelty and religion have gone hand in hand.

Bertrand Russell, Why I Am Not a Christian

#text

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Omg I was at a bar a few weeks ago, when I was in my Annie Ernaux phase and I forgot to mention I struck up a conversation with a man who was making fun of the art hung in the bar. It was tempting to be rude to him, but we ended up in a discussion about art. He showed me photos of some pieces he owns back home on his phone, then told me about this 'intriguing, mysterious' French artist whose work he collects and thinks is incredibly underrated; he shows me a photo of the artist and I recognise him immediately but never remembered his name. I realise it's because I knew him by a different name and say 'is that... Mr. Brainwash?' The man has no idea of the irony of the situation. I recommend a documentary...

#me #word

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Among other things, I write so that what I'm afraid of doesn't happen; so that what wounds me doesn't exist; to ward off Evil (cf. Kafka). It has been said that the poet is the great therapist. In this sense, the poetic task entails exorcism, invocation, and beyond that, healing. To write a poem is to heal the fundamental wound, the rupture. Because all of us are wounded.

Alejandra Pizarnik, A Tradition of Rupture

#text

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— Frank Bidart, from “Half-light: Collected Poems 1965-2016; ‘The Third Hour of the Night’", published c. 2017.

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#music #Youtube

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With elongated nails she flicks her long hair back from her face and tells me her dad's a junkie out of his mind, that he's probably outside. They haven't spoken in years, if he tries he'll get arrested. He's asking strangers for money and causing scenes in the area. She's eighteen, dates to marry and wants to be a mama. When staff from other stores take shifts here, we take it personal when they make a mockery of the community we're attending to but when a young man runs in one night screaming, covered in blood, my shift's almost over and I thank God. She gets fired for shoplifting. We move more baby formula behind the counter. Our new manager disappears one day, we hear he was fired for stealing money from the store. Weeks earlier he'd taken me out for coffee to discuss mental health after I no-showed for four shifts and they'd called the cops. He swiped through photos on his phone showing me all his new apartment furniture, said when he's sad he takes his husbands bank card to redecorate. A woman comes in specifically to complain about one of my co-workers, says she felt unsafe because he called her buddy. He calls everybody buddy. One day I'm at the end of my rope surrounded by poverty and hear a manager disparaging me from another aisle over, I'm serving customers while my anger rises and this particular customer is urging me to hurry up. I'm trying to make sure I don't overcharge her, trying to make sure I've made sense of the massive pile of drugs on my counter and she's pushing. I ring her up with tension, she can see that my lid has flipped but I'm standing rigidly still. I serve one more customer in the long queue while my manager places items on a shelf. If I don't leave right now, I'll destroy something and I'd never been more certain of anything so I make a b-line to the back of the store, close the door behind me and carry my belongings through the back parking lot. I sit on the beach and cry hysterically, knowing I'm never taking a step in that store again. I'm sobbing wondering what to do next, I'm in debt, live alone, I'm behind on rent and bills and now I have no job, all because I can't stuff my grief down like our parents could so I'm delirious with rage and laughing. They look but no one approaches me, I laugh and cry unrestrained for over an hour while the ocean spits back at me and I could scream when I finally remember that I still have my other job I work weekends. I text my old boss and he tells me it's perfect timing, he's able immediately to offer me full time shifts at a casual rate. I buy a coffee and a muffin, think 'fuck St. Kilda' and head home and write an official resignation, block the numbers of my pharmacy managers and chalk it up to another failed endeavor to escape my situation. I tell my psychologist I quit my job, he says congratulations.

#me #word

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#art

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Can't tell my Mamma It makes her worry I'm not suicidal Sometimes, the lines get all blurry

Yeah, I cut my hair, close the blinds Played Hallelujah like two dozen times And yesterday, I tried to pray But I didn't know what to say

#music #Youtube

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Love never dies of a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how to replenish its source, it dies of blindness and errors and betrayals. It dies of illnesses and wounds, it dies of weariness, of witherings, of tarnishings, but never of natural death. Every lover could be brought to trial as the murderer of his own love. When something hurts you, saddens you, I rush to avoid it, to alter it, to feel as you do, but you turn away with a gesture of impatience and say: "I don’t understand."

Anaïs Nin, from The Four Chambered Heart

#text

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Saltburn? did you mean 3.a.m. by Marshall Mathers

#too

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But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts out and drowns everything.

Samuel Beckett, Malone Dies

#text

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#too