The things z likes

The girl from Porlock

Jul 15

christian-paul-kusch said: welcome! have an inspiring day. cpk

Thank you! You too!


pawsthomasanderson:

officialfrenchtoast:

”..the Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve..”
-Matthew 20:28

PROPHET LIKE IT’S HOT

pawsthomasanderson:

officialfrenchtoast:

”..the Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve..”

-Matthew 20:28

PROPHET LIKE IT’S HOT

(via memeingmine)


Jul 14
darksilenceinsuburbia:

Eugene Andolsek. Untitled #14A. India ink on graph paper, 16” x 21”.

darksilenceinsuburbia:

Eugene Andolsek. Untitled #14A. India ink on graph paper, 16” x 21”.

(via obsessionofattraction)



penamerican:

"The other impact of great literature is its power of changing the consciousness of the reader, even if that lay reader were to have no awareness of how it’s been done - the literary techniques and devices the writer has taken up, activated, re-invented, or invented." - Nadine Gordimer, who passed away last night at age 90, wove magnificent narratives to rouse the conscience of the world to the iniquities of apartheid South Africa.
http://www.pen.org/event/2007/04/29/arthur-miller-freedom-write-lecture

penamerican:

"The other impact of great literature is its power of changing the consciousness of the reader, even if that lay reader were to have no awareness of how it’s been done - the literary techniques and devices the writer has taken up, activated, re-invented, or invented." - Nadine Gordimer, who passed away last night at age 90, wove magnificent narratives to rouse the conscience of the world to the iniquities of apartheid South Africa.

http://www.pen.org/event/2007/04/29/arthur-miller-freedom-write-lecture


Word of the day: 远隔重洋 (Chinese)

oupacademic:

Be separated by vast oceans.

image

Image: Clouds over the Atlantic Ocean by Tiago Fioreze. CC-BY-SA-3.0 via Wikimedia Commons.


“It was daylight when he awakened. The barn door had swung open. The pony was gone. He sprang up and ran out into the morning light.
The pony’s tracks were plain enough, dragging through the frostlike dew on the young grass, tired tracks with little lines between them where the hoofs had dragged. They headed for the brush line halfway up the ridge. Jody broke into a run and followed them. The sun shone on the sharp white quartz that stuck through the ground here and there. As he followed the plain trail, a shadow cut across in front of him. He looked up and saw a high circle of black buzzards, and the slowly revolving circle dropped lower and lower. The solemn birds soon disappeared over the ridge. Jody ran faster then, forced on by panic and rage. The trail entered the brush at last and followed a winding route among all the sagebrushes.
At the top of the ridge Jody was winded. He paused, puffing noisily. The blood pounded in his ears. Then he saw what he was looking for. Below, in one of the little clearings in the brush lay the red pony. In the distance, Jody could see the legs moving slowly and convulsively. And in a circle around him stood the buzzards, waiting for the moment of death they know so well.
Jody leaped forward and plunged down the hill. The wet ground muffled his steps and the brush hid him. When he arrived, it was all over. The first buzzard sat on the pony’s head and its beak had just risen dripping with dark eye fluid. Jody plunged into the circle like a cat. The black brotherhood arose in a cloud, but the big one on the pony’s head was too late. As it hopped along to take off, Jody caught its wing tip and pulled it down. It was nearly as he was. The free wing crashed into his face with the force of a club, but he hung on. The claws fastened on his leg and the wing elbows battered his head on either side. Jody groped blindly with his free hand. His fingers found the neck of the struggling bird. The red eyes looked into his face, calm and fearless and fierce; the naked head turned from side to side. Then the beak opened and vomited a stream of putrefied fluid. Jody brought up his knee and fell on the great bird. He held the neck to the ground with one hand while his other found a piece of sharp white quartz. The first blow broke the beak sideways and black blood spurted from the twisted, leathery mouth corners. He struck again and missed. The red fearless eyes still looked at him, impersonal and unafraid and detached. He struck again and again, until the buzzard lay dead, until its head was red pulp. He was still beating the dead bird when Billy Buck pulled him off and held him tightly to calm his shaking.”
Steinbeck, The Red Pony. p. 35-36

May 5
“Everything takes time. Bees have to move very fast to stay still.” David Foster Wallace, Brief Interviews with Hideous Men (via likeafieldmouse)

likeafieldmouse:

Mat Collishaw - Insecticide (2006-9)

Artist’s statement:

"When my newborn son arrived home I became preoccupied with disinfecting the flat, which involved killing bugs and insects that had made their way inside. I began printing laser images of these flattened creatures by placing them into 35mm glass slide carriers. This process graduated to desktop scanners where I could directly scan the crushed insect. Generally the scan resembled nothing at first and I would look for facets of an image that could be manipulated into something identifiable." 


“In speaking of depression and its defining effect of driving its victim to the point of caring nothing for anything, the American talk-show host Dick Cavett once remarked that “when you’re downed by this affliction, if there were a curative magic wand on the table eight feet away, it would be too much trouble to go over and pick it up.” No better elucidation has ever been proffered vis-à-vis the uselessness of reason in the absence of emotion. In the recumbence of depression, your information-gathering system collates its intelligence and reports to you these facts: (1) there is nothing to do; (2) there is nowhere to go; (3) there is nothing to be; (4) there is no one to know. Without meaning-charged emotions keeping your brain on the straight and narrow, you would lose your balance and fall into an abyss of lucidity. And for a conscious being, lucidity is a cocktail without ingredients, a crystal clear concoction that will leave you hung over with reality. In perfect knowledge there is only perfect nothingness, which is perfectly painful if what you want is meaning in your life.” Thomas Ligotti, The Conspiracy against the Human Race: A Contrivance of Horror (via ludimagister)

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