VIOLETISM

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sans soleil (chris marker, 1983)

(Source: rifles, via sayitinslugs)

"The first rule of poetry is honesty; the second rule is fuck you."

- Alice Notely  

(Source: raze-occam, via sayitinslugs)

 


In psychology, it has been speculated that the human urge to kiss a lover first rose from a latent, insatiable cannibalistic tendency. The ultimate expression of love would be to consume each other simultaneously. Instead we kiss, engaging both or our mouths, tongues and teeth in a dance. And since we cannot consume our partners, we come as close as we truly can to possessing and claiming ownership of their flesh - their bodies - through acts of sex and other outlets. Their skin is sacred; it is the most honest container for these people that we love, sharing with us the timelines of their lives through birthmarks, scars, blemishes, tattoos, wrinkles, bruises, and even the marks left behind daily from their clothing. It is what we covet in our lovers, and what we abuse for our pleasure.

(via hg issue : carne - Scout Paré-Phillips)

"

You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got.

And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. And as your widow rocks in the arms of a loving family, may the physicist let her know that all the photons that bounced from you were gathered in the particle detectors that are her eyes, that those photons created within her constellations of electromagnetically charged neurons whose energy will go on forever.

And the physicist will remind the congregation of how much of all our energy is given off as heat. There may be a few fanning themselves with their programs as he says it. And he will tell them that the warmth that flowed through you in life is still here, still part of all that we are, even as we who mourn continue the heat of our own lives.

And you’ll want the physicist to explain to those who loved you that they need not have faith; indeed, they should not have faith. Let them know that they can measure, that scientists have measured precisely the conservation of energy and found it accurate, verifiable and consistent across space and time. You can hope your family will examine the evidence and satisfy themselves that the science is sound and that they’ll be comforted to know your energy’s still around. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly. Amen.

"

- Aaron Freeman “You Want A Physicist To Speak at your Funeral” (npr)

(via feciega)

"Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, 'I am falling to the floor crying,' but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it — you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well."

- Richard Siken  

(Source: wordsnquotes, via lifeinpoetry)

 

Charles Ray
 

Cocoon dress by Hussein Chalayan and glass headpiece by Emi Fujita for Chalayan