“We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then. To pretend that they and we are the same is a useful and convenient social convention which must sometimes be broken. We must also remember that at every meeting we are meeting a stranger.”
– T.S. Eliot (via lazyyogi)
You will become apart of my house’s floorboards and when I think back to my childhood, I will remember you in it
Because here is my truth. I am neither the author, hero nor villain. Simply, I am an unreliable narrator who mistakenly stumbled upon this story one day while walking; a piece of paper, wet and sticking to pavement that said ‘read this as if you wrote it.”
I’ve been trying ever since.
“the man was walking into a night without forethought, a night which offered him a choice of dull rich prizes.”
– a true story
I wish I wrote this
”the valley of the shadow of death”
“I live in you, in your bones; the delicate coils of your mind. I made you. I formed the thoughts you find, the moods you carry. Your blood whispers my name. Even in rebellion, you are mine.”
– Janet Fitch, White Oleander (via mashamorevna)
My little brother refers to himself as Sir Caleb Stiglitz, apparently.
i have nothing to ask only to tell. you are beautiful. i am anonymous because i want you to wonder who i am. in fact i thought of the first person that you might assume to be me. but its not. don't fear this and do not over think it. just take in the fact that you are beautiful. in each and every way man could dream of.
oh…! this made me smile. I’m completely wallowing in your mystery. Thank you for giving me this feeling. I only wish I didn’t have to get rid of it and send it off to get lost amongst other people’s posts in order to reply back to you. But this was very thoughtful. I only have a few guesses as to who you might be and it’s plenty exciting that I could be wrong. I could shout guesses out at once in this reply but I think I rather keep them to (for) myself.
if I am beautiful, you must be as well.
Everyone floods into me involuntarily.
“On really romantic nights of self, I go salsa dancing with my confusion”
– waking life
I open the word document titled “Molotov Cocktail Riots and Sleeping on the Beach.” and tell less than half of a true story about themes I’ve tried to take a hold of on multiple occasions. Death is my muse. And she has the most gentle of all voices. Neither here, nor there. Only inevitable. I take two sips of coffee and place the mug next to me on my floor. I use to vaguely imagine myself as a bird whose wings had been clipped and body falling from out of the sky into the pacific. The only beautiful part, I told myself, was the grace I put into it. Since, I’ve transformed into a fish of sorts, roaming seabeds, dodging silver hooks, and assuming the names any fisherman has ever given me. A boy yesterday said he gets to know people pretty quickly. “I’m taking psychology.” he told me. I say, there was once something I read that said “If you think you’ve gotten to know someone pretty quickly, go fuck yourself.” I confessed immediately after that it wasn’t something I had read. It was an indirect comment to say he was wrong. Then he confessed he was crazy. Then I accidently weighed how crazy he must be by his collared shirt and posture. He asked if I knew what insanity means. I tell him the definition I’ve been taught but that it’s never made sense. The boy quotes Einstein, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.” But I think it’s insane not to. “Life is a probability equation!”, I continuously pick up my glass of water, pretend to drink, place it back down and expect it to spill each time it hasn’t. He tells me that it must also be insane to challenge your own insanity. “I guess you’ve gotten to know me pretty quickly then.” I finish, sarcastically. With all of this I know now, everything inside of my heart, it all just goes to show how nothing we know actually changes me or you at all. Instead, we wait for it to fill the holes, to shake the sky, to tear the world in two.
I asked someone important if they were in love. They did not respond.
For example, in Year 1, that useless letter ‘c’ would be dropped to be replased by either ‘k’ or ‘s’, and likewise ‘x’ would no longer be part of the alphabet. The only kase in which ‘c’ would be retained would be in the ‘ch’ formation, which will be dealt with later. Year 2 might well reform ‘w’ spelling, so that ‘which’ and ‘one’ would take the same konsonant, wile Year 3 might well abolish ‘y’, replasing it with ‘i’, and Iear 4 might fiks the ‘g/j’ anomali wonse and for all.
Jeneralli, then, the improvement would kontinue iear bai iear, with Iear 5 doing awai with useless double konsonants, and Iears 6-12 or so modifaiing the vowlz and the rimeining voist and unvoist konsonants. Bai Ier 15 or sou, it wud fainali be posible tu meik ius ov thi ridandant letez ‘c’, ‘y’ and ‘x’ — bai now jast a memori in the maindz ov ould doderez — tu riplais ‘ch’, ‘sh’ and ‘th’ rispektivli.
Fainali, xen, aafte sam 20 iers of orxogrefkl riform, wi wud hev a lojikl, kohirnt speling in ius xrewawt xe Ingliy-spiking werld. Haweve, sins xe Wely, xe Airiy, and xe Skots du not spik Ingliy, xei wud hev to hev a speling siutd tu xer oun lengwij. Xei kud, haweve, orlweiz lern Ingliy az a sekond lengwij at skuul!
-M. J. Shields (aka M. J. Yilz)
What English would look like if it were standardized! Can you decode it? (See a translation here.)
The Real Lost Boys
The Llewelyn Davies boys, George, John, Peter, Michael and Nicholas, were the inspiration behind J M Barrie’s Peter Pan and various other of his Neverland characters. Barrie first met the children in Kensington Gardens in 1897 and, after entertaining them by dancing with his dog, pulling funny faces, and telling fantastical stories, he became increasingly endeared to them over the following years.
During summers at Barrie’s retreat, Black Lake Cottage in Surrey, the children would dress up in costumes and play in the surrounding woodlands, sometimes with Barrie orchestrating scenes for a photobook such as ‘The Boy Castaways’, which sees the boys acting out a pirate adventure. There were only ever two copies of this book and of them only one remains after the other was lost on a train journey in 1901.
Following the premature death of their parents in 1907 and 1910, Barrie became the boys’ trustee and unofficial guardian, as well as providing financial support until they became independent. George was killed during World War One and Michael drowned at Oxford University in 1921 (possibly committing suicide). Peter, plagued by a lifelong identification as ‘the real Peter Pan’, committed suicide in 1960.
[Sources: The Llewelyn Davies Boys | Images: 1,2 & 4 | 3 | 5 | 6 & 8 | 7]
If anyone who reads this ever gets a hold of a hard copy of Peter Pan, there’s a foreword by Susan Cooper that explains a decent amount about the beginning origins of J.M Barrie’s inspiration both dark and light for the tale. A tiny segment of the above caption is from that foreword.
This story (fiction and actuality) is and will always remain my kidded-heart’s most absolute favorite.
listening to Garrison Keillor for the while. It’s been quite alright since.