I love long talks and debates. I enjoy music, food, cooking, public radio, board games, and coffee. I love [old] dresses, jewelry, farmer's markets, and cats.
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I beg you…to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. An the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer…
— Rainer Maria Rilke
overit:
feistyred:
but right now I am looking in to giving up my cat. How does one even do this?
Just found out the girls really wanted me to be a roommate and Lola was the problem.
I am seeing 3 places tomorrow and only 1 is cat friendly.
I don’t understand people like this.
Oh my gosh—I have a Lola, too! Don’t give her up. I had an allergic-roommate issue, too, but it worked itself out. Don’t give her up!
It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends.
— Joan Didion, Goodbye to All That
All I ever did to that apartment was hang fifty yards of yellow theatrical silk across the bedroom windows, because I had some idea that the gold light would make me feel better, but I did not bother to weight the curtains correctly and all that summer the long panels of transparent golden silk would blow out the windows and get tangled and drenched in afternoon thunderstorms. That was the year, my twenty-eight, when I was discovering that not all of the promises would be kept, that some things are in fact irrevocable and that it had counted after all, every evasion and ever procrastination, every word, all of it.
It seemed to him that the girl he loved was a creation of his desire, his thoughts, and his faith and that the real girl now standing in front of him was hopelessly other, hopelessly alien, hopelessly polymorphous. He hated her.
— Milan Kundera, “The Hitchhiking Game” (via
meaghano)
Writing about photographs is a risk. The first sign of a good photograph is that it makes you want to say something about it. The second sign is that it makes whatever you say seem inadequate. The best photographs entice commentary then demean it, stimulating reaction and then cutting it off, producing noise only to extinguish it. The image actively silences the viewer.
