but i knew i had to.
the drums - submarine
photo via heartbeast/wolfgang
hold me close and tell me how you feel
tell me love is real. mmm, darling when you're near.
jessica lea mayfield - words of love (buddy holly cover)
art: roberto calbucci (via of paper and things)
the brain is a slow wave
i could be so happy if i just quit being sad. i could be so happy if I just quit being a drag. i could be so sweet if i just quit being sour. i could do all these things. oh, i have the power. i'm gonna see what tomorrow brings.
heartless bastards - be so happy
heartless bastards - new resolution is my resolution too.
heartless bastards - hold your head high
heartless bastards - the mountain
photo: octavian dogariu (via hello bauldoff)
i like the time i spent with you girl
cold cave - life magazine & the trees grew emotions and died
delorean - seasun & deli
jj - things will never be the same again & ecstasy
photo: sandra croft
all i want
Myrtle
by John Ashbery
How funny your name would be
if you could follow it back to where
the first person thought of saying it,
naming himself that, or maybe
some other persons thought of it
and named that person. It would
be like following a river to its source,
which would be impossible. Rivers have no source.
They just automatically appear at a place
where they get wider, and soon a real
river comes along, with fish and debris,
regal as you please, and someone
has already given it a name: St. Benno
(saints are popular for this purpose) or, or
some other name, the name of his
long-lost girlfriend, who comes
at long last to impersonate that river,
on a stage, her voice clanking
like its bed, her clothing of sand
and pasted paper, a piece of real technology,
while all along she is thinking, I can
do what I want to do. But I want to stay here.
sarah blasko - all i want
sarah blasko - we won't run
photo: nathalie daoust (via of paper and things)
it's never the same way again
for the past few months i've been thinking about my friends. my old friends, whom i've loved for years on end and who now live in cities and countries across the ocean. those old friends who may or may not come back to this country, the ones who might leave this city in a matter of months. i've been thinking about those ones, because i miss them, because i miss being around the people who know me as well as they do.
friends like that, the best kind, they make you feel safe. like your favourite clothes, the ones you've had forever, the ones you've worn in and lived in, they don't make you feel old or boring when you wear them. they protect you, and you can be anyone you like in them. i miss that feeling, feeling safe.
i've been thinking about my friends, and i've been thinking about home. i don't feel like i have a home here. when i mention this to people, especially people who are older than i am, their sympathy comes with the slightest bit of exasperation, because everyone has a time when they feel like they have no home. i don't particularly like zach braff or garden state but even his movie makes this point, because it's a feeling we all get. i don't have a home here because my friends aren't here, or they are but they're already living their own lives, and back at the ancestral seat i have a room in my parent's house with some of my things, and in the city my apartment is a wasteland.
i spend a lot of time at your place. i remember the first time i went back with you, to your house. it was november and it was raining. i had to pee, we had been downtown drinking and i had to pee, and by then everything was closed and we stood in the subway and i stumbled with indecision, i watched my train go by, and we took a cab back to your place so we could watch television and i could pee. on the cab ride i half-closed my eyes and lolled back onto the seat, the drunkard's choice to check out, momentarily, and you put your hand on my hand. your hand was warm and dry. sometimes the booze strips off a layer of protection enough to give your insides a shock. you can put your hand on someone's leg, on their knee, around their shoulders, you can put your hand in your pocket. you put your hand on my hand. i don't remember getting to your place, i don't remember going in. i remember laying on the couch and watching tv with eyes half closed, and you put a blanket over us, and i looked at you and you looked happy. i forgot about that, but now i remember.
i miss my friends and i miss the home that i had with them, but i don't feel it all the time, i feel it sometimes, i feel it less when i'm with you. i've decried, loudly and often, people who fall into relationships for the bonds of built-in friendship, to escape loneliness and sadness and the coldness of winter. what i suppose i never understood is that it doesn't have to be sullied with fear, that when you get love, from the ones you love, the ones who love you, you get a blanket, the best kind, that you carry with you in your heart. you get to go home and sleep in the bed that's yours.
the smiths - there is a light that never goes out
photo via hello bauldoff
friends like that, the best kind, they make you feel safe. like your favourite clothes, the ones you've had forever, the ones you've worn in and lived in, they don't make you feel old or boring when you wear them. they protect you, and you can be anyone you like in them. i miss that feeling, feeling safe.
i've been thinking about my friends, and i've been thinking about home. i don't feel like i have a home here. when i mention this to people, especially people who are older than i am, their sympathy comes with the slightest bit of exasperation, because everyone has a time when they feel like they have no home. i don't particularly like zach braff or garden state but even his movie makes this point, because it's a feeling we all get. i don't have a home here because my friends aren't here, or they are but they're already living their own lives, and back at the ancestral seat i have a room in my parent's house with some of my things, and in the city my apartment is a wasteland.
i spend a lot of time at your place. i remember the first time i went back with you, to your house. it was november and it was raining. i had to pee, we had been downtown drinking and i had to pee, and by then everything was closed and we stood in the subway and i stumbled with indecision, i watched my train go by, and we took a cab back to your place so we could watch television and i could pee. on the cab ride i half-closed my eyes and lolled back onto the seat, the drunkard's choice to check out, momentarily, and you put your hand on my hand. your hand was warm and dry. sometimes the booze strips off a layer of protection enough to give your insides a shock. you can put your hand on someone's leg, on their knee, around their shoulders, you can put your hand in your pocket. you put your hand on my hand. i don't remember getting to your place, i don't remember going in. i remember laying on the couch and watching tv with eyes half closed, and you put a blanket over us, and i looked at you and you looked happy. i forgot about that, but now i remember.
i miss my friends and i miss the home that i had with them, but i don't feel it all the time, i feel it sometimes, i feel it less when i'm with you. i've decried, loudly and often, people who fall into relationships for the bonds of built-in friendship, to escape loneliness and sadness and the coldness of winter. what i suppose i never understood is that it doesn't have to be sullied with fear, that when you get love, from the ones you love, the ones who love you, you get a blanket, the best kind, that you carry with you in your heart. you get to go home and sleep in the bed that's yours.
the smiths - there is a light that never goes out
photo via hello bauldoff
hey mr. afie jurvanen
you charmed the skinny pants off of everyone tonight.
seriously! so good.
bahamas - southern drawl
bahamas - sunshine blues (highly recommended)
bahamas - already yours
bahamas - till the morning
photo: bahamas myspace
seriously! so good.
bahamas - southern drawl
bahamas - sunshine blues (highly recommended)
bahamas - already yours
bahamas - till the morning
photo: bahamas myspace
run every day
I dreamt that I was sick. I dreamt you too,
a face that moved over sounds. Comes a time
I'll wake, I know, but for now you'll keep as mine.
Love's a sickness that I dreamt. Love finds you,
or you it. You always said a messy room
would make itself a messy mind. Something like.
Love's a mess I meant. Comes a time the night
will bring no more to light, or nothing new.
Time is always falling back on its youth.
Everything slides from end to start, from age
to the past for a shine; an easy wage
to look on the never was and find truth,
to clear the mess into neat piles of dust.
I woke up tired, and licked away the rust.
new order - age of consent
photo: coquinete
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