“I still love the people I’ve loved, even if I cross the street to avoid them.” —
Uma Thurman (via sophiamyth)
so apt.
(Source: thelittleyellowdiary, via freshcore)
(Source: forblogssake)
Stage 20, Giro d’Italia. Passo dello Stelvio.
i watch bike racing. you should too. its mostly exciting. canadians sure are proud of other canadians though. i am tired of hearing about hesjedal at work. i don’t like him because he’s canadian. i like him because he’s interesting to watch. good legs. it doesn’t hurt that he rides cervelo. the shoppe i work for is one of the largest cervelo dealers by volume. its exciting to see him do so well, exciting for cycling, but the armchair experts really do come out of the woodwork in situations like this.
(by teddygoldenberg)
you must pay for them. the bolts. they are 0.79 ea. plus tax. oh you have spent a lot of money here? the bolts are still 0.79 ea., but now especially 0.79 ea. welcome to the historically troubling system of capitalism. welcome. you are not new here or to this mode of exchange. neither am i. i am paid to sell these bolts, not give them away. i sell bolts for a wage. we buy bolts and i sell them to people who need them to attach things to other things. a small interface in a larger system of things i sell—recreational goods held together by bolts— these bolts are not free. not for you.
i must pause here for a moment. my neighbours are having rough and silent sex or there is a minor earthquake. maybe a tremor. of the groins. i don’t know, but it shakes the very small space i occupy.
bolts…
also of those i have had interactions with today: the man with the bike that is ten years old and works well enough and-isn’t-convinced-that-a-new-fancy-bike-like-the-kind-we-sell-that-pro-racer-types-ride-will-be-a-good-investment: it’s not. it’s not an investment. its a fucking bike, and if you’re not convinced, do us all a goddamn favour and don’t waste our time. we need that time to sell bolts. i know you need reassuring: i am sure your 10 year old bike will grow up one day into a majestic composite-based recreational good(s) held together by bolts.
two nights ago i dreamt my father’s voice. i heard it as i used to hear it when i was a baby when i was a boy when i was a young man. i am still a young man, but i heard his voice in my dream two nights ago and it woke me up. i don’t remember the dream, but i remember his voice; my father is not dead, he just has no voice that i would call his own. cancer took his voice. i can’t remember my father’s voice so well anymore. when the dream woke me, i didn’t know that’s what i was dreaming of. it wasn’t until much later, at work i remembered what woke me. i had to leave. i needed air. i was suffocating. i went into the alley and choked back that burn behind my eyes.
i told someone who used to be especially close to me about my dream via devices. i did not hear back from from her until this morning. i thought it was a boundary thing at first and did not expect a reply. it broke my emotional silence, the reply. maybe i had put up boundaries, maybe in the wrong place. i don’t mean to. it cracked my composure. the emotional attachment to this woman and to my father. oh darlin’ oh little bird, i choked back those tears, but they came and soaked my cheeks and my face swole. it hurt so bad to be alone and so unprepared for that lusty baptism of repressed guilt and shame and fear. sat on my bed in the morning heat my hands clenched red and raised to the ceiling, my little arms perched on my knees; i begged for mercy. i pleaded. i begged…
please.
please.
please.
please deliver me some relief. i cannot bare this kind of pain. i begged the morning heat for mercy from my own selfishness.
The sweetest woman in the world
Can be the meanest woman in the world
If you make her that way, you keep on hurting her
She keeps being quiet
She might be holding something inside
That really really hurt you one day
the persuaders, a thin line between love and hate played on the radio as it all happened.
my little body convulsed
the bolts are 0.79 ea. plus tax.
untitled (by gillesdewinne)
* (by reflex…)
“And so you shudder now
and then from grief. The darkness, being real,
is clearly visible.”
— Joseph Brodsky, from Gorbunov and Gorchakov in Collected Poems (via proustitute)
untitled on Flickr.
(Source: colettesaintyves, via dialogues)