trails of snails
randomosity: anything that strikes my interest
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In the recurring dream everything has already fallen down, and I’m underneath. I’m crawling, sometimes for days, under the rubble. And as I crawl I realize that this one was the Big One. It was the earthquake that shook the whole world, and every single thing was destroyed. But this isn’t the scary part. That part always comes right before I wake up. I am crawling and then suddenly I remember: the earthquake happened years ago. This pain, this dying, this is just normal. This is how life is. In fact, I realize, there never was an earthquake. Life is just this way, broken, and I am crazy for dreaming something else.
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A Rare Form of Dementia Tests a Vow of ‘for Better, for Worse’ - NYTimes.com
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Bloom was a 2003 art installation to mark the closing of the Massachusetts Mental Health Center facility. (It has since reopened in another facility). Anna Schuleit designed the installation which involved 28,000 potted flowers. Bloom was open for four days, after which all the flowers were donated to hospitals, psychiatric wards, and prisons.
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“Late Fragment”
Raymond CarverAnd did you get what
you wanted from this life, even so?
I did.
And what did you want?
To call myself beloved, to feel myself
beloved on the earth. -
Photoset reblogged from cracks-in-the-ceiling
Private Moon by artist Leonid Tishkov and photographer Boris Bendikov
These romantic images depict the relationship between a man and a fallen celestial object, an affair that would last the rest of their… well his life, at least.
(via: My Modern Met)
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Postsecret: The abundant love of my friends, family & boyfriend is insignificant compared to my anti-depressants. Love is not enough.
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It was the year of tufted grasses. It was the year of questions. It was the year of fog over the vineyard. The year you started falling. A damaged year. It was the year of sails in the distance and knots here. It was the year without refuge. It was the year of bog orchids, early runoff, unaccountable swelling. It was the year of sweet peppers in August and patience, a year without diagnosis. It was the year of storms on both sides of the window, of your pain. It was a year without skin. A year of testing. It came without warning or instructions. It was the year of swallows caked under the bridge, of difficulty swallowing. It was the year of small foxes, white pelicans, one brown pelican far from its coast. Outside, the war deepened but we couldn’t turn our faces to it. It was a year of drought. It was a year without syntax or punctuation. It was the year of disarray. It was the year of mountains looking away, seeming to look away.
(Source: exceptindreams.livejournal.com)
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“I last saw you 32 years ago when I was wearing these. I have thought about you each day since that last time you boarded the plane at the San Diego Airport. I don’t know if I miss you, if I miss who we were going to be together or if I miss who I was when I was 21.”
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I want our eyes going black to be some kind of religion. I want us to have one holy day every week when we say I am not meeting your needs today. Instead, I am building a sculpture out of the bones from yesterday’s chicken. (Or whatever crazy thing feeds your heart.) On that day, we will tend the wounded birds in our hands or the storms in our minds. If our boundaries have been so blurred by our training that we can’t quite see our wounded birds or storms yet, then we’ll use that day to let the absence of other people’s needs help us to figure that out, because we have to strip the walls away, the ones that keep us in line, the walls that keep us from each other.
