An account of observations

My neighbors in the alleyway are actually playing something beautiful tonight. I wish I knew what it was called. There’s distant chatter behind the singing of the chords, applause, the sent of Mary J comes through the window.

When my hookup snores

whatshouldbetchescallme:

anitwat:

de

ja

vu

(via darkdarlings)

When I’m having a bad day, and someone gives me a compliment

whatshouldwecallme:

I’m just like,

Some People - Charles Bukowski

some people never go crazy.
me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch
for 3 or 4 days.
they'll find me there.
it's Cherub, they'll say, and
they pour wine down my throat
rub my chest
sprinkle me with oils. 
then, I'll rise with a roar,
rant, rage -
curse them and the universe
as I send them scattering over the
lawn.
I'll feel much better,
sit down to toast and eggs,
hum a little tune, 
suddenly become as lovable as a
pink 
overfed whale. 
some people never go crazy.
what truly horrible lives
they must lead.

Marlboro/Camel

There’s always something about a child passing you when you have a cigarette in hand. I think first whether or not their parents smoke. Then, I think in 18 or some years will this kid be smoking as well. Occasionally, I wonder if their parents eat only organic foods, and then I wonder if there’s a positive correlation between non-smokers and organic food consumers. And some times, I think of Native Americans, who smoked hallucinogenic tobacco. And then I wonder if hallucinogens are a key to finding a liberal form of spirituality. And then, I think of my fear of cannabis highs, or my fear of heights. Sometimes, I stop and internally sing “I Can Go the Distance” from Hercules because in my brain height and length are interrelated. And that brings me to my father, and how I used to yell at him to roll down a window as he smoked his Marlboro Lights in his Toyota, and then his Honda, and then by the side of the house.

Other times, I simply place the cigarette under my foot, and wait for something else to happen to take me away from the thought that I wanted to empathize with addicts, and here I am. 

May 1/2

There is an Indian couple, or at least I assume they are a couple, that sits on the stairs in my apartment building. Tending to block traffic with their every other nightly arguments, they’ve become a relatively familiar aspect of my day. The man, who tends to be sitting roughly sixty percent of the time, utters an apology under his breath. They wait for me to ascend before they continue. It’s comforting to hear whether or not they are in a heated debate, their language running so quickly from their mouths, outpouring anger, and assumed honesty. I always wonder what keeps them up at 2 am, and why they haven’t solved the thing they argue about by now. Perhaps they care too much for each other, or they have a flawed history, or they can never truly express their feelings without rapidly spilling their tongues. I find comfort in knowing that people are fighting for something at the end of the day. Or maybe I have misjudged their tones, assumed that their innocent conversation is malice-filled, some thing frequented by soap operas. I can only speculate, pick up Hindi, and even wonder why it tends to be me who witnesses them at 2 am.

(Source: bellecs, via someluckyday)

artspotting:

Sol LeWitt (link to the whole) letter to Eva Hesse