(Source: gratatouille, via rebelliouspirit)
Why did I write it down? In order to remember, of course, but exactly what was it I wanted to remember? How much of it actually happened? Did any of it? Why do I keep a notebook at all? It is easy to deceive oneself on all those scores. The impulse to write things down is a peculiarly compulsive one, inexplicable to those who do not share it, useful only accidentally, only secondarily, in the way that any compulsion tries to justify itself. I suppose that it begins or does not begin in the cradle. Although I have felt compelled to write things down since I was five years old, I doubt that my daughter ever will, for she is a singularly blessed and accepting child, delighted with life exactly as life presents itself to her, unafraid to go to sleep and unafraid to wake up. Keepers of private notebooks are a different breed altogether, lonely and resistant rearrangers of things, anxious malcontents, children afflicted apparently at birth with some presentiment of loss.
—
Joan Didion, from “On Keeping a Notebook”, in “Slouching Towards Bethlehem: Essays” (via mitochondria)
Professed journal-keeper.
(via kirinmccrory)
(via kirinmccrory)
God I want you
in some primal, wild way
animals want each other.
Untamed and full of teeth.
God I want you,
In some chaste, Victorian way.
A glimpse of your ankle
just kills me.
—Want, Clementine von Radics (via clementinevonradics)
(via kirinmccrory)
A real writer is someone for whom writing is a terrible ordeal. That is because he knows, deep down, with an awful clarity, that there are limitless ways to fill a page with words, and that he will never, ever, do it perfectly. On some level, that knowledge haunts him all the time. He will always be juggling words in his head, trying to get them closer to a tantalizing, unreachable ideal.
It’s a torment you can’t escape. It will reach even into the comfort of a drunken sleep, and it will shake you awake, and send you, heart pumping, to an empty piece of paper.
If you have that, you can be a good writer. Congratulations, I guess.
—A Fiddler in the Subway (via mrdirkadirka)
nanny nonsense
I’m a nanny. I’m a writer. I’m writing about nannying.
hey, I have another blog I just created. it would be great if you followed it. but it’s your life, do whatever you want.
dream date: we get chinese food delivered, it’s raining, i take a shower in your shower (it must be a nice shower with good water pressure), you let me wear your clothes after i shower, you have a dog that i can pet, we watch movies, i fall asleep in your bed for like fifteen hours, you fall in love with me
(Source: punkbunnies, via srda)
WHOA THERE COOL IT THAT’S WAAAAY TOO MUCH FROSTING FOR ONE DUNKAROO YOU GOTTA RATION THAT SHIT
(via rebelliouspirit)
srda:
So what happened to you
Thought I knew you
No more chances
I’m gone and gone
and gone and gone
‘Cause it used to be my life and soul
Keeping everything in tune
What the heck man?
Last time I checked man
We had it all
It was just me and you
So what happened to you
I thought I knew you
No more chances
I’m gone, gone
I’m gone, gone, gone
Ohhhh (Well you did not wait for the last time)
(Source: lookitsababywolf)
(Source: chained-asylum, via srda)
