mpdrolet:

Seeing Montana, 1992
Robert Farber

mpdrolet:

Seeing Montana, 1992

Robert Farber

Some people don’t even realize they’re bitter. If you don’t know whether you are or not, here’s a quick quiz you can give yourself. If you ever wake up in the morning and the first thing you say is “Oh, fuck, not again,” you might be a little bitter. If you find yourself in conversation with someone you know and that person brings up someone you both know and before he says another word you mutter, “That guy’s a fucking asshole,” you might be a little bitter. If you find yourself dismissing universally acclaimed landmark achievements, saying, for example, “The Godfather is an okay movie,” you might be bitter.
Everyone is a little bitter. We’re born bitter. The personality itself is really just a very complex defense mechanism. A reaction to the first time someone said, “No, you can’t.” That’s the big challenge of life — to chisel disappointment into wisdom so people respect you and you don’t annoy your friends with your whining. You don’t want to be the bitter guy in the group. It’s the difference between “I’ve been through that and this is what I’ve learned” and “I’m fucked. Everything sucks.” That said, be careful not to medicate bitterness because you’ve mistaken it for depression, because the truth is, you’re right: Everything does suck most of the time and there’s a fine line between bitterness and astute cultural observation.
I think I’ve been mischaracterized a bit as a guy who gets off on his own misery. I think that misery for people that are incredibly anxious or frightened is something consistent. I think that obsession sometimes works as almost a spirituality. You know, you have a routine that your brain kind of loops around, that you call ‘home,’ but that’s usually in defense of some other part of you that’s unruly and for me I think it’s anxiety and panic and worry and dread.
  

Wilco - How to Fight Loneliness

creativerehab:

Feeling blue.

creativerehab:

Feeling blue.

lovetheghost:

Snow Day
New Orleans, LA
Photo by Emma Elizabeth Tillman

lovetheghost:

Snow Day

New Orleans, LA

Photo by Emma Elizabeth Tillman

Nowhere do we need order more than at any orgy.
Vivian Maier1954

Vivian Maier
1954

babalaas:

© reserved

babalaas:

© reserved

"Here Lies Gerald" by Robert Travieso, recommended by Electric Literature

recommendedreading:

My brother writes songs for Broadway. In the sense that they’re for Broadway. Like gifts, or homemade offerings—a tub of brownies, a hand-sewn sweater, a series of pen-and-ink drawings—not a job, in other words. Not something that anyone has asked for, or that anyone in particular is expecting, or that anyone—to be cruel about it—even wants, or could even want, in this world, as it is now, as if the brownies were laced with mahogany, the sweater from pure belly-button lint, and the drawings entirely of himself, knees splayed and naked in the bathtub. That word for. Like a car that’s for sale, like a rose that’s only for you, grown for you and given to you, and like all those endless envelopes that all those Broadway producers must have received and must still receive, marked in my brother’s cursive: for your consideration—and then all those curt notes, curtly returned: not for us, they must say, this piece is simply not for us.

Early encouragement. It could happen to anybody. Talent! Promise! Progress! Prospects! Little shows, little venues. On the town, playing On The Town, like a little Liberace. He was good. He was cute. He made some influential people start to cry. Summers at the county fair, semesters at the conservatory. But then the incipient rising thing. Not just that he was by now pear-shaped. Not just that he was by now known professionally as Persimmon. For a year he only ate salmon cakes. For a month he only spoke in verbs. And his songs—they got all weird. Songs about sherry vinegar. The Minnesota Vikings. Invectives set to verse, condemning the Erie Canal. And then, as if by miracle, one catchy tune, in Pocahontas II, over the credits (you can look it up), and then… nothing.

And then… fried chicken. And the years where he just lay fallow, in his bed, with his headphones on, his index fingers Italianating in mid-air, pendulating the crescendo—Adante, Adantino! Accelerando! Mosso! Mosso!—the imaginary orchestra, the imperious chin position, the garlic knots, seeping grease through the bag onto the sheets beside his pillows. Rise! Rise and begin to sing! The walking in tight circles, the talking to himself.

I’m giving you the overture.

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