Ask me anything
joyssssse
Sexty years odd, with a besotted fondness for literalture, aritfice and joycean puns all of which runs rampant through my life and by extention this blog alzo. i live by a creek in the hills of northern california with the love of my life. i spend most of my time taking care of my land, growing stuff and creating stuff. it's a good life.
joyssssse
Sexty years odd, with a besotted fondness for literalture, aritfice and joycean puns all of which runs rampant through my life and by extention this blog alzo. i live by a creek in the hills of northern california with the love of my life. i spend most of my time taking care of my land, growing stuff and creating stuff. it's a good life.
When it is understood that one loses joy and happiness in the attempt to possess them, the essence of natural farming will be realized. The ultimate goal of farming is not the growing of crops, but the cultivation and perfection of human beings. The healing of the land and the purification of the human spirit is the same process.
Masanobu Fukuoka
5 hours ago
13 notes
When I was eighteen, I wanted a life consecrated to art. I imagined a wholly committed art-life: every gesture would be an aesthetic expression or response. That got old fast, because, unfortunately, life is filled with allergies, credit card bills, tedious commutes, etc. Life is, in large part, rubbish. The beauty of reality-based art—art underwritten by reality hunger—is that it’s perfectly situated between life itself and (unattainable) “life as art.” Everything in life, turned sideways, can look like—can be—art. Art suddenly looks and is more interesting, and life, astonishingly enough, starts to be livable.
David Shields — from Reality Hunger (via slothnorentropy)
3 days ago
9 notes
Nothing is more real than nothing.
Philosophy is a battle against the bewitchment of our intelligence by means of our language.
Ludwig Wittgenstein, Philosophical Investigations (via sisyphean-revolt)
(Source: man-of-prose, via sisyphean-revolt)
3 days ago
80 notes
I enjoy talking to you. Your mind appeals to me. It resembles my own mind except that you happen to be insane.
George Orwell, 1984 (via diremoonwolf)
(Source: evocativesynthesis, via banfoalan)
5 days ago
26,713 notes
I want to just keep on smearing butter
& jam on toast with a blunt knife
and licking foam from my espresso cup,
while listening to Lizzy and Tricia practice French,
but I’m a realist. Even the songbirds have levels
of mercury in their blood and feathers. Somewhere,
in the brightness against a wall, a soldier crouches—
sand in his hair, juices dripping from his body.
Here there is joy, like a hole with greenness coming
out of it, but there night pushes against the cylinder
of his gun. He probably has a knife too, in the presence
of the incomprehensible, thrusting his belly
to the ground, feeling the strangeness throb in his blood
as he touches the scope to his cheek.
& jam on toast with a blunt knife
and licking foam from my espresso cup,
while listening to Lizzy and Tricia practice French,
but I’m a realist. Even the songbirds have levels
of mercury in their blood and feathers. Somewhere,
in the brightness against a wall, a soldier crouches—
sand in his hair, juices dripping from his body.
Here there is joy, like a hole with greenness coming
out of it, but there night pushes against the cylinder
of his gun. He probably has a knife too, in the presence
of the incomprehensible, thrusting his belly
to the ground, feeling the strangeness throb in his blood
as he touches the scope to his cheek.
Henri Cole, “Quai Aux Fleurs” (via whatokay)
5 days ago
8 notes
The scene before her flattened, lost one of its dimensions, and the noise dribbled irrelevantly down its face. Something was coming. This moment, this very experience of it, seemed only the thinnest gauze. She sat in the audience thinking—someone here has cancer, someone has a broken heart, someone’s soul is lost, someone feels naked and foreign, thinks they once knew the way but can’t remember the way, feels stripped of armor and alone, there are people in this audience with broken bones, others whose bones will break sooner or later, people who’ve ruined their health, worshiped their own lives, spat on their dreams, turned their backs on their true beliefs, yes, yes, and all will be saved. All will be saved. All will be saved.
Denis Johnson — from Tree of Smoke (via slothnorentropy)
1 week ago
10 notes
