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Clara Engel

musician, singer, artist. I live in Toronto, Canada. this is my ambivalent stab at having a blog.
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Evening Clothes

The floor gleams with a hostile white glare, so bright it looks wet, as if doused in milk and then glazed with a laminate sheen. Bare feet stick to the linoleum and leave you feeling raw and soft in your mammalian skin.
An image intrudes: you have a generous dusting of feathers, your eyes glow in the dark, and you are gliding through space, the sound of wind charging against but ever-eluding the edges of your form.
The image dissolves when someone barks out your name, sinew and gristle of human language coiled in the throat in a death grip around the base of the tongue, a strangulation from deep within. You slip back into the darkened hallway until everything is silent again. Through the window the stars are blossoming like black roses bursting into flame. You put on your evening clothes and slip out the window.
CE

This was either 2009 or 2010. Photos by Marine Gobert.

tagzeen:

Manuel Albarranhttp://www.manuelalbarran.com/home.html

catmota:

Distant Thunder  (1961)
Andrew Wyeth 

catmota:

Distant Thunder  (1961)

Andrew Wyeth 

(Source: sulphuriclike, via entulhar-se)

Memo

Making changes in thought/habit/etc is by its very nature not supposed to feel comfortable or easy.

fuckingfreud:

Bergman Island, 2004.

fuckingfreud:

Bergman Island, 2004.

I remember loving this book as a kid, and this is the exact cover of the edition I read. Maybe I will read it again, with new, old, eyes. All I can remember is the feeling it gave me — and I thought she had a cool look.

I remember loving this book as a kid, and this is the exact cover of the edition I read. Maybe I will read it again, with new, old, eyes. All I can remember is the feeling it gave me — and I thought she had a cool look.

When those who have the power to name and to socially construct reality choose not to see you or hear you…when someone with the authority of a teacher, say, describes the world and you are not in it, there is a moment of psychic disequilibrium, as if you looked in the mirror and saw nothing. It takes some strength of soul—and not just individual strength but collective understanding—to resist this void, this non-being, into which you are thrust, and to stand up, demanding to be seen and heard.

Adrienne Rich (via eshusplayground)

(via lapelosa)