“It’s hard for an educated woman to turn her
head off. That’s part of the joy of being a submissive. None of the
decisions are yours. When you can’t refuse anything and can’t even move,
those voices in your head go silent. All you can do, and all you are
permitted to do, is feel.”
| — | Cherise Sinclair |
I've seen the world, done it all,
I've seen the world, lit it up as my stage now;Dear Lord, when I get to Heaven please let me bring my man.
“Usually we live our lives only in terms of the world we can see. When we do, we emphasize ourselves. We place the I first. Even when we take up the spiritual life, we place the I
first. In other words, we pull everything down to the level of our
personal views and feelings. We never forget ourselves. What we tend to
ignore is the world that sees us. This is not the world you think you
see or hear. It is actually the world as it is before you are conscious
of it - before you form some idea about it. If you emphasize yourself,
you will completely forget this world. If you want to practice
compassion, you must accept simultaneously the world you see and the
world that sees you. You can’t judge your life just in terms of what you
can see - that is, from your ego-centered perspective.”
| — | Dainin Katagiri, You Have To Say Something |
| — | Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice |
Welcome to my world.
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| As an eternal advocate of rouge, this post spoke to me in many ways. It, of course, is not my work, and I take no credit for it, but I felt it needed to be posted. There are things that could be improved but overall I found it a very enticing read. Enjoy, my pretties. |
Ha ha ha. Je suis going crazy, I think I should eat before getting to the office so I can kick this irritated mood. The sun is in my eyes on the bus, I am wearing a winter jacket and am regretting it because it is suffocating me and I feel like I'm over heated. Talk about anxiety. Ugh. Bus driver is asking for a slap, stopping and going, lifting his foot from the gas pedal and replacing it on the break. THE LIGHT IS GREEN. I'm not breathing right. Working on that. Pheeeeeeewwwww. Dislike Mondays, what do you want.
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| Pablo Neruda. One of my favourite poets. He takes the words right out of my mouth and finishes the unwritten sentences I hold captive in this tainted mind. |
| — | Roland Barthes. A Lover’s Discourse |
“Because when I read, I don’t really read; I pop a
beautiful sentence into my mouth and suck it like a fruit drop, or I sip
it like a liqueur until the thought dissolves in me like alcohol,
infusing brain and heart and coursing on through the veins to the root
of each blood vessel.”
| — | Bohumil Hrabal, Too Loud a Solitude |
| — | Milan Kundera, The Farewell Party |
Went on a fulfilling journey down Dundas yesterday afternoon. Found a small book store along the way that caught my attention. There was a very old, tattered type-writer parallel to a wide book shelf with scattered brown bindings, gold accents and black writing. I stopped and looked at the type writer. There was a single sheet of paper falling out of the slot - "Quoth the raven," I read. My eyes glanced up along the sides of the glass to the sign atop of my head: "The Monkey's Paw."
| — | Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra |
| — | The Sun Also Rises, Ernest Hemmingway |
“We read to find the end, for the story’s sake. We read not to reach it, for the sake of the reading itself. We read searchingly, like trackers, oblivious of our surroundings. We read distractedly, skipping pages. We read contemptuously, admiringly, negligently, angrily, passionately, enviously, longingly. We read in gusts of sudden pleasure, without knowing what brought the pleasure along. ‘What in the world is this emotion?’ asks Rebecca West after reading King Lear. ‘What is the bearing of supremely great works of art on my life which makes me feel so glad?’ We don’t know: we read ignorantly. We read in slow, long motions, as if drifting in space, weightless. We read full of prejudice, malignantly. We read generously, making excuses for the text, filling gaps, mending faults. And sometimes, when the stars are kind, we read with an intake of breath, with a shudder, as if someone or something has ‘walked over our grave,’ as if a memory had suddenly been rescued from a place deep within us—the recognition of something we never knew was there, or of something we vaguely felt as a flicker or shadow, whose ghostly form rises and passes back into us before we can see what it is, leaving us older and wiser.”
— Alberto Manguel, A History of Reading
I realize I've been a tad MIA here. Life's been pretty busy these past couple weeks. I'm struggling to manage my time responsibly between internship, my part-time job and my (nearly non-existent) social life. 
The good news if that my life feels like it has some sort of order, but the days truly are packed. No time for men (thank God), let alone time for my friends and family. I come home and I go to bed. Sometimes I watch TV, but usually I have my face in a book. I don't read them, I crawl into them and live in them until they have concluded. I'm currently reading a series of short stories and prose by Oscar Wilde (my main man). I finished one of his short stories, The Canterville Ghost, which is roughly 30 pages, and an incredibly different and post-modern interpretation of a ghost story. I'm thinking it would make a rather interesting movie one day. Perhaps that's my next creative project. Hm.
Settle down with me, cover me up, cover me in;
.PNG)
