brief forays into (dreams) reality.

I long so much to make beautiful things. But beautiful things require effort—and disappointment and perseverance.

— Vincent van Gogh, The Hague, September 9, 1882, to Theo van Gogh

(…) We have never been modern, we just fooled ourselves into thinking we were. When the truly new emerges, if it is indeed properly new, it won’t look like utopia, dystopia, modernism, or postmodernism. It will look (and feel) monstrous and uncanny. ‘The future can only be anticipated in the form of absolute danger. It is that which breaks absolutely with constituted normality and can only be proclaimed, presented, as a sort of monstrosity.’

Jacques Derrida, 1967

All Art that is not mere story-telling, or mere portraiture, is symbolic, and has the purpose of those symbolic talismans which mediaeval magicians made with complex colours and forms, and bade their patients ponder over daily, and guard with holy secrecy ; for it entangles, in complex colours and forms, a part of the Divine Essence. A person or a landscape that is a part of a story or a portrait, evokes but so much emotion as the story or the portrait can permit without loosening the bonds that make it a story or a portrait ; but if you liberate a person or a landscape from the bonds of motives and their actions, causes and their effects, and from all bonds but the bonds of your love, it will change under your eyes, and become a symbol of an infinite emotion, a perfected emotion, a part of the Divine Essence ; for we love nothing but the perfect, and our dreams make all things perfect, that we may love them. Religious and visionary people, monks and nuns, and medicine-men, and opium-eaters, see symbols in their trances ; for religious and visionary thought is thought about perfection and the way to perfection ; and symbols are the only things free enough from all bonds to speak of perfection.

—  W. B. Yeats

I made up my mind that I would hold onto nothing, that I would expect nothing.

— Henry Miller, Tropic of Cancer

Another order, more secret and less communicable, that the true study of reality did not rest on laws, but the exception to those laws.

— Cortázar quoted by Brothers Quay.

She was waiting, but she didn’t know for what. She was aware only of her solitude, and of the penetrating cold, and of a greater weight in the region of her heart.

— Albert Camus, The Adulterous Woman from Exile And The Kingdom

Rely, rely, rely, rely,
Behave, behave, behave, behave,
Decide, decide, decide, decide,
Repave, repave, repave, repave.

— Volcano Choir - Alaskans

The past is just a story we tell ourselves.

— 'Her' written by Spike Jonze.

Fixed. theme by Andrew McCarthy