Nº. 1 of  44

Brechtfast Cereal

because i spent my notebook money on cigarettes.

Yes that’s human blood on Ninoy Aquino Intl Airport’s floor. Been waiting in line for an hour next to it. No one is cleaning it up. #NAIA is the worst fucking hellhole on earth.

Yes that’s human blood on Ninoy Aquino Intl Airport’s floor. Been waiting in line for an hour next to it. No one is cleaning it up. #NAIA is the worst fucking hellhole on earth.

Soot Love

by Daniel Darwin

.
Love like this lives
at the foot of the spine:

base love
soot love

ache love
root love, love

so old you hear the trunk
caught in the door’s groan.

Love so old it folds into new
like a kindly fool — eyeless

at start, eyeless at end
— ringing out in a chord

so sweet I can wrap it
round my neck

and dance in slow sways
above the dark earth.

Post-brainstorm manila bay sunset beers w my main bitch. #vivamanila @huliebulie

k-m-bar-k:

With two brilliant artists and beautiful people. Dave Eggar and Chuck Palmer. DEORO..!

my favorite favorites

k-m-bar-k:

With two brilliant artists and beautiful people. Dave Eggar and Chuck Palmer. DEORO..!

my favorite favorites

manyourstations:

whynotelsanna:

griddlemethis:

Pancake with all the colors of the wind.

i can’t even make a circular pancake what the fuck is this shit

Shouldn’t it be “Pan you cake with all the all the colors of the wind”?

SORCERY

manyourstations:

whynotelsanna:

griddlemethis:

Pancake with all the colors of the wind.

i can’t even make a circular pancake what the fuck is this shit

Shouldn’t it be “Pan you cake with all the all the colors of the wind”?

SORCERY

Hello! Sorry to invade your askbox unnanounced. I recently posted a general plea for reading suggestions in 18th/19th century French literature and marc4marc recommended I ask you. I wanted to copy and paste the post here, but it's unfortunately too long. If you feel like having a look (currently my latest post) at some point and letting me know if anything springs to mind, I'd be really grateful. :) asked by arsludicra

Hi Cutie McUnderpants,

Oh boy, leave it to Marc to present me as much smarter and so much better read than I am. :) He always used to do this when we were in New York… we’d be at a bar and someone would bring up something that in Marc’s web of brilliance he associated with me and he’d pull me over and say something like, “this guy just said that the third best writer in french history is Perec. You are all of French history, so go.” And then walk away to go dance to Robyn or something. Boom, crushed like fuckin’ roadkill under the bus. I love that man and miss those days.

Silly Marc, assuming that we’re all running through life with encyclopaedic memories as he does. :)

To answer your question, as best I can, I should preface by saying that the bulk of my studies have been in 20th century french writers, and in theatre, because that’s what I was concentrating on. Slash kind of live and breathe for.

I must confess I mostly shied away from especially 18th century writers… because they were all fat old white men who looked the same and I’m an asshole about fat old white men who look the same. But there were a few that hit me in the guts, so maybe if you haven’t dipped into them you can and perhaps they’ll hit yours too?

18th Century Friterature:

If you haven’t read it yet, Justine [ou les Malheurs de la Virtue] is worth the wade… as far as old dirty bastard Marquis de Sade goes, this one was my favorite. I can get behind it in a way I struggle with getting behind 120 Days of Sodom. There’s more of the ecstasy of violence in it. And the violence isn’t as hellish, arguably.

Re: theatuh, Marivaux is kind of my main 18th century dude. Of the writers that I read, he’s the one that to me stepped farthest away from the enormous shoes of Moliere and Racine. Start with La Dispute, if you haven’t read it yet, it’s not as tedious as some of his other works, and the marivaudage [basically 18th century sass] is enjoyable without getting too masturbatory.

19th Century Friterature:

Zola is a gem. La Bete Humaine was a lovely and mildly devastating read. L’Oeuvre can be essential if you let it in, and if you have ever struggled with feeling as though until you have everything you know you’re capable of, you’ve got nothing at all. A beautiful window into Cezanne’s life, torments, and art [but sshhh nobody knows it’s him it’s totally a secret and shit… except everyone knew, because Zola CLEARLY wrote himself into the fuckin’ thing as his best friend.]

Bel-Ami by Guy de Maupassant is the tits. Sexy and horrible and misogynist in that perfumed 1800s european way. Highly recommended.

À Rebours by Huysmans. It came later in the century but pretty much everything shitty and everything shiny and everything wondrous and everything wanton about both the bourgeoisie in the 19th century and La Belle Epoque soon to step in is, to me, neatly gift-wrapped in this jack-knife of a book. It’s scathing and tough as gristle and at the same time wafts over you. I really got into this one. Even tried smelling colors and shit, mixing the senses, as the protagonist attempts.

Alright sugar, that’s all I can muster for now because I was watching the new COSMOS until four am last night and I can’t really feel my face right now. But check in with me if you want to and let me know if a) you’ve read all these, b) you hate my suggestions and want to tumblr-fist-fight, c) you liked them and want to squeeze more out of me / TALK SHOP. [squeal]

Hope this helps you on your quest to be able to make references seamlessly in cocktail parties as it has me on mine.

Here’s to the hysterical wonder that is the internet, where centuries-old French books can be recommended via a flawless mo in Boston by a flawless mo in Manila to a flawless mo in London.

I woke up like this,

Daniel

rubyetc:

g’bye

rubyetc:

g’bye

A sustained spin I performed for the 2nd annual Philippine Flow Fest. Sorry the lighting’s kind of spotty. I wanted to post it on this sucker because it’s one of the dances I’m most proud of… it’s kind of the first time I’ve really married what I love about dance’s power to evoke a slowburning emotion with hula hooping.

The music is the theme from Malena played by Yoyo Ma, because obviously.

.

SING
By Chris Altman

.

the sun folds up
and descends like a rotted stone
this is called aubade
the moon comes boiling down
and plucks the stars like harpstrings
this is called serenade
a hellmouth opens gracefully
like a carnivorous orchid
this is called handgrenade

.

and serebande is when
the mind shuts up like pursestrings
and the beetle that lives
heavy inside your ribs
takes three steps to the right,
bows,
and begins to sing.

Someday.
[Perky, Ea, Gilleth]

Someday.

[Perky, Ea, Gilleth]

(Source: fadeintoyoustrangeyouneverknew, via skippylynn)

me coming to grips with the fact that i wasn’t going to win a pulitzer by the time I was twenty five.

Baby basil hallward and a single coriander saying hello to me this morning

Baby basil hallward and a single coriander saying hello to me this morning

Woman the Salon: for men and women

Woman the Salon: for men and women

izzymar:

Disney Fine Art: “Ohana means family" by Heather Theurer:)
(Source: disneyfineart.com)

OH NO. OH NO OH NO OH NO.

izzymar:

Disney Fine Art: “Ohana means family" by Heather Theurer:)

(Source: disneyfineart.com)

OH NO. OH NO OH NO OH NO.

(Source: tinkeperi, via awesomethingsaregoodforyou)

marc4marc:

Walking down the street yesterday I was thinking about all the places I’d already been in the two years I lived here. That’s the street Michael used to live on before he left. 
I started thinking about how fast memories build up around you, how quickly anyplace can become a ghost town if you put your mind to it. If you haunt yourself. My therapist leaves me a concerned voicemail and my primary care doctor calls after I fall down the stairs and wrench my ankle out of place. She wants to see me if the swelling isn’t better in two weeks. In the ER some of the nurses recognize me and it’s funny to be hurt again. It’s funny that things happen at all—that they happen again. 
That’s where Andrew and I wove through traffic on our bikes howling like wolves. 
Last Sunday at brunch a woman said to me that the reason I was still single is because I don’t know how to contain myself—that I need to learn how to not intimidate the men who come into my life. I said that didn’t make sense because I need someone who’s strong enough—that I don’t have time to train strength into someone. That I didn’t have the energy. Talking about the need to be harsh she says, offhand, We grew up in poison. And I start to wonder how long that excuse can serve? How long is it acceptable to say that we grew up hard and that’s why we love wrong? 
That’s the shop of the man I went on one date with and didn’t call again—I still have his bike light that he let me borrow when I was leaving his apartment.
I’m interested in mercy—not as a one time exercise but as a method. What would it mean to be merciful as praxis? What would it mean to follow Holzer and recognize the self-interest in being tender? I’m exhausted all the time lately and on the train yesterday I thought about how absurd it is to live a life that makes a weapon of you. I think about how maybe I want a husband because somewhere I recognize that a weapon without a wielder is just catastrophe waiting to happen. In a book I read a sentence, The important thing to understand about FDR’s choice to use the bomb is that, at the time, it seemed like there was no choice. and the woman at brunch last week says, It’s impossible not to love someone once you know them. 
I want to us to build a merciful world. I do. I want a world that could not tolerate even the cruelty I perpetuate in the name of a good I can only numbly imagine. When I talk about politics I talk about a vicious game. To a co-worker I say, If they think they can get away they have no idea the cone of teeth I will build around them. 
Yesterday I turned my head and thought, Over there is the house of the man I dated who’s dating a friend of a friend now. I heard they’re moving in together. 

marc4marc:

Walking down the street yesterday I was thinking about all the places I’d already been in the two years I lived here. That’s the street Michael used to live on before he left.

I started thinking about how fast memories build up around you, how quickly anyplace can become a ghost town if you put your mind to it. If you haunt yourself. My therapist leaves me a concerned voicemail and my primary care doctor calls after I fall down the stairs and wrench my ankle out of place. She wants to see me if the swelling isn’t better in two weeks. In the ER some of the nurses recognize me and it’s funny to be hurt again. It’s funny that things happen at all—that they happen again. 

That’s where Andrew and I wove through traffic on our bikes howling like wolves. 

Last Sunday at brunch a woman said to me that the reason I was still single is because I don’t know how to contain myself—that I need to learn how to not intimidate the men who come into my life. I said that didn’t make sense because I need someone who’s strong enough—that I don’t have time to train strength into someone. That I didn’t have the energy. Talking about the need to be harsh she says, offhand, We grew up in poison. And I start to wonder how long that excuse can serve? How long is it acceptable to say that we grew up hard and that’s why we love wrong? 

That’s the shop of the man I went on one date with and didn’t call again—I still have his bike light that he let me borrow when I was leaving his apartment.

I’m interested in mercy—not as a one time exercise but as a method. What would it mean to be merciful as praxis? What would it mean to follow Holzer and recognize the self-interest in being tender? I’m exhausted all the time lately and on the train yesterday I thought about how absurd it is to live a life that makes a weapon of you. I think about how maybe I want a husband because somewhere I recognize that a weapon without a wielder is just catastrophe waiting to happen. In a book I read a sentence, The important thing to understand about FDR’s choice to use the bomb is that, at the time, it seemed like there was no choice. and the woman at brunch last week says, It’s impossible not to love someone once you know them. 

I want to us to build a merciful world. I do. I want a world that could not tolerate even the cruelty I perpetuate in the name of a good I can only numbly imagine. When I talk about politics I talk about a vicious game. To a co-worker I say, If they think they can get away they have no idea the cone of teeth I will build around them. 

Yesterday I turned my head and thought, Over there is the house of the man I dated who’s dating a friend of a friend now. I heard they’re moving in together. 

Nº. 1 of  44