We set out to make something about ­companionship and wonder in the face of bitterness and ­disillusionment—and we set out to hope that companionship and wonder might win. And, in addition, Eve expresses something very accurate about me, which is not the artist in me but the cheerleader of artists, the bird at the end of the phone, the dance partner, the ­appreciative reader of proofs, the bearer of the bucket, and the sponge in the ­corner, sometimes the jester with the balloon on a stick. This is, beyond ­anything I think, the part of my work that I treasure the most, my job, above all, as artist’s moll.

There is an age in every life where the world shows its true shape, where the universe is no larger than the hollow cavity of a man’s half-filled lungs. We spend our childhood in the mistaken impression that the future is an open space, that we are free to move in many directions. But the future is mostly solid, cut by a shifting warren of tunnels. The maze changes by the minute, distorted by our decisions, cauterized by our indecision. It sinks and it settles. We awake one morning to the rattle and the groan. It has frozen into place: every path and turn and obstacle and inhibition.

All that remains is the bleak walk to the end. The only directions are dictated by time.

Before I met them, it was an impression that clouded my ears and blackened my senses. I felt it acutely when my father died, in the foggy waste of the raw monotony through which I stumbled. I suppose I was surprised to discover the full extent of the illusions; the fallacies I’d been so ready to accept as truth.

Maybe that’s just what grief feels like. Even now—so many years later—I still don’t know.

Long, pale arms in dreams, setting your hair just so.  

You sleep in front of the mirror, eyes wide open, gathering dark pools of starlight.  They come for your council, sitting, rapt, at the foot of your bed. You pour them words, like silky gin, and speak of giants’ shadows, grown long along the gate.

High queen of loitered memories!   How assured you are in that court.  How regally your receive their lips, as cold as comet fire, as enduring as the angels’.  They whisper you their secrets, though you claim them as your own.  Flattery is easy for them; it costs so little.

They spread open your palms and read from them the universe.  Here is man and here is his reach: the deep lines of your fine sensitivities; so indicative of that power you hold to be your birthright.

But it does not last.

—When morning comes, they’ll cast you down, left lonely in the earth.  How could their company be anything but a midnight lark? The kind of joke so cruel it could only be of your own design?  How much sport must they take in you, in your finery and airs, conjured by vanity from the shifting dust?

You taste it in their mouths as they smile at you, but you swallow your invectives.  In the end, the heat of their scorn is the only fire burning bright enough to light the darkness of day.

-Amelie Andrezel

personifyingchaos:

Dylan Moran on adulthood

I feel like drawing today.  What should I draw?

Carey - Joni Mitchell

Things I’m learning about my iTunes library:

Literally every song with the word “wine” in it is about alcoholism.

*

Brandoch:Make a playlist about wine.
Amelie:You know this is just going to be "God of Wine" on repeat like 100 times, right?
Brandoch:Good.

Kansas - The Sovereign Nothings