run away with me.
(Source: skimmmmmilk, via fuckyeahcomfybeds)
In addition to the messed-upped-ness of referring to women only in terms of their relationships to others: what if she isn’t? What if she’s a single, childless, only child with no living parents? Does she matter less then?
I think about this all of the time. I did my study abroad capstone project on this. Thirty-five pages in broken French, countless interviews (in broken French) with women and midwives and nurses, and so many heated dinner “discussions” (i.e. rants) later, I am no closer to understanding what it means to be a woman alone. Who is a woman not defined by her connections to her children, her husband, her friends etc? What is she worth?
I’m nothing without you.
I suppose a fair retort would be to say that we’re ALL connected, that we simply need one another. A person isn’t a person worth knowing unless their existence is validated by another. We are all linked to each other in this way.
I’m nothing without you.
But a woman? I think that she is a different species entirely. When we speak of women-these caretakers, these givers of life, it is a completely different ball game indeed. They (This elusive They who make up all of the rules (Newsflash: They is you and They is also me.)) would have us believe that a woman ain’t shit without a man and a woman ain’t shit with one, either.
No woman is worth a shit until someone says to her “You are so much more than you give yourself credit for. You are. You ARE! I promise that you are.”
Could it be that the whole world represents the potassium to woman’s sodium?
I’m nothing without you.
Only a woman can feel with every fiber of her being that she is incomplete, a figurative sodium/potassium pump lacking a key ingredient, and yet have no earthly idea what that ingredient is.
I’m nothing without you.
Now ain’t that some shit?
(Source: riotclitshave, via kunamani)
DOLCE GABBANA aw 13 backstage beauty by Pat McGrath
THIS I AM A PRINCESS AND I NEED THIS CROWN FOR MY BIRTHDAY GIMMEGIMMEGIMME
(Source: fashiondailymag.com, via naturalbelle)
"Que fait un homme qui arrive au bord du précipice, qui a le vertige? Instinctivement il regarde au plus près — vous l’avez fait, vous l’avez vu faire. C’est simple, c’est la chose qui est la plus simple. On porte son regard à la marche immédiate ou au pilier, à la balustrade, ou à un objet fixe, pour ne pas voir le reste. Cela c’est honnête, cela c’est sincère, c’est vrai. L’homme qui vit ce moment-là, il ne fera pas de philosophie de la chute ou du désespoir. Si son trouble est authentique, ou bien il tombe dans le trou, comme Kafka, comme Nietzsche, comme d’autres, ou bien plutôt, il n’en parle pas, il parle de tout mais pas de cela, il porte son regard au plus près. Le parti pris des choses, c’est aussi cela. Je parlais d’une trappe, ce n’était qu’une image. Je veux vous montrer que c’est également le contraire. On regarde très attentivement le caillou pour ne pas voir le reste. Maintenant, il arrive que le caillou s’entrouvre à son tour, et devienne aussi un précipice. Oui, voilà un des principaux thèmes de l’absurde, que mon ami Camus n’a pas traité dans son mythe de Sisyphe. Il n’a pas traité le thème de l’expression, l’absurde de l’expression. Or c’est vraiment celui que quelques uns de ma génération ont particulièrement éprouvé, vécu. N’importe quel objet, il suffit de vouloir le décrire, il s’ouvre à son tour, il devient un abîme, mais cela peut se refermer, c’est plus petit ; on peut, par le moyen de l’art, refermer un caillou, on ne peut pas refermer le grand trou métaphysique, mais peut-être la façon de refermer le caillou vaut-elle pour le reste, thérapeutiquement. Cela fait qu’on continue de vivre quelques jours de plus."
— Francis Ponge, Tentative orale, in Le Grand Recueil, Méthodes (via abridurif)
"Another way of approaching the thing is to consider it unnamed, unnameable."
— Francis Ponge (via chantalrens)
"
Night sometimes brings to life an unusual plant whose gleam decomposes furnished rooms into clumps of shadow.
Its gold leaf, held by a very black pedicel, stands unmoved in the hollow of a slender alabaster column.
Seedy moths prefer to attack it instead of the out of reach moon, which atomizes forests. But instantly burnt out or done in by the struggle, they all quiver on the verge of a frenzy close to stupor.
Meanwhile, abruptly dispersing its smoky origins, the candlelight flickering on the book encourages the reader - then bending over its plate, it drowns in its own nutrients.
"— Francis Ponge, The Candle (via the-sinking-spell)
The Object is Poetics
by Francis Ponge
The relationship between man and object is not at all limited to possession or use. No, that would be too simple. It’s much worse.
Objects are outside the soul, of course; and yet, they are also ballast in our heads.
The relationship is thus in the…
(Source: geracer, via xlvintheyouthx)
True love waits.
(Source: anotherbrokencompass, via nathanandi)
