1. The Road Not Taken

    The first week of my freshman year of high school our first english assignment was to memorize this poem. Mrs. Bathke, our teacher, would have us each stand and recite it for everyone at the start of class.

    She told us, that it would be a funny thing, that years from now we would be sitting somewhere and know every word to The Road Not Taken.

    We probably did something teen-age like rolling our eyes or scoffing while returning to writing a note to pass.

    I’m now twenty-nine and fifteen years later I still can recite this poem on command.

    Thank you, Mrs. Bathke.


  2. "

    Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
    And sorry I could not travel both
    And be one traveler, long I stood
    And looked down one as far as I could
    To where it bent in the undergrowth;

    Then took the other, as just as fair,
    And having perhaps the better claim
    Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
    Though as for that the passing there
    Had worn them really about the same,

    And both that morning equally lay
    In leaves no step had trodden black.
    Oh, I kept the first for another day!
    Yet knowing how way leads on to way
    I doubted if I should ever come back.

    I shall be telling this with a sigh
    Somewhere ages and ages hence:
    Two roads diverged in a wood, and I,
    I took the one less traveled by,
    And that has made all the difference.

    — Robert Frost, The Road Not Taken (via whyallcaps)

    (via whyallcaps)


  4. "You realize yourself when you start reflecting—because I don’t live in the past, although your past is so much a part of what you are—that you can’t ignore it." 

    - Lauren Bacall 


  6. "

    They don’t make it.

    The beautiful die in flame—
    sucide pills, rat poison, rope

    The beautiful are found in the edge of a room
    crumpled into spiders and needles and silence
    and we can never understand why they
    left, they were so

    They don’t make it.

    The beautiful die young
    and leave the ugly to their ugly lives.

    — Charles Bukowski, from What’s The Use Of A Title?  (via violentwavesofemotion)

    (via whyallcaps)

  7. An 1887 handwritten draft of Whitman’s 1865 poem “O Captain! My Captain!

    (Source: mitchellgoldstein, via nickelcobalt)

  9. S E R I E S - 1 - 4 August 2014

    Brooklyn Botanical Gardens 

    Locanda Vini and Olii 

    Bed before 10pm 

  10. S E R I E S - 1

    I’m very scared to start any sort of project because I’m terribly afraid I’ll disappoint myself.


  11. matthewcandela:

    Red House Painters -Michigan

    I see through your thin cotton dress
    I don’t know if we’ll get dressed
    So pull by that store parking lot
    You know I’ve missed your lots

    I don’t need a house in Lake Michigan
    I don’t need a purpose to plan within
    I just want to feel your pulse again

    Down town the exits just around
    Can’t you smell our future good and well?
    I’ll take you upstairs show you my bed and things
    Share all my thoughts and cares

    Here is my heart here is my soul
    You pushed me past my lonely door

    They’re all true
    All the good things you say
    Will they all pass
    Quiet like the clouds today?

    They’ll be there in your pretty dreams
    All full of color and sense of things

  12. nevver:




  14. sissy-boy-slap-party:

    Cutie and the Boxer (Zachary Heinzerling, 2013)

    (Source: brand-upon-the-brain, via 1000reasonsnottostartmakingart)

  15. deadmethods:

    JT, 2009

    He and I, we had these handcuff keys that he stole from a house party somewhere in the hollywood hills. I had mine on a green silk and brass chain and he wore his on a silver one. 

    He was so frequently the true silver to my burnished brassiness that Summer. 

    We lived together in a small apartment off of Sunset Boulevard, we didn’t have furniture, just these inflatable camping mattresses, the stuff we crammed in our suitcases and a huge dusty remnant roll of carpet left behind in a closet. 

    One night I came home and he had fashioned a sort-of couch out of that scratchy stuff and we lounged on it and drank too much and laughed and went out dancing. 

    We were always dancing. It was just heady movement and solid feet and tripping steps everywhere we went. We tapped our toes and shimmied our hips and pretended like it was always going to be everything bathed in that light and that heat and that soft just-brushed-feeling air of Los Angeles. 

    We drank instant coffee from glass jars and didn’t eat a lot. We bought heavy bottles of alcohol and laughed like mad when one broke on the street and our precious money seeped into the gutter, shimmering in the streetlights. We pooled what we had left and bought something cheap and easy and kept on dancing. 

    He spun me into a breathless wonder and we loved that angry sideways city. It was Our Summer, no one else could have it. It was Los Angeles, our hands entwined and handcuff keys around our necks.