Today I finished my McKirk story 'You don't know', counting 75 word pages (times new roman, 11pt), 22 chapters, 46520 words! Yay! I'm quite satisfied with the outcome although there might be someone who doesn't enjoy the story. But, and this is just awesome, there was one reader who wrote feedback to every single chapter! <3 This simply made my day. There will be a follow-up. :D

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"It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to your enemies but a great deal more to stand up to your friends, I award ten points to Mr Neville Longbottom".

- Professor Dumbledore.

"That Sunday, I was faced by a philosophical dilemma: I had chosen to respect the institution rather than the words on which that institution was based.

I'm getting old now, and God could take me at any time. I've remained faithful to my religion and believe that, for all its errors, it really is trying to put things right. This will take decades, possibly centuries, but one day, all that will matter is love and Christ's words: 'Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.' I've devoted my entire life to the priesthood and I don't regret my decision for one second. However, there are times, like that Sunday, when, although I didn't doubt my faith, I did doubt men.

I know now what happened to Athena, and I wonder: Did it all start there, or was it already in her soul? I think of the many Athenas and Lukases in the world who are divorced and because of that can no longer receive the sacrament of the Eucharist; all they can do is contemplate the suffering, crucified Christ and listen to his words, words that are not always in accord with the laws of the Vatican.

[...]

I like to imagine that, when she left the church, Athena met Jesus. Weeping and confused, she would have thrown herself into his arms, asking him to explain why she was being excluded just because of a piece of paper she'd signed, something of no importance on the spiritual plane, and which was of interest only to registry offices and the tax man.

And, looking at Athena, Jesus might have replied:

'My child, I've been excluded too. It's a very long time since they've allowed me in there.'"


Paulo Coehlo, The Witch of Portobello

"For every evil there are two remedies: time and silence."

Freja Beha in Twin fall 2009, Stand and Deliver.

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Anja Rubik in Vogue Paris November 2009, Peintures de Guerre.

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That was when I cut my arms with a razor blade as a means of creative expression. I only did it lightly, just grazing the skin, to see the way the blood would bleed out, to make myself look tougher. Not like some of those kids who keep going deeper and deeper, wondering what they look like down to the bone, because it's a world that's so close and yet so far and so dangerous and so much their own. The only world that is their own.

Happy Thanksgiving. A toast:

Let us toast to animal pleasures, to escapism, to rain on the roof and instant coffee, to unemployment insurance and library cards, to absinthe and good-hearted landlords, to music and warm bodies and contraceptives... and to the "good life", whatever it is and wherever it happens to be.

-Hunter S. Thompson, The Proud Highway

Do you fear to be my wife, do you fear the prose? Do you not know that I own the magic staff that beats water out of the cliff - that I can take the poetry out of the dirt if need be. I will mill a coffeegrinder and make it sound like music - I will go to the market and buy potatoes and put a flower on top - I will dress up a table as van Huysum would of painted a still life and oh what I will work - and then - then I will have the composure to in my worried restless - re-read all my letters - do you not hear how it trembles for love to you, my queen.
("Han och Hon" - Correspondence between Strindberg och Siri von Essen 1875-76)

Background on the poem 'Childe Roland To The Dark Tower Came' by Robert Browning:
Roland sets off on a journey to a dark tower, but the poem ends when he reaches the tower, with the poet choosing not to explain what happens after that.



"I can recall being slightly frustrated by the ending of the poem. While I understood the logic behind it, or at least I could justify it by my understanding that the terror to be faced in the tower is individual to each of us, or represents something far deeper than can be expressed in animate form, I had been raised on stories that were not so open-ended. Now I realize that it hardly matters what may lie in the tower. What matters is that Roland is prepared to confront it. We all, in our way, have such a fear to face. Perhaps, in the end, the great terror at the base of the tower will be our own mortality."

'Tell me something, please,' said David.
'Whatever you wish to know,' said the Woodsman.
'You gave me clothing when I came here, the clothes of a boy. Did you ever have children?'
The Woodsman smiled.
'They were all my children,' he said. 'Every one that was lost, every one that was found, every one that lived, and every one that died: all, all were mine, in their way.'

Insanity comes in two basic varieties: slow and fast.

I'm not talking about onset or duration. I mean the quality of the insanity, the day-to-day business of being nuts.

There are a lot of names: depression, catatonia, mania, anxiety, agitation. They don't tell you much.

The predominant quality of the slow form is viscosity.

Experience is thick. Perceptions are thickened and dulled. Time is slow, dripping slowly through the clogged filter of thickened perception. The body temperature is low. The pulse is sluggish. The immune system is half-asleep. The organism is torpid and brackish. Even the reflexes are diminished, as if the lower leg couldn't be bothered to jerk itself out of its stupor when the knee is tapped.

Viscosity occurs on a cellular level. And so does velocity.

Lara Stone in iD December 2009, They Love Happily Ever After.

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"I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be."

"The air of inaccessibility which her beauty and her manner gave her, tormented me in the midst of my delight."

The woman is perfected.
Her dead
Body wears the smile of accomplishment.

Dearest, I feel certain I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier till this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that - everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer.

I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been.

V.

"It was not the first time I'd fallen. It wasn't even the first time I'd faded, slipped, and fallen, not the first time I felt my vision blur and dim. But before there had always been a few things to warn me: the knees buckle, the center of gravity dissolves and the arms feels like they've begun to float, the ears ring, the eyelids flutter. It's just like the movies. I could always see myself falling, I'd always known. This time it just went black."

"Bulimia is linked, in my life, to periods of intense passion, passion of all kinds, but most specifically emotional passion. Bulimia acknowledges the body explicitly, violently. It attacks the body, but it does not deny. It is an act of disgust and of need. This disgust and this need are about both the body and the emotions. The bulimic finds herself in excess, too emotional, too passionate. This sense of excess is pinned to the body. The body bears the blame but is not the primary problem. There is a sense of hopelessness in the bulimic, a well-fuck-it-all-then, I might as well binge."

As promised, here is Part 2.

The Incroyables and Merveilleuses are my favorites, gosh I tell ya. What they wore was once a political statement, but then they gave up on making statements, and that was a statement. Or some such.


stoorree