raskolnikovian

Heaven Gaia Spring 2020

Russian dachas by Fyodor Savintsev

veitnamese farmers harvest water chestnuts in fields of blowing waves of grass (x)

Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

Gustave Doré illustrations.

Did it matter, then, she asked herself, walking toward Bond Street. Did it matter that she must inevitably cease, completely. All this must go on without her. Did she resent it? Or did it not become consoling to believe that death ended absolutely? It is possible to die. It is possible to die. 

𝙵𝚢𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚛 𝙳𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚟𝚜𝚔𝚢, 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝙺𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚘𝚟 (𝟷𝟾𝟾𝟶)

PARASITE (2019) dir. Bong Joon Ho.

Velimir Khlebnikov, from The Collected Poems & Writings of V. K. “My Darling,”

Alexander Blok, from The Selected Poems of Alexander Blok; “I Leave the Tiresome Noise and Clamor,”

St. Petersburg, Russia

go to florence. look in the eyes of michelangelo’s david, chiseled in stone but softer than rosemary. they say he wore a crown of gold once before it was taken from his head. he is planted in stone but his eyes are too human for your liking; they beg you, put it back.

the antinous mondragone, the marble smooth and cold like winter ink. you remember it was unpacked with lipstick marks on its cheek; someone at the louvre with lips smeared cherry red had made herself hadrian and kissed it. you remember thinking, who could blame her?

sappho and erinna in the garden at mytilene, captured by simeon solomon. it’s been a while since you’ve cried at a painting. you’ve gone to museums armed with ways to analyze what you’re seeing; you know what clouds are saying, you know the language of flowers. but you looked at the painting of those two women clouded in their embrace and didn’t even realize you were crying until you looked at your notes in your lap and the pen was smudged with tears.

the universality of love. it hasn’t changed: two boys swathed in light, two girls in a garden teeming with flowers, a gaze from across a room. in the statues and paintings we are captured in our gentle, tender humanity, in the places where we think no one is looking, where we are allowed to feel vulnerable. where we are finally able to say, look, this is me, this is you, this is everything that love should be. i want to make you feel it.

when kafka said "all the love in the world is useless when there is total lack of understanding" and when richard siken said “if you love me, you don’t love me in a way I understand.”

anne carson

when anaïs nin said “i dont want worship. i want understanding”

Poster for my college’s upcoming production of Hamlet! :^)