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Some Dull Opiate

@lowercasename-blog / lowercasename-blog.tumblr.com

Raphael Kabo. I am a slam poet and a writer. poetry & prose tumblr | homepage | poem a week project things tagged: #writing | #books | #poetry | #linguistics
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We've uploaded a PDF version of Australian Gothic (An Anthology of Locative Horrors), free for everyone, and that means you, yes you, fear us, flee from us in the night, we will hunt you down and we will tell you stories and we will fill your skull with dry gumtree leaves and the clumps of damp fur you find in your garage in the mornings. Where is that fur from? Is it from the possums? You hope it's from the possums.

Download here! http://pilcrow.press/files/Australian-Gothic-web.pdf

#australian gothic#ausgoth#locative gothic
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wehaveallgotknives

sometimes i picture myself doing serious interviews about my """comedy process""""" in like a yoko ono turtle neck and big dark glasses

the interviewer: why do all your jokes centre around anger or sadness?
me, staring inscrutably past the interviewer's shoulder: what else is there?
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ironedorchid
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archive95205-blog

today at work i let someone into a dressing room and they said “thanks” and half of me tried to say “you’re welcome” and the other half tried to say “no problem” and i ended up saying “your problem”

this post had me in tears

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ghost-plot

I was hoping the notes would be full of similar stories, but they’re not, so I’ll add my story for anyone else looking for more laughs:

I had to go to a library to pay a fee and I was practicing in the car between “I have to pay a fine” and “I have to pay a fee” and I walked in and firmly stated “I have to pee” and slapped a five dollar bill on the counter (the fee was like ten cents), and walked out. This was like three years ago and I still haven’t been back,

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greatestgoth

My friend was driving and we were almost past our turnoff so I tried to say “quick” and “fast” at the same time and I ended up screaming “QUACK” which ended up with him judging me very hard and missing the turn

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soldieronbarnes

Recently someone in class asked me how I was doing and I started off saying I was good but switched to I’m okay in the middle and ended up saying “I’m gay.”

Which, while kind of accurate, was not what I meant to announce to my classmate.

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spankyhole

This Halloween I was handing out candy and a child said “trick or treat” and I smiled gave them their candy and apparently my mouth betrayed me and I said “Merry Christmas” and proceeded to sit down and look up to the sky for answers while their mother laughed at me :)))))

I was switching between “Bye Deanna” and “Goodbye” and I ended up saying “Go Die”

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stellaathena

Sometimes I try to say “I fucking love you” but it comes out in the wrong order and then everyone’s uncomfortable.

When I first started my coffee shop job, I was still getting used to greeting customers as they came in the door. A man walked in, and in the jumble of trying to say, “How are you doing?” and “What’s up?” I ended up demanding “What are you doing here?!”

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ledamemangociana

something really cool happened once at the office and i started to say “i’m so amazed” but halfway through my mind changed to “that’s really amazing” and i just ended up saying “i’m really so amazing”

one time i was out in the woods in the spring when the birds were just beginning to come out again and i went to say “i’m so pumped for the birds” and “i’m so hyped for the birds” and instead i said “i’m so humped for birds”

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xphile101

I worked at a convenience store and a guy came in and bought condoms. Without even thinking I said my usual “Have a good night!” as he left.

#I see this so often and it's still hilarious
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reblogged
ironedorchid
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witch-of-habonim-dror-blog

Victorian Gothic Gothic

  • Your mother died giving birth to you. Every woman dies in childbirth. If you have younger siblings, do not question how they got there. Truly, you do not want to know.
  • You have no ears, but delicate pink shells. Your teeth are pearls. Instead of hands you have small white paws. You are beautiful, and terrifying.
  • A handsome stranger has awakened something deep within your breast. You do not know what it is, but it is awake, and it is aware.
  • People keep dying of consumption. You cannot say as yet who is doing the consuming.
  • There is mist on the moor. There is always mist on the moor. Seasons have no meaning here.
  • Everyone outside of very specific parts of England is evil. This must be true. It must be, and that’s why you should never, ever leave. Ever.
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lowercasename-blog

IT’S BACK

#australian gothic#victorian gothic#locative gothic
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neil-gaiman

There aren’t a lot of photographs of me aged 23 as a starving young journalist in London. But I just noticed that I had this in the office here, and scanned it from my British Library Reading Room card (they would cut the old card in half when they gave you a new card and give you the photo back).

I was not even wearing black yet. Even the leather jacket was grey.

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neil-gaiman

Putting this up on Twitter, so I thought I’d reblog it here too. So long ago.

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vbartilucci

How is this not your new avatar on every social media platform?

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neil-gaiman

Because the expression of disappointment when people looked at me, and saw the strange, crinkledy unmade bed of a face that another thirty two years of living has given me, would be too hard to bear.

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msflamingo

Peter Freuchen and his second wife Dagmar Freuchen-Gale, in a photo taken by Irving Penn in 1947. Freuchen is a top candidate for the Most Interesting Man in the World. Standing six feet seven inches, Freuchen was an arctic explorer, journalist, author, and anthropologist. He participated in several arctic journeys (including a 1000-mile dogsled trip across Greenland), starred in an Oscar-winning film, wrote more than a dozen books (novels and nonfiction, including his Famous Book of the Eskimos), had a peg leg (he lost his leg to frostbite in 1926; he amputated his gangrenous toes himself), was involved in the Danish resistance against Germany, was imprisoned and sentenced to death by the Nazis before escaping to Sweden, studied to be a doctor at university, his first wife was Inuit and his second was a Danish margarine heiress, became friends with Jean Harlow and Mae West, once escaped from a blizzard shelter by cutting his way out of it with a knife fashioned from his own feces, and, last but certainly not least, won $64,000 on The $64,000 Question.

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neil-gaiman

Just when you start thinking you’ve had a Real Life, you read something like this and… nope. Not even started.

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lowercasename-blog

It’s all fun and games until you make a knife from your own feces

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addisme

i aspire to be appreciated the way the cocteau twins are. no one ever understands what im saying but they still think im obscure and innovative

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Why city? Because it is contested space. Because it is used at the same time by many people, sectors, factions, groups whose interests do not by any means coincide. Because it layers commerce, manufacture, leisure, the political sphere - because it demands negotiation, compromise, cooperation, conflict, agreement in order to function, in order to move. Because if you look for even a moment at those things, you see the ripples out to the bigger questions of our time - the relationship between local and global, between cultures nested in and around each other. Because the city is a model of dynamic relativism, a space where everything means more than one thing - a nondescript doorway, invisible for some, is for others a gate to a magical garden, a place of work, worship or otherwise.

Tim Etchells, Theatre & The City

#cities#city#space#urbanism#spatiality
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tender-ritualism
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yesyes
Cities are smells: Acre is the smell of iodine and spices. Haifa is the smell of pine and wrinkled sheets. Moscow is the smell of vodka on ice. Cairo is the smell of mango and ginger. Beirut is the smell of the sun, sea, smoke, and lemons. Paris is the smell of fresh bread, cheese, and derivations of enchantment. Damascus is the smell of jasmine and dried fruit. Tunis is the smell of night musk and salt. Rabat is the smell of henna, incense and honey. A city that cannot be known by its smell is unreliable. Exiles have a shared smell: the smell of longing for something else; a smell that remembers another smell. A painting, nostalgic that guides you, like a worn tourist map, to the smell of the original place. A smell is a memory and a setting sun. Sunset, here, is beauty rebuking the stranger. But to love the sunset is not, as they say, one of the attributes of exile.

Mahmoud Darwish, In the Presence of Absence (via gvmini-child)

#cities
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Here is a scene in a theatre, for example. We have to understand the emotions of a young man for a lady in a box below. With an abundance of images and comparisons we are made to appreciate the forms, the colours, the very fibre and texture of the plush seats and the ladies' dresses and the dullness or glow, sparkle or colour, of the light. At the same time that our senses drink in all this our minds are tunnelling logically and intellectually into the obscurity of the young man's emotions, which as they ramify and modulate and stretch further and further, at last penetrate too far, peter out into such a shred of meaning that we can scarcely follow any more, were it not that suddenly in flash after flash, metaphor after metaphor, the eye lights up that cave of darkness and we are shown the hard tangible material shapes of bodiless thoughts hanging like bats in the primeval darkness where light has never visited them before.

Virginia Woolf, Pictures (1925)

#virginia woolf#woolf#sight#writing
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