Sometimes having friends is fucking hard. This is one of those times.
“I still endorse Peter Schjeldahl’s advice on how to become an artist: ‘You move to a city. You hang out in bars. You form a gang, turn it into a scene, and turn that into a movement.’ Then, I would suggest, when your movement hits the museum, abandon it.”
—
Dave Hickey, Air Guitar (via markrichardson)
such a great book
(via desnoise)
(via likeapairofbottlerockets)
Members of the Black Harlem Motorcycle Club, 1959.
Elvis Presley and Nancy Sinatra in ‘Speedway’, 1968.
“Everything is more beautiful because we are doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now. We will never be here again.”
— Homer, The Iliad (via lobalita)
(Source: itsfromabook, via heatherface)
The other day at a barbecue someone asked me, “So what do you do for fun?” I’ve always hated this question. It used to be because the things I did for fun were not the things the people asking this question did for fun. I remember once when I was seventeen, before I had met people who were into books and writing, a guy asked me this question on a date, and when I told him I liked reading and writing he looked at me like I was the most boring person on the planet. “So you’re not into sports?” “Uhhhh, no.” I never saw him again. Now when people ask me this question, I hate it because I don’t know what to say. I still read everyday, but I can’t really call it a hobby or anything, I haven’t finished a book in months. And I still write, but I don’t dare call myself a writer. Most of my down time is spent doing mindless shit, watching TV shows I don’t even like, INTERNETING, it’s kind of embarrassing. So anyway, someone asked me this question the other day, and I couldn’t think of what to say, so I said, “Nothing. I don’t have fun.” It’s sort of true, but hearing myself say it out loud made me cringe. Then my friend A answered for me, “RC’s a writer, she likes to write, that’s her thing.” I think I said something along the lines of “I don’t really think of it has fun though,” But the truth is, I’m embarrassed to say that I write, because it doesn’t feel consistent or real. How can I call myself a writer when all I have is a couple dozen notebooks and word documents filled with half-written stories and poems? I wish I could answer that question with a much certainty as she did. I wish I could confidently call myself a writer, or even tell someone that it’s something I like to do. I wish I could answer that stupid fucking question.
“Sometimes, you have to step outside of the person you’ve been and remember the person you were meant to be. The person you want to be. The person you are.”
— H.G. Wells (via litvanilla)
(Source: larmoyante, via mybestdeceptions)
“There is no nobility in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility lies in being superior to your former self.”
— Ernest Hemingway (via autopsicution)
(via farrahtales)
