we both had dirty faces.

“You’d think that heaven just fell on the earth in the form of gardenias.”

(Source: cricketwashburn)

(via why-tech)

rockin’ and a rollin’

(Source: katvondevious)

cavemangenius:

sourrevenge:

In the desert

I saw a creature, naked, bestial,

Who, squatting upon the ground,

Held his heart in his hands,

And ate of it.

I said, “Is it good, friend?”

“It is bitter—bitter,” he answered;

“But I like it

“Because it is bitter,

“And because it is my heart.”

Stephen Crane

Tracking the progression of the days is apparently unreasonable to me. It’s such a simple process, but I just can’t seem to wrap my head around the routine. Once again it’s Saturday, and I’m wearing a green turtleneck. In my pre-depature logic, I somehow decided that turtlenecks were all I would need to wear in Scotland. I have four- white, grey, green, and black. Feels like I am trying to make a statement, but other than ‘I am a troll’ I’m not quite sure what my limiting wardrobe says about me. Probably that I need to top it all off with a beret, and quit dinking around. 

This week, in addition to trying to get through the few essays due next week that exist to remind me that yes, I am in college right now, I’ve been partaking in local culture. An assuming statement to make, but there’s no other way to categorize it. First was the stop at one of the pubs in town, The Settle Inn, to listen to a band comprising of older Scottish characters. The room they played in was small, intimate, and felt like a warm, hollowed out cave. The roof gave the impression of rough rock, golden light emanated from the corners, casting light on the musicians, sweaty with their dedication. Watching from the outskirts, next to one of the gaudy, flashing gambling machines that seems a staple to every pub, I smiled like a lunatic, trying to grasp on to one of the running threads of their community. 

At one point, one of the old men rose to tell a story. His voice rattled out the learned, cheeky lines to the delight of the crowd, and paused to single out one or two of the people who laughed particularly loud. Beers went by by the stein, the foam precariously grazing the top but never quite slopping over. There were fiddles and flutes and at one point a man emerged to play the bagpipe. Apparently he had been practicing in the bathroom beforehand, but from what I could tell, the practice paid off. I find myself wondering how difficult it is to play the bagpipe. Do you just pick it up and go, or is there somewhere you can take lessons like piano? For some reason, the idea that there is a class of kids somewhere near, bagpipes on their knees, waiting for instruction makes me really feel that there are a few things in this world that are right.

Last night, I attended a ceilidh, hosted by the International Society. It made me as aware of my lack of coordination (again), but it was definitely what I would call a good time. The traditional dances the three kilted musicians tried to teach us ranged in origin, and one of my favorites was one that combined a Russian kick with Italian moves. I could dance like that until I die. More, and hopefully better, to come. 

Fizzling, slinking through the dark.

A slow slurping, it canters on viscous shoulders, 

no arms.

Lights out in the tunnel.

Only one, flickers

bright yellow,

buzzing in and out of consciousness.

The rays catch graffitti, catch 

its mottled, reeking skin

The wheezing, crippled advance

Slow, steady

Blind.

Scotland. I’ve been here for roughly one month and successfully posted not one entry about it. Despicable? Yes. Definitely. There is so much to catch up on that I don’t know where to begin, but in the spirit of the burst of radical, inhuman energy that I was given to wake up with this morning, I feel I owe it to post something. 

It’s Saturday morning, and peering through the faded blue blinds of my room in the residence hall ( just beyond the spiderwebs that remain one of the sole decorations ) clouds loom over blackened, twisted limbs of trees that grow browner as light struggles through the mist. Their trunks wind into the soil where they meet decadent spatterings of bushes and an expanse of grass, richly emerald in shade. Allusions to the Emerald City are silently made, but kept well in place, just behind the tongue. A few joggers are out, striking the damp pavement with their sneakers ( here they are called trainers ). Motivation is as easily won as cracking open the window to inhale a gust of fresh air. I think that’s one of the points I’ll always remember about arriving to Scotland- as soon as I stepped through the automatic sliding doors of Glasgow International Airport and drew in that first breath I knew I was somewhere new. 

I would like to say that part of the reason I think it has taken me this long to write is that I feel like it’s all been said before. But regardless of how boring, trivial or stale I sound, this is me sucking up, crumpling up the disillusioned naysayer and flinging it decisively in the trash. I am 21 years old and this is my first true experience abroad. I am in Scotland to study at Stirling University from February until June, and I honestly don’t think I could be in a better place. Gone is the bitter cracker of monotony that had lodged in my throat in the in-between period of downtime that I had before getting on the flight out of Los Angeles, the pollution-wracked city that sat north of my hometown San Diego, California by only a few hours. 

If there is one resolution I can say that I have been able to firmly stick to in life, it’s not to take one second of this experience for granted. I want to enjoy life, dance in it like the hot waves of a melodious sun and immerse myself in the pliant possibilities of Scotland. 

My new resolution? To write. Poorly, frequent, inspired, uninspired. Often. 

Jon Hamm on the set of Mad Men 12/20/11

(via rufustfirefly)

(Source: accidentaltheme)