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The Narrow Corner

What doesn't kill you mutates and tries again.

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Showing posts from January, 2024

Monday, January 29, 2024

DAY 595 | Yatai — 屋台

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Sunday, January 28, 2024

DAY 594 | 34°F

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Wednesday, January 24, 2024

DAY 593.1 | Austerlitz, by Ridley Scott

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Wednesday, January 24, 2024

DAY 593 | 3 RIDICULOUSLY DELICIOUS HOT DOG RECIPES

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Sunday, January 21, 2024

DAY 592.1 | ¡Hasta la próxima, Montréal!

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Sunday, January 21, 2024

DAY 592 | TOUT

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Friday, January 19, 2024

DAY 591 | Federico

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Thursday, January 18, 2024

DAY 590 | Welcome Gesture

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Wednesday, January 17, 2024

DAY 589.1 | “Beautiful face. Beautiful body. Horrible attitude. It was the holy trinity of hot boys.”

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Wednesday, January 17, 2024

DAY 589 | Quand le ciel bas et lourd pèse comme un couvercle

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Tuesday, January 16, 2024

DAY 588 | All Creatures

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Monday, January 15, 2024

DAY 587.1 | 2 Janvier

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Monday, January 15, 2024

DAY 587 | Miguel

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Sunday, January 14, 2024

DAY 586 | Burdens

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Saturday, January 13, 2024

DAY 585 | And you'll see who — just who you are

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Friday, January 12, 2024

DAY 584 | Le local est vide, le bail à céder

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Thursday, January 04, 2024

DAY 583 | Lamp in the window

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Wednesday, January 03, 2024

DAY 582.1 | It depends on the context

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Wednesday, January 03, 2024

DAY 582 | SUB

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Tuesday, January 02, 2024

DAY 581 | Change

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Monday, January 01, 2024

DAY 580.1 | 2024 reel

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Monday, January 01, 2024

DAY 581 | 2024

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Die meisten Menschen brauchen mehr Liebe, als sie verdienen.

The Narrow Corner: Ein Nichts waren wir, sind wir,
werden wir bleiben, blühend:
die Nichts- die Niemandsrose.

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We all like to think...

"We all like to think that we have some control over the events in our lives, and a lot of the time we can fool ourselves into thinking that we really are in charge. But then something happens to remind us that the world runs by its own rules and not ours and that we're just along for the ride."

— Allie Keys

I've got to tell you...

I've got to tell you how I love you always I think of it on grey mornings with death

in my mouth the tea is never hot enough then and the cigarette dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you and look out the window at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock the buses glow like clouds and I am lonely thinking of flutes

I miss you always when I go to the beach the sand is wet with tears that seem mine

although I never weep and hold you in my heart with a very real humor you'd be proud of

the parking lot is crowded and I stand rattling my keys the car is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now where did you eat your lunch and were there lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think of you without me in the sentence you depress me when you are alone

Last night the stars were numerous and today snow is their calling card I'll not be cordial

there is nothing that distracts me music is only a crossword puzzle do you know how it is

when you are the only passenger if there is a place further from me I beg you do not go

― Frank O'Hara, Lunch Poems

Los pensamientos que nos enloquecen...

Los pensamientos que nos enloquecen con la peor de las locuras siempre llegan poco a poco y como sin sentir, como sin sentir invade la niebla los campos, o la tisis los pechos. Avanza, fatal, incansable, pero lenta, despaciosa, regular como el pulso.

― Camilo José Cela, La familia de Pascual Duarte

A man...

A man was the cause of it. An unarmed man with a weapon.

― Frank O'Hara, Lunch Poems

Followers

You know in cartoons...

"You know in cartoons, the way someone can run off a cliff and they're fine, they don't fall until they look down? That's the secret of life. Never look down. But it's more than that. It's not just about not looking. It's about not ever realizing that you're in the middle of the air and you don't know how to fly."

— Allie Keys

Cabine

"Rappelez-moi d'une cabine qui fonctionne !"

- Thérèse, Le Père Noël est une ordure

Ya sé que le gustan...

No. Ya sé que le gustan cuerpos recientes, jóvenes, que le resisten bien y no se rinden pronto. Busca carnes rosadas, dientes firmes, ardientes ojos que aún no recuerdan. Los quiere más. Así su estrago no se confundirá con el quemar del tiempo, arruinando los rostros y los torsos derechos. Su placer es abrir la arruga en la piel fresca, romper los puros vidrios de los ojos intactos con la lágrima cálida. Doblar la derechura de los cuerpos perfectos, de modo que ya sea más difícil mirar al cielo desde ellos. Sus días sin victoria son esos en que quiebra no más que cuerpos viejos en donde el tiempo ya tiene matado mucho. Su gran triunfo, su júbilo tiene color de selva: es la sorpresa, es tronchar la plena flor, las voces en la cima del cántico, los altos mediodías del alma.

— Pedro Salinas, El dolor

Yo, señor...

Yo, señor, no soy malo, aunque no me faltarían motivos para serlo. Los mismos cueros tenemos todos los mortales al nacer y sin embargo, cuando vamos creciendo, el destino se complace en variarnos como si fuésemos de cera y en destinarnos por sendas diferentes al mismo fin: la muerte. Hay hombres a quienes se les ordena marchar por el camino de las flores, y hombres a quienes se les manda tirar por el camino de los cardos y de las chumberas. Aquellos gozan de un mirar sereno y al aroma de su felicidad sonríen con la cara del inocente; estos otros sufren del sol violento de la llanura y arrugan el ceño como las alimañas por defenderse. Hay mucha diferencia entre adornarse las carnes con arrebol y colonia, y hacerlo con tatuajes que después nadie ha de borrar ya.

— Camilo Jose Cela, La familia de Pascual Duarte

Tarie la source

nul voyage au débouché
de la nuit
aumône refusée
mon amour décomposé
n'aura duré qu'une saison
même pas
quelques jours enfermés
dans le ciel de ses yeux
l'amour n'aura duré
que le temps d'inscrire
sur la paroi du silence
un nom déjà fané
à quoi bon continuer
rien n'avance
rien ne change
la multitude du désespoir
campe sous mes paupières
encore une fois j'ai échoué
distrait par le froid et les larmes
encore une fois
j'ai fait entendre ma voix
dans le galop de la détresse
et rien ne bouge
rien ne s'illumine
la fête est finie
tarie la source
l'heure est venue de disparaître
à jamais
toujours vaincu
solidaire des désastres
et des écroulements
il est temps d'interrompre
le vol silencieux du sang
dans mes veines
il est temps
de joindre l'ombre et la glace
de s'enfoncer sans hésiter
dans le dédale de l'oubli

— Francis Giauque, Tarie la source

There is no such thing as 'toxic masculinity'

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