oldlovecassette

[oldlovecassette]

the notion of ‘history repeating itself’ feels inarticulate at best, noxious at worst. the way its used implies that these events mirroring each other is irony (or even coincidence), or that we fuck up, we learn better, we forget, then we redo. but it’s not a question of memory loss, it’s the inheritance of evil and its consequences by the next generation

[oldlovecassette]

Columbia student flashes the peace sign after being beaten by riot police at an antiwar demonstration, April 1968

via reddit

[oldlovecassette]

Jonathan Wells, “April Morning”

[oldlovecassette]

I want to be the sunlight of thе century. I want to be a vestige of our senses free.

[oldlovecassette]

Editorial office of the Hungarian Telegraph Office, Budapest, 1981. From the Budapest Municipal Photography Company archive.

[oldlovecassette]

Silvana Venturelli in The Lickerish Quartet (1970)

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Sheila Heti interviewing Caren Beilin 

“How Do We Stop Repeating Ourselves?: A Conversation with Caren Beilin” | The Paris Review

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[oldlovecassette]

Wish I was a late bronze age girl

I would have my homeland invaded by the sea peoples. I would be lain siege to by the sea peoples. My cities would be sacked by the sea peoples. I would make bronze tools and pottery. My shores would be invaded by the mysterious sea peoples. I would be mustering my armies to fend off the sea peoples.

[oldlovecassette]

“It seemed the older he grew — and he had grown old — the more he understood that he could not understand this confusing contest between good and evil, and that maybe people were not meant to understand things here on earth.”

— Elizabeth Strout, Anything is Possible

[oldlovecassette]

Shoppers on the King’s Road, Chelsea, London, circa 1968. Photo by Michael Putland

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Geneviève Claisse, Spiral H1, 1970, Silkscreen, 68 x 68 cm.

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Cher, 1966.

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“Never again shall I understand anything I say. Since how could I speak without the word lying for me? How could I speak except timidly like this: life just is for me. Life just is for me, and I don’t understand what I’m saying. And so I adore it.”

— Clarice Lispector, The Passion According to G.H.

[oldlovecassette]

reading the april last.fm collage like tea leaves

#dubious vibes #💿

[oldlovecassette]

There was a night when my view of the whole world changed with a crack of an eggshell I lay my head to rest in the hands of pretty orange peeler, she said “Baby don’t be so down on yourself at least not tonight, please.” “Baby don’t be so down on yourself.”

[oldlovecassette]

Delmore Schwartz by Stanley Moss, 1967

He heard God coughing in the next apartment, his life a hospital, he moved from bed to bed with us and Baudelaire, except he always had Finnegans Wake tucked in his pajamas, which must mean, sure as chance, the human race is God’s phlegm. Penitent, I say a prayer in God’s throat: “Mister, whose larynx we congest, spit us into the Atlantic or Hudson… let us be dropped into the mouth of the first fish that survived by eating its young— drink hot tea and honey Your mother brings You till You are rid of Your catarrh, well again. Let us swim back to our handiwork.”

Far from the world of Howth Castle, Delmore died in a bed-bugged hotel, unclaimed for three days. A week before, by chance, I saw him at a drugstore counter, doubled over a coffee, he moaned, “Faithful are the wounds of a friend, deceitful enemy kisses.” He held my hand too tight, too long. Melancholy Eros flew to my shoulder, spoke in Greek, Yiddish, and English: “Wear his sandals, his dirty underwear, his coat of many colors that did not keep him warm.”

[oldlovecassette]

PAUL McCARTNEY constantly touching his hair in THE BEATLES: GET BACK

#get out of my school