SEPTEMBER (some fragmented thoughts)

The sentences and phrases that are endlessly assembling themselves in my head are nothing more than the same contrived trite expressions and metaphors and phrases repeated and repeated and repeated over and over and over. The words I dare to put on paper never assume life; I read them and where I thought I had left thoughts I find only vague pathetic aphorisms and empty, pretty, meaningless contradictions.

It’s amazing that all the world of English literature is composed of the same twenty-six humble little letters, but lately I’ve been wondering whether those few characters can really be arranged into something new, unique, original. My words may be mine but they aren’t me, and in a time when a college will receive tens of thousands of applicants and accept a single-digit percentage of those, it’s hard to believe that there’s some permutation of those letters for me.

It is the fourth week of September and I wander the ten minutes between third and fourth period, a hollow shell wondering whether I still dream, unsure of whether I want to be awake or asleep. I may have entered these halls again a month ago with cautious optimism that maybe this would be the year — my year — but now the words that stagger haltingly from my fingertips are flat and empty, unsubstantial. Derivative, two-dimensional.

I once said that I would never be able to live in a world of numbers, that there was something more to the world that cold math could never capture. But nowadays I’ve been finding solace in math homework, in the simple honest dependability of integrals and substitutions. 

Maybe there was something more, but it’s slipped my grasp.

brianfulda:

Earlier this week, I skipped class and spent the entire day sailing around the San Francisco Bay with some wonderful people. Even when my images aren’t the greatest, it’s still lovely to have a visual remembrance of a fantastic day.

charleskinbote:

one time I blew off everything and drove down to the beach and sat alone in the rain like a loser

that’s all really

I just wanted to smudge a lot

This song is a 5:30am morning drive on the freeway at 80mph, headed towards the mountains and canyons.

(Source: Spotify)

charleskinbote:

"I will not let this terrible numbness engulf me"

(via canyouseetherealme)

design-is-fine:

Giuseppe Vannini, architectural drawings, 1818-1850. For his work Elementi della architettura civile. Pen and ink, sepia wash. Via Getty Open Content.

(via juneyijun)

charleskinbote:

"Empty Vein," written by Christopher M. Jones and drawn by Jenny Yu (oh frick)

I’ve been working on this comic for awhile now as aforementioned way back when, and it’s been a bittersweet process, with the entire weight of its meaning glaring back every time I worked on it.

I hope you guys read/enjoy. I’m so glad and nervous as heck Chris and I can share this with you all now.

latimes:

"In a place where rainfall averages two inches a year, rocks are being shoved around by mechanisms typically seen in arctic climes."

Two cousins’ stroke of luck has provided the final evidence in solving a mystery of the Racetrack Playa that has long puzzled visitors and scientists: What mechanism moves rocks across flat dirt in the heart of the hottest, driest place on earth?

About

Living in suburban Southern California, United States.

 I dream of open roads. I have no idea where I'm going, but I'd like to have a good time getting there.

This is my little tumblelog -- a collection, if you will -- of dreams and thoughts, art and images, inspirations and aspirations.