Look at this steez. 

Look at this steez. 

(Source: thekeepsake, via tricksoutofoursleeves)

I got my black and white film developed (the roll I took with me to Queenscliff Music Festival) and I got the prints today. I only botched about one two photos! SUCCESS. And I managed some shots I liked too, so overall I’m pretty pleased. The fifth one (the very middle photo) is my favourite.

nevver: Movie Matinée

nevver:

Movie Matinée

(Source: c-hanels, via ruperts)

(via evoke)

Sybille Bergemann (via Krisatomic)

Sybille Bergemann (via Krisatomic)

Shirley MacLaine | ”Irma la Douce” | With Daughter | Paris by Leo Fuchs (via everyday_i_show)

Shirley MacLaine | ”Irma la Douce” | With Daughter | Paris by Leo Fuchs (via everyday_i_show)

scrivovivo: “Where did you get this?” he says quietly.  I don’t know how he knows I’m awake, but he does, and he doesn’t turn around, he just raises the photograph a little so I can see it over his shoulder. “It was in there,” I say, opening both eyes now, feeling, as I have ever since the funeral, the weight of the entire house pressing inward and against me.  My mother has her coffin, and I have this bedroom and this house, and I am as dead as she is, in certain ways.  I’m sorry.  It is late and I’m not making much sense. “That’s impossible,” my father says quietly.  “You must have gotten it somewhere else.” I feel the dirt piling on top of the roof, I feel the weight of the earth that’s tucking me into the ground, I wonder how he doesn’t feel it.  I can hear the shovels scraping against the windows.  I feel like I’m going crazy. I don’t know what makes me say it, but I say it:  “It is from a book of fairy tales.  I ripped it out to show you.  I thought it would be funny.”    I wonder, sometimes, if my father regrets having children.  Not in a vicious, angry way, but in a questioning, casual way.  Not really regrets me but just fancifully regrets me.  Like right now, I have clearly hit a nerve; he gets off the bed and puts the photograph in the bottom of the hope chest, and then he folds each of the four dresses and tucks them into the chest and he puts the crown and the baby book on top of them.  He closes the lid and I hear it click, latched.  And I wonder, I can’t help but wonder, if perhaps he wants to be alone.  Like really alone… without me, without anyone who needs him, without the weight of fatherly responsibilities on his shoulders. My mother has her coffin, and I have this bedroom and this house, and I am as dead as she is, in certain ways.

scrivovivo:

“Where did you get this?” he says quietly.  I don’t know how he knows I’m awake, but he does, and he doesn’t turn around, he just raises the photograph a little so I can see it over his shoulder.

“It was in there,” I say, opening both eyes now, feeling, as I have ever since the funeral, the weight of the entire house pressing inward and against me.  My mother has her coffin, and I have this bedroom and this house, and I am as dead as she is, in certain ways.  I’m sorry.  It is late and I’m not making much sense.

“That’s impossible,” my father says quietly.  “You must have gotten it somewhere else.”

I feel the dirt piling on top of the roof, I feel the weight of the earth that’s tucking me into the ground, I wonder how he doesn’t feel it.  I can hear the shovels scraping against the windows.  I feel like I’m going crazy.

I don’t know what makes me say it, but I say it:  “It is from a book of fairy tales.  I ripped it out to show you.  I thought it would be funny.”   

I wonder, sometimes, if my father regrets having children.  Not in a vicious, angry way, but in a questioning, casual way.  Not really regrets me but just fancifully regrets me.  Like right now, I have clearly hit a nerve; he gets off the bed and puts the photograph in the bottom of the hope chest, and then he folds each of the four dresses and tucks them into the chest and he puts the crown and the baby book on top of them.  He closes the lid and I hear it click, latched.  And I wonder, I can’t help but wonder, if perhaps he wants to be alone.  Like really alone… without me, without anyone who needs him, without the weight of fatherly responsibilities on his shoulders.

My mother has her coffin, and I have this bedroom and this house, and I am as dead as she is, in certain ways.

(Source: scrivovivo)

laurencephilomene: my5tic41andshit: iwantmybearsuit: kwelluh: paean-: bitchcraft

laurencephilomene: my5tic41andshit: iwantmybearsuit: kwelluh: paean-: bitchcraft