I Talk a Good Game

Notes: 22 / 6 days ago from meaghano (originally from thebronzemedal)

"I am aware of the need for constant self-revision and growth, leaving behind the renunciations of yesterday and yet in continuity with all my yesterdays. For to cling to the past is to lose one’s continuity with the past, since this means clinging to what is no longer there. My ideas are always changing, always moving around one center, and I am always seeing that center, and I am always seeing that center from somewhere else. Hence, I will always be accused of inconsistency. But I will no longer be there to hear the accusation."

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Thomas Merton (via thebronzemedal)

For Doug. Hahahaaa.

(via meaghano)

Rock on, Merton. Rock on!

6 days ago from bookmarklet

Giant squid invasion in the OC!

Orange County fishermen angle for unusual catch: Giant squid | L.A. NOW | Los Angeles Times

1 week ago from bookmarklet

So much want, so little money

I’ve always wanted a fidget ring, my meteorite ring came unstuck from the silver backing, so I use that sometimes, but this looks so much more fulfilling.

1 week ago from bookmarklet

Disappearing sea plant. « Derren Brown Blog

1 week ago from bookmarklet

I’m not sure I approve this. If I was a marketer, I’d make it “Barbie’s Malibu Seance Set.”

Dangerous Minds

Notes: 25 / 1 week ago from therealkatiewest

A pathological liar who is into carpentry and cooking

therealkatiewest:

She has constructed a house for herself.

She is the only person who lives there, but we all visit, often, because we like her!

The house has a foundation of lies told with the best of intentions, walls built of untruths she never realized she had told, a roof of thatched fibs and fictions. The floorboards creak with deception every time her foot falls with a new sense of invention. The house is wired with little white lies, flicking on and off, hard to look at directly, always shifting before we can catch them.

We ask her why she built this house?

Instead of an answer, she hurries into the kitchen and begins cooking us a feast. We haven’t eaten for awhile and we appreciate it greatly, but why did she build this house?

She begins chopping up potatoes, aggressively silent. We can see the myths floating above us, swirling around her; she pulls them close to keep out our questions, her wall of defensive deception. We notice the knives she is using to cut the potatoes are actually nothing more than the exaggerations of her every sentence, grown sharp over the years. The cutting board is built stiff with the manipulations she’s pounded in, day after day, month after month. The potatoes themselves are just lies rolled into small balls; lies she will feed us, here in this house that she’s built.

Why did she build this house?

A house she never needed, because we had homes for her, here in our chests with solid foundations and protective walls. But this is the house she built, the rooms she chose, the kitchen in which she cooks. And when we visit, we’ll smile, swallowing her delicious forgeries, because we like her!

Besides, she doesn’t know what she does.

And we are so very hungry.