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invisiblestories:

From Coleridge’s Notebooks, Summer 1811

invisiblestories:

From Coleridge’s Notebooks, Summer 1811

supersonicelectronic:

Something’s Missing…

A thief drives to the museum in his black van. The night watchman says Sorry, closed, you have to come back tomorrow. The thief sticks the point of his knife in the guard’s ear. I haven’t got all evening, he says, I need some art. Art is for pleasure, the guard says, not possession, you can’t something, and then the duct tape is going across his mouth. Don’t worry, the thief says, we’re both on the same side. He finds the Dutch Masters and goes right for a Vermeer: "Girl Writing a Letter." The thief knows what he’s doing. He has a Ph.D. He slices the canvas on one edge from the shelf holding the salad bowls right down to the square of sunlight on the black and white checked floor. The girl doesn’t hear this, she’s too absorbed in writing her letter, she doesn’t notice him until too late. He’s in the picture. He’s already seated at the harpsichord. He’s playing the G Minor Sonata by Domenico Scarlatti, which once made her heart beat till it passed the harpsichord and raced ahead and waited for the music to catch up. She’s worked on this letter for three hundred and twenty years. Now a man’s here, and though he’s dressed in some weird clothes, he’s playing the harpsichord for her, for her alone, there’s no one else alive in the museum. The man she was writing to is dead— time to stop thinking about him—the artist who painted her is dead. She should be dead herself, only she has an ear for music a heart that’s running up the staircase of the Gardner Museum with a man she’s only known for a few minutes, but it’s true, it feels like her whole life. So when the thief hands her the knife and says you slice the paintings out of their frames, you roll them up, she does it; when he says you put another strip of duct tape over the guard’s mouth so he’ll stop talking about aesthetics, she tapes him, and when the thief puts her behind the wheel and says, drive, baby, the night is ours, it is the Girl Writing a Letter who steers the black van on to the westbound ramp for Storrow Drive and then to the Mass Pike, it’s the Girl Writing a Letter who drives eighty miles an hour headed west into a country that’s not even discovered yet, with a known criminal, a van full of old masters and nowhere to go but down, but for the Girl Writing a Letter these things don’t matter, she’s got a beer in her free hand, she’s on the road, she’s real and she’s in love. 
—Girl Writing a Letter | William Carpenter

supersonicelectronic:

Something’s Missing

A thief drives to the museum in his black van. The night 
watchman says Sorry, closed, you have to come back tomorrow. 
The thief sticks the point of his knife in the guard’s ear. 
I haven’t got all evening, he says, I need some art. 
Art is for pleasure, the guard says, not possession, you can’t 
something, and then the duct tape is going across his mouth. 
Don’t worry, the thief says, we’re both on the same side. 
He finds the Dutch Masters and goes right for a Vermeer: 
"Girl Writing a Letter." The thief knows what he’s doing. 
He has a Ph.D. He slices the canvas on one edge from 
the shelf holding the salad bowls right down to the 
square of sunlight on the black and white checked floor. 
The girl doesn’t hear this, she’s too absorbed in writing 
her letter, she doesn’t notice him until too late. He’s 
in the picture. He’s already seated at the harpsichord. 
He’s playing the G Minor Sonata by Domenico Scarlatti, 
which once made her heart beat till it passed the harpsichord 
and raced ahead and waited for the music to catch up. 
She’s worked on this letter for three hundred and twenty years. 
Now a man’s here, and though he’s dressed in some weird clothes, 
he’s playing the harpsichord for her, for her alone, there’s no one 
else alive in the museum. The man she was writing to is dead— 
time to stop thinking about him—the artist who painted her is dead. 
She should be dead herself, only she has an ear for music 
a heart that’s running up the staircase of the Gardner Museum 
with a man she’s only known for a few minutes, but it’s 
true, it feels like her whole life. So when the thief 
hands her the knife and says you slice the paintings out 
of their frames, you roll them up, she does it; when he says 
you put another strip of duct tape over the guard’s mouth 
so he’ll stop talking about aesthetics, she tapes him, and when 
the thief puts her behind the wheel and says, drive, baby, 
the night is ours, it is the Girl Writing a Letter who steers 
the black van on to the westbound ramp for Storrow Drive 
and then to the Mass Pike, it’s the Girl Writing a Letter who 
drives eighty miles an hour headed west into a country 
that’s not even discovered yet, with a known criminal, a van 
full of old masters and nowhere to go but down, but for the 
Girl Writing a Letter these things don’t matter, she’s got a beer 
in her free hand, she’s on the road, she’s real and she’s in love. 

Girl Writing a Letter | William Carpenter

(Source: supersonicart)

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime…
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

-

Dulce et decorum est

Wilfred Owen

October October October October October October October.

October October October October October October October.

(Source: beautiful-leaves, via timetravelingscamp)

Gliding o’er all, through all,
Through Nature, Time, and Space,
As a ship on the waters advancing,
The voyage of the soul—not life alone,
Death, many deaths I’ll sing.

- Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass