narrative junkie

buchino:

The Disciples by James Mollison, 2008

Over three years I photographed fans outside different concerts. I was fascinated by the different tribes of people that attended them, and how people emulated celebrity to form their identity. As I photographed the project I began to see how the concerts became events for people to come together with surrogate ‘families’, a chance to relive their youth or try and be part of a scene that happened before they were born.

Everybody’s got a thing. 

Thanks for the tip, Andy. 

there’s a visual poetry to this.

(via 8245-8249)

Whereas story is processed in the mind in a straightforward manner, poetry bypasses rational thought and goes straight to the limbic system and lights it up like a brushfire. It’s the crack cocaine of the literary world.

—

in a Ffordey mood this evening.

-Jasper Fforde, First Among Sequels

I would so hate to be a first-person character! Always on your guard, always having people read your thoughts!

—Jasper Fforde, Lost In A Good Book

(Source: buchwanderungen, via ffordefans)

Community stories of Filipina migrant workers, in comic book form

Toronto-based artists, Althea Balmes and Jo SiMalaya Alcampo are creating a community comic book in collaboration with Filipina migrant workers in the Live-in Caregiver Program called, “Kwentong Bayan: Labour of Love”. In the Filipino language, “kwentong bayan” is the literal translation of “community stories”. The artists will present work-in-progress and caregivers will share real-life stories.

The Live-in Caregiver Program continues to be heavily contested and at the centre of many controversies. Many Canadians rely on this program to access affordable care for vulnerable members of their families.

Many Filipinas leave their own families and work abroad to cope with the unstable economy in the Philippines. 

Also check out Filipino Web Channel three-part videos on the project:

via pag-asaharibon

(via 18mr)

behold, the blank page. 

behold, the blank page. 

The Connoisseuse of Slugs

When I was a connoisseuse of slugs

I would part the ivy leaves, and look for the

naked jelly of those gold bodies,

translucent strangers glistening along the

stones, slowly, their gelatinous bodies

at my mercy. Made mostly of water, they would shrivel

to nothing if they were sprinkked with salt,

but I was not interested in that. What I liked

was to draw aside the ivy, breathe the

odor of the wall, and stand there in silence

until the slug forgot I was there

and sent its antennae up out of its

head, the glimmering umber horns

rising like telescopes, until finally the

sensitive knobs would pop out the ends,

delicate and intimate. Years later,

when I first saw a naked man,

I gasped with pleasure to see that quiet

mystery reenacted, the slow

elegant being coming out of hiding and

gleaming in the dark air, eager and so

trusting you could weep.

Sharon Olds (from The Dead and the Living, 1984, Alfred Knopf)

Vikram Seth, ‘From California’

one of my favorite writers, one of my favorite poems of his.

Sunday night in the house.
The blinds drawn, the phone dead.
The sound of the kettle, the rain.
Supper: cheese, celery, bread.

For company, old letters
In the same disjointed script.
Old love wells up again,
All that I thought had slipped

Through the sieve of long absence
Is here with me again:
The long stone walls, the green
Hillsides renewed with rain.

The way you would lick your finger
And touch your forehead, the way
You hummed a phrase from the flute
Sonatas, or turned to say,

“Larches—the only conifers
That honestly blend with Wales.”
I walk with you again
Along these settled trails.

It seems I started this poem 
So many years ago
I cannot follow its ending
And must begin anew.

Blame, some bitterness,
I recall there were these.
Yet what survives is Bach
And a few blackberries

Something of the “falling starlight”,
In the phrase of Wang Wei,
Falls on my shadowed self.
I thank you that today

His words are open to me.
How much you have inspired
You cannot know. The end
Left much to be desired.

“There is a comfort in 
The strength of love.” I quote 
Another favourite
You vouchsafed me. Please note

The lack of hope or faith:
Neither is justified.
I have closed out the night.
The random rain outside

Rejuvenates the parched
Foothills along the Bay.
Anaesthetised by years
I think of you today

Not with impassionedness
So much as half a smile
To see the weathered past
Still worth my present while.